Intro
Day 333 began inside the Tico Tico Restaurant, packing gear in the dim light of a 6:40 a.m. wake-up call. The morning was deceptively calm at 11.2°C, and for once, the gravel road ahead looked smooth, free of the soul-crushing washboard sections that have defined the Peruvian Altiplano lately.
The Slow Rhythm of the Kitchen
- By 7:50 a.m., David, Rebecca, and Jeanette had me working. Before the first three customers arrived, David handed me a broom, but first, he walked across the room, sprinkling water over the uneven concrete floor. I watched the dark droplets soak into the grey surface, a necessary ritual to keep the Altiplano dust from whirling into our lungs. The texture of the damp concrete under the broom was heavy and satisfying. As I swept, the kitchen began to fill with the sharp, medicinal scent of cloves and cinnamon. Rebecca was brewing hot chocolate, a thick, dark liquid that served as our communal starter.
- We sat together at 8:30 a.m., sharing my avocado and peanut butter on their bread. I was ready to roll by 9:20 a.m., but the hospitality here is a forceful thing. David insisted I wait for lunch to be finished so I could carry a portion with me. I watched the clock tick past 10:00 a.m. while Rebecca scrambled to fulfill orders for a group of construction workers. I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt her or tell her I was burning daylight. The scent of cloves and cinnamon still hung in my hair as I finally pushed the bike out the door at 10:25 a.m., the weight of a home-cooked meal sitting heavy in my pannier.
Alpacas and Ice Crystals
- The first few hours on the gravel were quiet. At 11:30 a.m., I spotted white birds with long legs wading through the pampa, and by 12:55 p.m., a herd of alpacas blocked the road near Carmen de Chiclaya. As I pulled out my phone to film them, the first ice crystals landed on the screen. They didn’t melt immediately; the temperature had dropped to 10.1°C and the wind was picking up. Just outside the village, vizcachas with their strange, curly tails were darting through the rocks like oversized squirrels.
- I ate Rebecca’s lunch in the village plaza, feeling the delay of the morning start to press against the back of my mind. I asked a local woman about the clouds, and she gave me a dismissive wave, saying it wouldn’t be ‘more than a drizzle.’ I should have known better. By 1:50 p.m., the drizzle intensified, forcing me into my new rain trousers for the first time. The second climb of the day began, the sky cleared a little and by the time I reached the top, the volcano Urbinas appeared as a ghost in the distance.
The Frozen Descent to Pillone
- At 3:40 p.m., I reached Matazo and faced a choice: stay in a village with no formal lodging or push through one last climb and at least 8-kilometer descent. My gut told me I was too late, but I kept pedaling. By 4:45 p.m., the summit turned into a trap. A full snowstorm hammered the switchbacks, turning the entire landscape into a featureless white sheet. I stopped to layer up, pulling on three sets of gloves—liners, mids, and rain protectors—but my circulation was already failing.
- The descent was a slow-motion nightmare. My body simply refused to send blood to my extremities. Every few hundred meters, I had to climb off the bike and perform frantic jumping jacks on the side of the road, opening and closing my hands to try and feel my fingers. The damp concrete floor from this morning felt like a lifetime ago. I finally rolled into Pillone at 5:45 p.m., shivering so violently I could barely unclip my shoes. The first offer of shelter was a windowless hut with a gravel floor, but I pushed for something better, eventually finding the school director who opened up a small storage room.
Sanctuary and Soup
- The storage room is a luxury compared to the cold outside. It has a wooden floor, a tiny child-sized desk, and a mattress. A local lady brought over a bottle of hot tea and a packet of honey-flavored biscuits, and as the sugar hit my system, I finally stopped shaking. I spent the evening huddled over my stove, boiling water for a restorative mess of angel hair pasta, tuna, tomato paste and corn. The scent of cloves and cinnamon from the morning cocoa has been replaced by the smell of burning gas and tinned fish.
- As I lie here on the mattress, I can feel a thick layer of slime and grit accumulating in my lungs. It’s the result of days spent breathing in the dust clouds kicked up by passing lorries and buses. Every thirty minutes, a dry cough rattles my chest, a reminder of the road’s physical toll. I didn’t reach my planned destination of Queirala, but looking at the rain outside the school window, continuing into the dark would have been a dangerous mistake. I’m layering two blankets over my sleeping bag tonight; the Altiplano doesn’t care about my schedule.
Overnight
I’m sleeping in a storage room at the Pillone village school. The director was kind enough to give me a space with a wooden floor and a mattress, which is a significant upgrade from the windowless dirt-floor hut I was originally offered.
Reflection
In the high Andes, a two-hour delay for a kind gesture like a packed lunch is the difference between a dry arrival and a frozen mountain summit.
Route summary
- Date: 2026-09-16
- Distance: 34.18 km
- Elevation gain: 675 m
- Elevation loss: 421 m
- Duration: 7 h 19 min
- Time in Motion: 3 h 57 min
- Average Speed: 8.6 km/h