Cycling the Americas 2011 - 2012

Vancouver to Seattle (via Olympic NP)

2011-09-28T21:14:58+00:00

Arrived in Vancouver, Canada in the morning of September, 7^th where I quickly reassembled the bike and took off, straight down towards the Canadian-American border. There's a long tunnel where the Interstate Highway crosses Frazer River, where bicycles are not allowed. Therefore, the Canadians installed a free-of-charge Carry-On service. Using that, and listening to the advice of the young Indian who just run the service instead of his father, I ended up on a big detour, eventually even reaching the giant Frazer Bridge way East. Yet on that occasion, I ended up riding some really nice bicycle trails rather than riding on the noisy highway. Blue skies, perfect outlook to the far-away snow caped Mt. Baker. In the afternoon, I reached the border and convinced the very friendly border staff about my good intentions traveling the States. Eventually I got my 90 days permit, and went on on side roads, just following the compass direction. Passed through Bellingham, a nice town with some historical buildings, and reached the Larabee State Park by dusk, being welcomed with warm diner and a place to pitch the tent by a group of American cyclists. Welcome to America – and what a first day – going to bed by 10PM, a long day looking at 9 hours time difference from Germany.

Next day after a quick Yoga set, the tour goes on towards Whidbey Island, on my on, but not for long before I run into a nice cyclist from Seattle who joins me for two hours. Crossing over the picturesque bridge to Whidbey Island, moving on on a rather busy small highway again. On the ferry to Port Townsend on the Northeast of the Olympic Peninsula, I met Ken, a retired cyclist on his way back from a day trip on Whidbey. He invites me to visit Port Townsend, a formerly important harbor with lots of Victorian buildings. He shows me around the Wooden-Boat-Regatta, and later even invites to stay a night in his place. Incredible friendly and helpful, that's my first impression about the Americans.

On the next days, I cycle around the Olympic Peninsula on the Western route on Hwy 101 and trails. Mossy evergreen conifer and broad-leaf rain forests between the rugged coastline and the snow caped mountains, rivers from the very mountains carving deep valleys into the landscape. Small towns every once in a while, just enough not to run out of food and the “trail mix” bags. Camping at small sites that not always have city water and showers, yet very clear and cold rivers. At lake Quinault, I take a break from pedaling and hike this area featuring a number of record conifer trees for two days. Awesome wilderness out here, and delicious blueberries up in the mountains, to supplement my cereal bar diet...

The next day, I decide to take a little detour to meet my friend in Seattle. Two more days on the saddle and a one-hour ferry from Bremerton to Seattle, with its great skyline... A first glimpse of American multicultural cities for a hillbilly like me. Four nights in a real bed, a day trip to the Snoqualmie falls and some time and inspiration to fine tune my further route.

Touring between volcanos and along big rivers

2011-10-02T23:57:37+00:00

Detour Part II from the Pacific Coastal Route. It takes me roughly half a day to get out of Seattle on small highways paralleling the Interstate 5 (which is no fun nor legal to cycle). Eatonville, a neat town, after which the road gets less and less busy. Into the wild. Endless woods along the hilly road, and beautiful lakes and dams on the way. The overcast prevents any sights of Mt. Rainier, the biggest mountain of Washington. Passing through Elbe, a small logging village with German roots, a neat historic railway and the smallest church in the United States, dating back some 100 years ago. Mt. Rainier would be visible from here if there was no overcast, says a Restaurant lady. A few more miles in a neat valley towards Morton. A local at the supermarket recommends free camping on Riffe Lake nearby Glenoma. Getting there, have a blackberry diner and a good swim at sunset. A few hang gliders and a young guy that recovered from cancer but got homeless after hang out here.

Perfect weather on the next day. Big breakfast in Randle - last chance of shopping for the next 100 kilometers. I take off to the pass behind Mt. St. Helens, the volcano which blew back in 1980. After the first few miles of climbing, an exiting view towards the snow caped Mt. Rainier opens up - majestic! After about 30 kilometers of climbing, I expect to reach the summit of the pass soon, and take a scenic side route towards Mt. St. Helens base camp. Just for half an hour, I convince my self. Just to see the volcano that blew. Centimeter thick light grey ash grains between the conifers and shrubs and ferns tell a story of its own. Crazy climbing up, I hide the panniers and the tent bag on the side of the road. Eventually, I reach Bear Meadow and enjoy a splendid outlook on Mt. St. Helens!

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Its a few more miles than expected until I reach the summit of the pass at Milestone 35. Running out of water and out of granola bars. Still, it's an uneasy up and down for another 10 kilometers before the long downhill. The miles written in my map don't match the miles on the road signs. Finally a spring on the side of the road. 5PM - I reach the very junction and have to make a decision - go 20 miles to Cougar and probably find a shop and a campground until dusk, or go South towards Carson, another 40 miles through the next mountain range. I went on to Cougar, and skipped the opportunity to see the famous Columbia river gorge. On the next day, I cycle East to the Woodland, and then up North on the Interstate 5 along the Columbia river to Longview, speeding in the slipstream of the roaring trucks, without any small side road... More relaxed for the rest of the day until Cathlamet. Free camping and a swim in the river. In the East, the snow on Mt. St. Helens glows red in the light of a marvelous sunset. The campground hosts spoil me with potato salad and bread and home made cookies. God bless you!

Cycling down the Oregon Coast

2011-10-03T15:45:37+00:00

After a marvelous sunrise with a last view of Mt. St. Helens I cross the Washington-Oregon border, the Columbia river - by ferry from Cathlamet to Westport. Next major town is Astoria, where a big arch bridge spans over the Columbia delta. Port Stevens was a good campground I get the advice in a friendly bicycle shop. In an Oregon Tourist Information I receive a free great Cycling map for the entire Coastal train, including height profile and a listing of the cheap hiker/biker camps. Misty grey day that is, however I'd roll on until I reach Seaside. No hiker/biker campground here, but I get a discount. And a funny belly after two cold beers at diner.

A few misty days on the sometimes rocky, sometimes sandy shore. Uphill, downhill, day by day. The Haystack at the lovely Cannon Beach town, great bridges crossing the rivers and marshlands. Route 101 is a famous cycling spot, everyday I meet American and European cyclists with tents and panniers on their bikes. The Hiker/biker campgrounds are an inexpensive opportunity to get a warm shower on a regular state park campground. Since everyone roughly moves at a similar daily mileage, there's a good likelihood to catch up again. So I meet Reed with his Ukulele from Santa Cruz three times, as well as Markus from Austria, who's been cycling from Fairbanks, Alaska already. A storm coming in with strong headwind, perfect time to take a day off at South Beach State Park in Newport. The strong winds pretty much blew me from the long high brigde anyway. South Beach with its dunes and small conifer trees in the back was created by the seas current leaving sand on the jetty over more than a 100 years. Jamming with Reed on the campfire, enjoying a dry and wind protected spot with a free coffee in the hospitality center of the campground.

The Oregon Cycling Trail follows not only Route 101 but take a number of really nice detours on less crowded country roads. One more day of big head wind and big waves on the shore, and a rainy night that made my tent float in a pond - then the storm is over. Blue skies and sunshine on the way down along the great dunes south of Florence. Watch pretty close Sea Lions on Cape Arago, and enjoy a marvelous sunset on the nearby Sunset Bay. Cruising down the shore, taking pictures and not rushing at all anymore. Spotting whales at the jetty of Gold Beach on the last day on the Oregon coast. Last station: Brookings. What a ride! Big thanks to all the people who established this fantastic route!

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Northern California: Through the Redwoods

2011-10-11T04:25:18+00:00

The weather forecast does not contribute to my idea of spending a recovery day on the beaches of Brookings/Oregon. Time to leave. California welcomes me with little sunshine but a free map of State Parks. Landscape changes right away - more fields and gras lands and scattered farms in the flat open area, compared to the hilly and forested scenery that dominated the route in Oregon. Giant tree stumps in the gardens serve as tall flowerpots, or have smaller trees growing on them. Right, that must be long ago cut down redwoods! The Redwood National Park Tourist Information Centre hands me a map of the part of the Redwood National Park that I'm about to enter today, explains which route to take and where to stock up with food. Great - a day hiking the Redwoods with its 100 metres tall trees that I heard so much about! Already the first stretch of Highway 101 into the national Park is stunning a climb between the giants. The scale of these woods is certainly different. The small, hardly used highway leads through a few smaller tourist places and privately owned campgrounds. It starts to drizzle. And there's the byway for the Prairie Creek State Park, that's where I'm headed for. One more climb, and a long downhill through an old-growth Redwood forest. Giants, between which cars look like toys. Memorial groves every now and then, indicating who has contributed to safe some of these old-growth forests. Shivering in my rain and sweat soaked cycling dress. Anyhow... The usual suspects are already on the campground - Reed and Markus.

Next day is hiking day in Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park. The mist hangs in the forested hills, thick enough to hide the canopies of the Redwoods. On the trails around the campground, a bit of trivia on the Redwoods is written on small displays, how they distribute by sprouts and seeds, how they create their own foggy micro climate etc. Eventually I find my 6 hours circuit track to the coast and back, through the magic, mystic forest that has never been touched by chainsaws. Long ago fallen trees are base for ferns and new trees, slowly decaying into the Earth. Their washed out roots rise up four meters up. Directly on the coast are no Redwoods since they can't take the salty winds. Yet they are very close, where it is still wet and foggy enough to supply them with enough water. Once, back then when giant dinosaurs walked the Earth some 65 million years ago, Redwoods have covered wide areas of the entire Northern Hemisphere. They survived all catastrophes and Ice Ages here in Northern California, until White Man started to cut then in the 1850ies, and within less than a century, eliminated 95% of the old-growth Redwoods for the long lasting timber . It is said that the wealth of San Francisco is based on the Redwood business. Luckily, a few bright minds started the "Save the Redwoods" league in 1918, and prevented at least a bit of the primary forests.

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After Prairie Creek Highway 101 goes along the Humboldt lagunas and some open land. I bypass Eureka and reach Fortuna, where I spend a rainy day in a privately owned RV-Park with public living room and free WiFi. For the second night, I even get an upgrade for a wooden cabin for the price of my small tent site. Very nice indeed. I receive some warning not to do Stealth Camping in the woods now, since it is Marijuana harvest season, and the woods may as well be home to some illegal fields. Alright, I already smelled that every once in a while on the road...

Next highlight is the Avenue of Giants, a byway to Highway 101 through more of the old growth Redwoods. Little towns with tourist attractions like the still-alive "Drive Through Tree" or the "One Log House" every few miles, and lots of hiking opportunities, such as a short hike to one of the Worlds tallest trees with more than 120 metres. Walking here, I don't even bother for such numbers anymore. be it 100 or 120 meters, what is the difference, compared to those industrial spruce tree forests back home? I did not see Pepperwood, where that girl lived in the canopy of a Redwood tree for almost two years to save it from cutting. Bad information management... Pooring rain for the entire afternoon.

Luckily I can share a Motel room in Garberville with Alex from Canada, another cyclist. Garberville is a rather small town that has some reputation as the hemp capital of California or so. With all the young and old homeless on the sidewalk, I make a funny picture walking there in Thai fisherpants and flipflop in the pooring rain to the Laundromat.

Northern California: Mendocino to San Francisco

2011-10-11T06:54:08+00:00

Another cloudy day and another rainy night in the forests and hills along the winding Eel river, then the cycling path leaves Highway 101 to the coastal Route 1. A few long ups and downs, then I reach the coast again. Warm sunshine dries the damp clothes and lifts up the spirit. Eagles high up in the blue sky. Marvelous sunset and seals in tide pools nearby Fort Bragg. Down to Mendocino, and further to Point Arena. A bit of American cliche photographs in the costal towns.

Lots of ups and downs along the rugged coast line. The landscape alternates between flat dry dairy farm lands and Pine and well smelling Eucalyptus trees patches (that don't originally belong to this part of the world). In a County Park just South of Gualala I camp between the Redwoods again, and have lots of fun with barely shy raccoons sitting next to me on the benches, invading my mates food bag.

Another big climb to get into Bodega Bay area, followed by the long stretch of the Tomales Bay, which is part of the San Andreas fault. Last stopover is the Samuel P. Taylor State Park between Point Rey and Fairfax - one more time camping in the shadow of Redwood trees. Few old-growth samples remain here, but heaps of raccoons :-)

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The rear wheel of my bike blocks badly when I use the brakes. A big pothole on the road that I did not see apparently ruined it, as Miguel from Krakatoa Bikes in Fairfax decides after one hour of wheel tuning. He does not have replacement wheels in stock, yet recommends some other shops on the road to San Francisco. So I'm on my way again, looking for a 9-speed MTB wheel for V-brakes, nowadays where everyone seems to use disc brakes for MTBs... It starts to drizzle. In the seventh shop, 30 kilometers later, I get what I need. And a new chain and new tubes. Apperently I catched two punctures on the bicycle tracks to get there, even with my bullet proof Schwalbe Marathon Extreme...

Still drizzling. I'm soaked. The long awaited crossing of the Golden Gate Bridge from Sausalito into San Francisco is clouded by thick fog and mist. I can't see the top of the bridge towers nor opposite side of the coast. For two nights, I stay in a Youth hostel in Fort Mason rather than in my tent. Ronni, my room mate is taxi driver, and during our diner on the first evening, he gives me ideas what to visit in town, and heaps of stories and historical background of San Francisco. After two coffees I excessively use the internet and the illumination at night time while Ronni snores peacefully in the dormitory.

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Having slept just 3 hours, I criss cross the city on my bike the next day. The colorful and touristy Fishermans Wharf, next up to Telegraph Hill and Colt Tower to marvel upon the sunny view over the skyline of the financial district and San Francisco Bay. Alcatraz, Sausalito and the Golden Gate Bridge in hide behind clouds. The Italian quarter, the skyscrapers, further on into the colorful Chinatown. Riding down Market street to the grandious City Hall and Theater buildings next to each other. Down to the Mission district with some small backstreets with outstanding graffiti. I climb up 23th Street and marvel upon the neat and colorful painted Victorian houses on the steep ascend, eventually make it to the twin towers, San Franciscos highest hills with splendid view over the city. A few tourist hippie shops and graffiti are left in Haight Ashbury, the hip quarter back in the 1970ies. A brief visit to the Golden Gate Park with a fairly authentic Japanese garden. Japan town, and back to Fort Mason for a nap. What a ride! Set out for an outdoor shop to finally buy me a gas stove, I get a replacement for my leaking Thermarest sleeping pad. Great, very very cool, saves me some 90 bucks and restless nights. Getting out of the store, the clouds that covered the Golden Gate Bridge all day have cleared up, and allow a marvelous sunset view of the great bridge. What a lucky day! Back in the hostel, I have dines with Kevin from France. Brigitte joins us, and eventually Ronni shows up too. Brigitte persuades Ronni to take a Chinese Fortune Cookie, which makes him taking us out in his car. Splendid view of the San Francisco skyline from Treasure Island, and a few beers in a cozy bar with live music. San Francisco Nights...

California: Beautiful Yosemite

2011-10-22T03:26:28+00:00

Where do I begin, to tell the story how I got into the Yosemite Valley...
Shall I start explaining that crazy morning at the hostel in San Francisco, where the fire alarm went on just after I managed to get myself a rather delayed breakfast. Or talk about the missing power supply for the laptop, that made me ride back to the hostel and find my forgotten mobile phone between the blanket? How I made a decision to go to visit Reed again in Santa Cruz, and how I got squeezed between two merging high speed highways, and got lost again on the wrong site of the peninsula? It was all strange that day. When I arrived in Santa Cruz, Reed took me out for some great Asian lunch, explained me the term "Indian Summer". The very Doors song has long been a favorite of mine, without knowing that Indian Summer means that kind of last few days of warm climate in Autumn before if finally gets cold. Had a dip in the Pacific, the first since weeks, and decided that I need Indian Summer now. Dream of a sunny beach weekend in Santa Cruz. Until the staff of the New Brighton Campground explained their "One Night Only" rule, according to which I have had to leave the next day. It has been more than a week without a real break from pedaling.
That night I sat long in a Cafe and wondered what to do. A weekend of best weather ahead, and my motivation to keep cycling is literally in the basement. A good deal for a rental car for three days, and it's all set. Tomorrow I'm gonna go to Yosemite!
By lunchtime I roll on the highway with a pair for 10 Dollar hiking boots from the Thrift Store and whistle California Dreamin'. Cross the coastal mountain range, buy heaps of food for the weekend (what a luxury not to think about weight!) The streets out here in the endless valley are with out shoulders. Roll into the Sierra Nevada and eventually reach Mariposa, about an hour away from Yosemite Valley. There's no camp sites available in the valley, the ladies in the tourist information tell me. Yet I could stay on a campground a little outside. Eventually I end up on a very basic 21 Dollar spot on the river, without shower nor fresh water nor electricity. Nice enough, barely anyone is here. No need to chatter whatsoever. Enough space, finally!
Entering Yosemite Valley on the next morning. Glowing tips of the surrounding rocks from the rising sun. There's the Yosemite Falls, one of the worlds tallest falls. There's El Capitan, the worlds biggest single rock(?). Park the car and cycle through the valley into Curry Village. Already on the way there I can't resist to take dozens of photos of the bright white rock walls towering above the conifer woods and meadows of the valley. I take the recommended hike to Vernal Falls and Nevada Falls into Little Yosemite. Lots of hikers are out here, at least on the first section. Every bend on the trail, every breech between the trees reveals a new great view, seems to be a new epiphany. Everyone seems to have sparks in the eyes, all the Americans and French and Swiss and German hikers are smiling with drops of sweat on the forehead. The higher the steep trail goes up, the less people. The greater the views. Time to air the feet, time to meditate in some of the most stunning scenarios I've ever seen... Just a single thought sticks in my brain: It is infinitely beautiful here! Back in the valley I visit the Mirror lake, watch a video on Yosemite's history and walk the lower Yosemite trail. I'm all taken away by this divine scenery...

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Little time I have if I want to return the rental car in time. Hard decision, hike up Glacier point, or cycle? In the end, I drive all the way. Watching the Yosemite Valley, Half Dome and the three giant falls from above is a scenery beyond imagination. No words nor photos can truly express this. A Hippie girl traveling North with her three friends hands me an apple and tells me about their travels through America and playing guitar and sitar music.
Instead of driving back the same way, I take another detour to see the giant Sequoyah trees in the Mariposa Grove on the Southern entrance of the Yosemite National Park. They are Redwoods, similar to the Coastal Redwoods, not quite as tall but with much bigger trunks and canopies. A free shuttle bus brings visitors from Wawona into the 10 miles distant Grove. It is just 3PM, and still I can get a decent three hours hike. A number of loop trails are available there, leading through the forests with a number of really old tree giants like the Grizzly Tree or Clarks Tree in the upper grove. Around the little wooden Mariposa Grove Museum, the Sequoyah wood is most magnificent. The one storey house looks like a toy between those Redwood giants. Once again, I am taken away by the spirit of Redwood forests...
Stop by in the next real town at Mc Donalds for diner. A few hours of emails and internet, a few refills on the coffee and I am prepared for a few more hours night ride on the highways leading West. Eventually I stop the car by 1 AM at a restaurants parking lot on top of a mountain pass. Marveling upon the bright stars, a shooting star and the lights of the cities below me. In the morning, they would hide under thick fog. What a weekend!

California: Big Sur and the Oranges of Hironymus Bosch

2011-11-07T02:02:05+00:00

After one more night on the campground near Capitola, Reed joins me for a ride half-way to Monterey. I am very happy about this, since there are very few road signs indicating the bicycle trails beside the busy Highway 1. We ride along endless strawberry fields with small teams of bend down Mexicans working on them. 60 percent of the American strawberries are produced here, says Reed, and briefly mentiones the work conditions and pesticides used on the fields.
We share a great lunch in Moss Landing - fried Squid and Fish Tacos before we say Farewell, and I make my way to Monterey under the grey sky. Vegetation changes a lot, shrubs and small plants with meaty leaves and flowers grow along the road. No more big trees at all, no more oaks nor gum trees. Even if it is neither sunny nor hot it feels almost like desert.
The following day is sunny again. A pleasant ride along the 17-Mile-Drive on the scenic shore. Seals on "Birds Rock". And a young German Jewelery Sales Manager lady on a day-off from her business trip admires my freedom she says. She'd love to just sit down here at the bench, yet has to drive back to LA still today. Five minutes later she overtakes me in a red Ford Mustang Cabriolet. Now I'm a kind of envious. :-)

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Wind shaped cypresses and pines on the rocky shore, golf courts and million-dollar houses in the nice and touristy Carmel. Stuff where movies are made from, California dreamin' - live and real. A few more decent climbs along the rugged and dry coast line on the way to the Big Sur valley. Big bridges span over the valleys of some creeks and save a bicyclist from worse clims. In Big Sur I stay the between the Redwoods of the Pfeiffer State Park campground for two nights and explore the area. The rather narrow and lush green valley is seperated from the Pacific Shore by a range of vivid green hills, and limited to the East by some desert dry mountain rigdes. With the Big Sur river, and the fog from the ocean, it has its own microclimate, that supports the most Southern occurence of the Coastal Redwoods. As well as Big Sur is an area for artists since decades - Henry Miller used to live here among other famous writers (which is the reason why I knew about Big Sur at all). Condors on the blue sky. Timy, an Australian Rasta and Ryan, his Candian cycling mate arrive at the campground. We met before in Santa Cruz and Monterey, and now spend a good time exploring a gorge and sharing a camp fire.
The next day turns into a long ride above the fog over the ocean and the steep cliffs umderneath the road. A waterfall drops from a cliff directly on a small beach, and disappears in the thick fog again a few seconds after my camera fetched the foto. There are only a few opportunities to stock up with supplies out here, which I skip for their prices (2 Dollar for a banana). So I have to keep riding rather than to spend another night on a campground along the way. Some long climbs take its time and price in the evening. Gurgling sea elephants roll on a beach before San Simeon at sunset. It is pitch black already when I arrive in town. A pole of my tent broke this morning, I remember, and decide to stay a night in a motel. Gladly, I can fix the tent pole with a piece of brass pipe on the next day. Heavy face wind in the morning from Cambria to Ayucos, two beautiful Western style towns. Decaying animal cadavers (mostly Racoons) on the side of the road in the burning sun emit an intense smell. Great scenery at Morrow beach with the giant rock in the sea. I keep pedaling, manage to get as far as Grover Beach and spend a noisy night right beside the noisy highway on a County campground for 22 Dollars. Timy and Ryan show up later that day, and we share the space. Earplugs to sleep because of the roaring trucks on the highway. Following a bliss and an advice from a local cyclist, I leave the bicycle path and turn inland to Lake Cachuma, the scenic man made water reservoir of Santa Barbara. Another day rest there before cycling to Ojai, where I'd love to learn about organic farming for a while. Back on the coast, in a twon called Summerland, I stop at a corner with Buddha scultures and Thi like shrines and a pretty Asian style garden. Talking to some branic healing lady in there, she knows the people of the farm where I'm going to, says she'll phone them and tell them about my coming. The way up to Ojai is a scenic ride through orange and avocado tree plantations between steep dry hills and a nice lake in between. Ojai town itself is charming with its Mexican style buildings. Sunset, and still 5 miles to go. Uphill again. Reaching that farm fairly exhausted, I have to learn that certain things - even pitching my tent on their campground - requires telephone confirmation. Om shanti. Eventually, I get back to a vacated State Park to pitch up my tent in utter darkness. Stealth camping instead of hospitality...

Wild West by Car I

2011-11-07T04:25:17+00:00

After the WWOOFING attempt failed, I went on to Los Angeles. Easy ride along the coast, Malibu, then Santa Monica with a bicycle trail on the wide Muscle Beach and Venice Beach. The waterfront promenade is a colorful assembly of artists, jewellery and snack stalls, cafes and musicans, tourists and transients. A bit of that hippie spirit seems still to be here. Barry, a retired musician and cyclist whom I bumped into a few weeks ago in Astoria and who introduced me to the Warmshowers network, hosts me for two nights in his girlsfriends house a mile away from the glamorous cinemas and glitter of Hollywood Boulevard. A splendid time, I'm spoiled with great diners and wine and chocolade. Spend a day cruising the vast city. In LA downtown a big financial building is surrounded by small tents and protesters against the financial system and the misery of the past economic crashes. Drums and chorals everywhere. Little Tokyo - a district with Japanese restaurants, shops and even a real temple. A big Chinatown nearby. I visit Jim Morrisons former residence on a hill nearby Hollywood, where many singers back then resided. This is Love Street, or rather was.

Quick decision - getting me a car for a week on the next day, and head East. It takes hours to get out of the suburbs of LA, and eventually I arrive in Joshua Tree, close to the National Park of the same name. The Joshua tree is actually a successor of Lillies rather then real trees. A cute shop assistant and singer tells me about an Artists party the next day, and that she will play there. Spend a great day cycling around the National Park with its giant boulders, lookouts and the dimensionless desert that seems to merge with the horizon. The desert is actually living. Lizards and chipmunks rush over the red brown dry soil between the shrubs and cacteen and the Joshua trees. Climbers must like it out here, where the selection on high balls or towers and walls is almost infinite. Itchy hands, yet no climbing shoes. And a foulish big tour to cycle for today in my mind.
I arrive at the artists party by 7PM. Robby Furst is living close to the National Park. The building on his ground looks like a barn, half like a hangar. A big Airstream trailer is parked beside, and a few extensions to all asides accomodate the creative chaos this guy lives in. It is often hard to distinguish what is rubbish and what is art. On a big screen in the hangar a blur 1970ies like color movie is displayed, showing a car trip to the Mexican Hat near Monument Valley in Arizona. A band is playing rather psychedelic rock music on a stage outside. At least half of the many dozen guests wears fancy Halloween dresses. Most of them are somewhat local, some are artists. It is very easy to get in contact, every one smiles and easily chatters. Inspiring stoned and drunk talks with bright minded people.

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Spent a long day driving up and down through the desert on endless straight roads. The pale green of the dry shrubs nearby, the pink shine between the nearby green and the distant red brown naked hills reminds me much to that psychedelic Seventies movie last night. And the cockpit light of my car switches off whenever I switch on the light. Sedona was the nearest Hertz office on the way to Flagstaff and the Gand Canyon. When I get there in the late afternoon, I'm completely blown away by the scenery of the white and red layered rock formations around. I find the Car Rental, yet the staff can't fix that stupid light issue. Instead, she swaps my car for a Chevrolet Traverse, a tank of an SUV compared to the small Nissan. Marvelous sunset with the scenery of the neighboring giant rocks on the crowded viewpoint on the airport hill. Nice chat with a cute Hippie girl from Phoenix with some hints what places I should visit while I'm here. I just had no clue what Sedona was like a few hours ago, and now I'm all taken away by its beauty and the set of events that just happend to me. A little later Pamela, the kind lady of the Tourist office tells me about the famous energy vortexes here in Sedona, hands me maps etc. And my new cars right front tire is flat, ripped by metal pole of a broken park barrier on the parking lot. Luckily, I took the full insurance package... An hour later a mechanic of Hertz shows up and mounts the Donut, the emergency wheel. As well, he knows the solution of the cockpit illumination in the Nissan. Happy Halloween! It is 10 PM, and the "cheaper" 70 Dollar motels are full. So I decide to spend the night in the Tank on the parking lot behind the Hetz office. Next day, I swap cars again in the early morning, and get my Nissan back. I leave the car and rather cycle and hike out to Boyton Canyon. What a landscape - ruled by those giant white and red layered rocks behind the lush green of the pines and oak trees on dark red soil - it seems impossible not to stop every minute and take pictures. Talk with some Japanese on the way to one of the vortexes, which apperantly made Sedona famous in Japan. Whether or not energy spot - I just like it.

After two nights sleeping in cars I'm happy to check into a hostel in Flagstaff, have a descent shower and cook Tofu and vegetables with an Indian travelling lady. What a difference to these Chilli Con Carne cans that I usually have for Diner! The Ashtanga Yoga session I joined the next morning was a great opportunity to learn about new postures and mistakes in the ones I usually do on my own since half a year. Despite all those ideas of having Chai and mode-made cookies with Burda at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, I am cycling and walking on my own, on that freezing cold day. It is really hard to mentally cope with the vast bewildering scenery of the Grand Canyon. Am I saturated by scenic beauty? Half fainted I look into that crazy rocky and hilly dry valley carved by the Colorado river, up to 1800 meters deep and up to 30 kilometers wide. Eventually I escape the flocks of tourists on the bike, find some peace and sunshine and a pinnacle rock to calm down, play a few songs on the Jews harp and tune in. Dust in the Wind, all we are is dust in the Wind. As sun sets, I'm clsoe to the Desert View park entrance, and really enjoy the colors of the Grand Canyon on another lonely pinnacle. Back in Flagstaff, I get lost completely, roam the streets for an hour before I find back to the hostel. Burda presents me her tasty hand-made cookies. And I'm more than happy to stay in a heated building rather than in the freezing desert.

Wild West by Car II

2011-11-07T04:25:59+00:00

A big reservation of the Navajo Native Americans is a few hours East from Flagstaff. As well, there is Monument Valley. The next destination is set. Vast high desert, after a big climb outside of Flagstaff. Visiting the Navajo Tribe Museum in Tuba City, I finally get in touch with a little part of Native American culture and history. What a great futuristic vision it seems that the Navajo did not know the concept of money nor land ownership. Religion and art were no distinguishable concepts, they were integral part of everydays life. Cradles with lots of lovely details were used to project the future of the newborn. The somewhat Asian looking staff answers a lot of freaky questions about Shamans, psychedilc plants and the likes. Driving through the desert to Monument Valley. Cycling the dusty gravel road, a 20+ kilometer round trip through the giant red rocks. Talks with some jewellery selling Navajo. Sunset turns the sky to a spectacular colorful caleidoscope. No reason to spent 15 Dollras for a campground without facilities I decide, and go on. Biting time in a Mc Donalds in Cayenta I meet Rene, a German traveller that recommmends me to visit the nearby Zion National Park, for being a beautiful as Yosemite. A venturing statement, I find, yet two or three of his photos plus his still valid entrance ticket (worth 25 Dollars) convince me to go there. I drive through the night to gain a few hours of daylight in the National Park, and as well spare me a few hours of uncomfortable and cold sleep squezzed into the small Nissan.
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Dramatic landscape already on the way to Zion - straight road along hundrets of meters tall red and white layered bluffs for miles in the desert. Crazy canyons without famous names. Mobile homes scattered in the desert every now and then indicate sort of civilization out here. If I haven't been to Sedona or Grand Canyon or Monument Valley before, I would have no reason to go there after having seen this. Yet still, entering the Zion National Park from Zion-Mnt. Carmel Highway, watching the towering giant white sandstone rocks over the lush green pine and yellow leaved oak trees scattered on sand stone flats is beyond expectations. I leave the car at the visitor center and engage the bicycle to get to the Sinawava Temple at the end of the North Fort Virgin River canyon. Cycling provides just enough flexibility to take way to many photos of that autumn colored flat valley between the steep and hundrets of meters high towering rocks. Indeed, this is as incredible as Yosemite!

The river is way too cold to challenge a bare feet adventure into the famous Narrows. Wise man invented special gear for this expedition - wetsuits... Angels Landing is a great rocky pinnacle in the middle of the canyon, elevating almost 500 meters over the valleys ground. Up there, that's where angels land - no question. Definitely...

Weather forecast predicts snow for tonight and a major temperature drop. Rather then staying in a zero facility campground in the park, I rather hide in a motel a few miles away in Hurricane. The next day I drive up 30 kilometers to Lava Point at the end of Kolob Terrace, some 2400 meters above sea level. What a great viewpoint. Walking on snow...

On the way to Las Vegas I almost run out of gas and stop randomly at a gas station near the Interstate. Ancient drums are calling, a Powwow of the Moapa is taking place here. Dancing young and old Native Americans in the traditional clothes. Few spectators, this is real Native American culture! I talk to some of the people and learn that there are Powwows gatherings of Native American war veterans everywhere in the country. And that I could just camp here tonight, and join them. Sunset, and a stupid decision to go to Las Vegas because of a cheap hostel reservation. Both tires of the bicycle are flat, so I cruise the Las Vegas Boulevard by car, and later walk to Fremont Ave with its tourist attractions. Steppenwolf in Sin City. I leave on the next day. Tired, exhausted from enormous visual input in the past week. It has been incredible! Back in LA Barry provides a shelter one more time, and the car rental company gives me an unexpected 100 Dollar discount. Which I invest right away in a new fork for the bicycle.

California: Phasing out

2011-11-22T01:34:47+00:00

Barry, my warmshowers host in Hollywood helps me to get some more unexpected maintenance done on my beloved bicycle - the fork started leaking badly. Quick service being rather impossible, I get a good over for a replacement and even a reasonable price for my old fork. Good news - the Morning Star Ranch, not too far away from LA, accepted my application for a WWOOFing experience (that is volunteer working on organic farms). It takes me almost a day to get out of LA and its sometimes rough and filthy suburbs. That is where most of the small churches are, the least cars on the wide streets and the people in rags push shopping carts far away from any super market. I reach Dana Point after sunset at 4:30PM. The recent time change to Winter time really shortens the time available for cycling if one doesn't take off at 6:30AM. However, a cyclist approaches me in the dark, asking where I was coming from and where I was headed. And if I wasn't in the mood to join him and his family for diner and some Bible reading. I could as well stay with them, and if not, the camp ground was not far away. Having not much in common with the Church I'm puzzled, yet nod and follow this guy up another hill to his home. Apparently Bob has spotted me from a bus on the way, and decided to invite me. I receive a hearty Welcome from his wife Jenny and his son David, who is being educated by Jenny at home. A nice diner, long talks about their faith and my journey and the sons back problem. The bible reading is cancelled, and instead I can give David some Reiki. On the following morning, the two of us attend a free Yoga session in the park. I believe some good Yoga instructions and practice could help David a lot.

Another small bicycle repair in San Clemente, a neat surfer town just a few miles South of Dana Point: the wire of the front shift system teared to pieces. However, because of that stop I learn about a nearby camp ground, and decide to stay here for a night. The camp ground does not have a hiker/biker camp, yet I am really lucky and get a ocean view place for 6 dollars instead of 35. Meet Nate playing some great guitar songs in his car, and join him in the bar where he's playing at night, just after a marvelous sunset. Beers and fun and big talks and a dull feeling in my head the morning after.

The Morning Star Ranch was just some 40 miles away I belived and took it easy. Left the campground late, enjoyed a long rest and great food on a farmers market in Carlsbad and a visit to an old mission museum. Great ascends on the remaining 20 miles, and again it is getting late without seeing a trace of the farm. I stop at a small Deli in sparcely settled area, ready to pay for a taxi to bring me to the ranch. I'm welcomed by bearded young man with long hair and women in kind of old fashioned clothes and headscarf. Quickly I learn that the Deli belongs to the Morning Star Ranch, and receive an energizing green pulpy juice as well as a free lift to the farm. The community consists of roughly 100 people, man, women, children of all ages it seems at a first glance. Every member has a Hebrew name which is hard for me to memorize at first.

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There is no private property any more among the members, just the shared community property. Everyone works really hard for their savour Yashua, and to repay the mortgage they bought the farm with. Thousands of Avocado trees on a hill, thousands of Grapefruit and Persimmon trees full of ripe fruits surround the nice red and white painted wooden main house with the dining room, the kitchen and some laundry facilities. I get a bed in one of the yurts for the single male members and visitors, and are asked to join the daily evening gathering right after a shower. Members of all ages talk in the wood fire heated training hall about their day, express their gratitude for their master Yashua. Then they sing and dance in a big turning circle. Two guys play guitar, a boy plays on an African drum. Good vibes. The next day is Sabbath – no work is done but lot of spiritual ceremonies and talks. Two newer female community members get baptised under an almost full moon in the pond near the ceremony house. What a biblical scenery! There are two more WWOOFers like me on the farm. We are assigned fruit picking or collecting firewood or any other farm work under the supervision of some brothers on the following days. Work is hard but pleasant, and I can learn a few things about the local fruits and vegetables as well as the foundation principles and the 40 years history of the international Twelve Tribes communities. These guys strongly believe in the bible and in Yashua who laid down his live for the sake of man. Yet they don't belong to any Church. With the daily morning and evening gatherings they encourage and motivate themselves to stay on the path, and give their best. I'm amazed to see a really functional and loving commune on the one hand, and bewildered by the omnipresent talks about Yashua and a few other aspects. Reiki – well, Yashua will cure the ones in need. Nor is there any way for beers or tobacco or free love outside marriage.

Eventually I get a chance to play Harmonica with Zach, the other WWOOFer the night before he leaves. And two nights before I re-enter the normal live. Ravach brings me and my bike to Vista for a brief visit to the Yellow Deli, an amazing restaurant made of recycled old barn wood. The restaurant belongs to the Twelve Tribes too, and attracts everyday many customers that care for organic good food. I ride down to San Diego, where I can stay for four nights in the home a very nice cyclists.

Mexico: Cycling down the Baja California

2011-12-13T05:08:44+00:00

Marty, a kind Warmshowers host, lets me stay four nights in his nice appartment in San Diego while I wait for an appointment with some famous researchers. While waiting, I meet Ellie from Seattle again, who just came down with a friend by car. And I meet with Kathrin, a young Swiss cyclist who has already been cycling a few months on her green Bike Friday folding bicycle. We met earlier in California, and share the same destination for the next few weeks: going South on the Baja California. With nowadays drug war in Mexico, security is a concern for both of us. Therefore we decide to ride together for a while. Actually, Kathrin is the one who has the detailed map, speaks Spanish and did a huge portion of route planing. We cross the border at Tijuana, enjoy our first great Mexican street food and manage to survive the first 20 or 30 kilometers to Rosalito in really heavy traffic. My first experience with Mexico. Unlike South-East-Asia, there are mainly cars and trucks on the road. No scooters at all, and the trucks are less overloaded and less noisy. A few dogs stray on the side of the road, but no pigs or naked children...

Markus, the Austrian cyclist who is about two weeks ahead of us, writes us to take a bus from Ensenada to San Quitin to avoid the heavy traffic on the narrow and shoulder-less road on that part. We cycle still to San Tomas, some 30 kilometers South of Ensenada. There we meet Pat, an American on his way down to La Paz with his truck and his boat. He offers us a lift to San Quintin on the next morning. Without much words Pat passes through the dusty bustling town of San Quintin and brings us a few dozen kilometers further to El Rosario, a rather laid-back, neat and charming town. Somehow I leave the handlebar bag on his truck, with the spare tubes and tools and stuff. The desert adventure starts. Fully loaded with gallons of water and food for two days we enter the desert, climbing up the Sierra and countless vados, dry river beds. Headwind, blood sweat and tears, not more than 10 kilometers an hour. Cactus of all sorts and sizes and some dry and thorny bushes are the main vegetation out here. Loneliness, no trace of civilisation for kilometers, not even power lines. The few truck drivers greet the cyclists. The first night we camp in a flat and sandy riverbed beside the road, sharing tortillas and fried beans with tuna on the camp fire under the stars. The following day is already a highlight. We cross great flats covered with big boulders and cactus and enter Catavina, a small village in between. Nearby are some ancient cave paintings, and a neat hidden place to camp between boulders and cactus. After four nights in the wild without running fresh water, we reach Guerrero Negro and really enjoy the comfort of a cheap motel. A hot shower, what a blessing!
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More days out in the desert, on endless straight roads in pan-flat areas. Vultures and eagles circle on the cloudless blue sky. San Ignacio, a vivid green date palm oasis between naked brown rocky hills is a real highlight. Not only for its old mission, but for the chilly fresh water lake where we put up our tents, swim and share a great dinner with Mel and Chenoa. Shall we leave this paradise on a Sunday? A sudden breeze carries my tent into the lake while I'm packing other stuff. And so we stay another night. Big head wind on the way for the first 30 kilometers on the Santa Rosalia, and an incredible ride down the Cuesta Del Infierno to the Sea of Cortez. Next station is Mulege, a neat Oasis town at the entrance of Conception Bay. Beautiful beaches South from Mulege, with crystal clear azure and turquoise water and the unique desert feeling. Young and retired Americans occupy the beaches with their RVs. We have a break. Tortilla-Banana for breakfeast for us, fish for the minutewise into-the-sea-plunging kamikaze pelicans and cormorans. We snorkel and hike arround Playa El Coyote. The water is not quite warm enough for extended snorkeling, nor did we reach the Southern tip of the Baja, and so we move on. The next stop over is the somewhat put-on town of Loreto, with the beatifull red and white striped rocky mountain chain in the west. After passing the beaches South of Loreto we climb up the Sierra Gigantes and camp between amazing mesas. A splendid scenario - quite like a mix between Monument Valley and Sedona, with just a few trucks roaring on the road at night.

A gray cloudy morning, another baja Breakfeast (Tortillas, bananas and Peanut butter resp. Nutella). A big day riding hundred fairly charmless kilometers bring us to Ciudad Constitucion, a young prosepering junction town along the MEX1. From there it is another 200+ Kilometers to La Paz. The first 100 kilometers are a somewhat green, pan-flat agriculturing area, followed by another challenging 100 kilometers through countless vados in the half desert again, with a charming head wind. We did it - cycled in 22 days some 1300 kilometers from San Diego to La Paz.

Mexico II - From Aztecas to Zapotecas

2012-01-29T23:12:00+00:00

Christmas eve in the airport of La Paz, waiting for a delayed flight to Mexico City. Our Christmas diner consists of two cans of beer and a small pack of peanuts in the aeroplane. We arrive in our Hostel just in time for a real Christmas Diner, sponsored by the hostel owner. We spend four nights in the big city, visit the Zocalo and the cathedral, and the slightly distant Teotihuacán. Teotihuacan is an ancient city with a vast area with pyramids and temples, mostly created before 0 AD without metal tools, wheel karts or domestic animals, that was abandoned already before the rise of the Aztecas.

Mexico City is a big buzzing place around Christmas, there seem to be funfairs on every plaza. The streets are crowded with lots of pretty new cars and trucks and still many many VW Beetles and mini vans. Still, it seems way less chaotic than some Asian metropolis. Leaving buzzing Mexico City with very few usefull road signs - we head for lovely little town Amecameca on our way over the Paseo de Cortez. Hiking up the small hill Sacromonte there, we eventually get a great view of the two snow capped volcanos Popocatepetl and Ixtacchihuatl. They are the second and third largest elevations in Mexico. Between the two, we climb up to 3700 metres above sea level on the following two days. Thin air. We arrive at the summit of the pass at noon of New Years Eve in roaring thunderstorms with icy winds and hail showers. Luckily there is shelters and hot coffee, and the sky clears up later in the afternoon for magnificent views to the two volcanoes. Ixta's smoke cloud shines rosy at sunset on unpaved bumpy way down. Kathrin crashes, luckily without injuries. After nightfall, we hitch the remaining 15 or so kilometres to the City Centre of Cholula.
Typical cobblestone streets, the churches around the Zocalo are nicely illuminated with blue shining chambers in the bell towers. New Years Eve with pizza in a Mexican fast food restaurant, a bottle of red wine from a Convenience Store, and a four star hotel room without bath tube. The day after we visit the worlds largest pyramid (by circumference) in town, a pile of rubble covered by grass and shrubs and trees, and topped by a big yellow church. When Cortez marched into Cholula in Medieval, he destroyed all shrines and promised to build a church for each shrine. That is why Cholula is plastered with dozens of churches. Some parts of the ancient pyramid structure have been restored and illustrate temple and palace foundations of a different scale.

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A worn out pedal bearing and a broken hard disk on my laptop were certainly not the best news on that New Years Day. However, in the nearby Puebla I get both bicycle and laptop fixed. The City Center of Puebla is UNESCO World Heritage. Its old colonial buildings are decorated with fancy colored tiles and there is a great marble and stucco decorated City hall. The Zocalo is crowded with tourists and street vendors and the load Mexican music there reminds me to some German folk music during the rural festivals back home.
Off we go again, heading for Oaxaca. First there is heavy traffic on the narrow roads, but after Tecamachalco there is hardly traffic any more through the sierras. Countless climbs again, crossing a dry half desert with series rocky hills. Splendid views between bordering mountain ranges. Donkeys and goats on the road. After the climbs we enter almost tropical lush valleys with palms, citrus trees, bananas and corn and sugar cane plantations and all sorts of colourful birds. Villagers and truck drivers greet friendly on the road (mostly). Vicious flies yawn for our blood. Their bites itch for days.
The Zapoteca ruins, located on Monte Alban towering over the planes arround Oaxaca are famous. Between Christi Birth and 800 AD, roughly at the same time as the Aztecas at Teoticatlan, the Zapotecas had their prime time, and similar to the Aztecas, they build pyramids and temples with no iron, just by using flint stone and obsidian tools. Without iron axes and saws, the Zapotecas maintained an sustainable living in their environment. Nowadays, the surroundings mountains are widely deforested, and a vast urban area stretches out in the planes. On the way back down we make friends with some young and old locals who share their thoughts and their weed.

Mexico III - To the Maya Lands

2012-01-29T23:49:48+00:00

After a few days in Oaxaca we move on on the Pan-American Highway. We visit the 2000 year old tree of Tule, and the Zapoteca ruins of Yagul on the following morning. After another steep climb and some more off-road kilometres on a hilly ridge, we reach eventually reach Hierve el Agua and camp under the full moon on the ridge. Exceptional view from the ridge over the Sierras, from an azure blue pool filled from hot springs. We are cycling between 1500 and 2500 elevation meters, between lush valleys and pine forests. Our attempt to bypass the Panamerican highway fails in Ayutla. The locals dissuade from that route due to a certain likelihood of armed conflicts. The mountains around Ayutla is home of the Mixes tribe, the people speaking a language that sounds a bit like Chinese.
We catch a truck ride back to Mitla, followed by an incredible 20 kilometre downhill ride full of switchbacks through rugged hills on the Panamerican highway. Two more strenuous but marvellous days of ups and downs through cactee hills, corn fields and mountains with pine forests, crossing the 7000 kilometer mark somewhere in between. Usually we wash in rivers during the day and camp at night, hiding our tent away from the road. Reaching Jalapa, a small town near Tehuantepec late, the one hotel in town is said to be booked out and the Hospedaje is an poor looking shack with no glass in the windows. A young girl advices us to camp on the playing field, away from the noisy main road. Three young lads come by later at night and present me some good weed.

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Short on time to reach Palenque and slightly tired of pedalling we take a 300 kilometre bus ride from Tehuantepec to Tuxla Guiterez in the Chiapas District. We just cycle to the nearby Chiapa de Corzo, from where the boats into the spectacular Sumidero Canyon depart. We arrive right in time for the parade of an intersting festival - man and boys with masks and blond wigs and colourful stripped black ponchos walk the streets until late at night. They celebrate the self healing of a little boy way back in time with oodles of Micheladas - a mix of beer and lime and chilli powder and Maggie, served in 1 litre mugs. Hmm, too much for us Gringos. The patio of our hotel is filled with young man sleeping on the ground on the following morning, and the boat ride into the canyon starts a little late. First we pass by some crocodiles on the river bank, than perpendicular rocks tower up to 1000 metres over the river that leads to a dam. Breathtaking scenery, incredibly beautiful.
My friend Werner wrote he would be in Palenque on the following day. Surprise surprise! In my current condition, it would probably take five days to get there via the mountains of San Cristobal. Well then, we take another bus ride directly to Palenque on the same night, 6 long and bumpy hours of crazy ups and downs through the thick forest. Nearby the famous Maya ruins in the jungle is some camp grounds with palapas - wooden shelters with palm leave roofs - where we pitch our tent for a few nights. Travellers play guitar here, make jewellery, good vibes. Fireflies and howling monkeys at night. Finally a real rest in a peaceful place. Werner arrives a day later, together we visit the ruins of Palenque - steep pyramids with well conserved temples on top, in the middle of the jungle - fantastic! A lazy day tour by minibus to the Misol-Ha waterfall and the famous Agua Azul. There a river carried ochre-coloured sediment over millenniums that created a long stretch of fantastic turquoise pool cascades, some 60 kilometres South of Palenque. Spectacular contrasts - the vivid green of the jungle, the ochre sediment and the turquoise water.

North Guatemala and Belize

2012-02-20T20:30:14+00:00

From Palenque, it took us two marvelous days through vivid green jungle and farmland to the border at Frontera Corozal. Turquoise rivers and waterfalls along the road for refreshment and camping - cyclists heaven! A boat brings us over the river to Bethel in Guatemala. Thats the end of paved roads it seems. And the end of good food. Only one place offers microwave rice and beans, with pretty outdated christmas decoration (in February) and little friendly staff. A young fiercly looking guy walks around with a colt in his belt. We cycle out of Bethel on the bumpy road, get our passports stamped and head on towards Flores. Two hours for 20 kilometers of the worst road I ever rode. Nothing but potholes and rocks. I have a break, wait for Kathrin. A bus stops, with Kathrins bicycle on the roof carrier and Werner waving out of the window. In no time my bike is on the roof too. Saved at last! 40 more kilometres of bumpy self torture would have still been ahead of us. However, 5 hours on worn out bus seats render me wrecked and grumpy anyway. We arrive in Santa Elena nearby Flores after nightfall, and only on the next day Werner finds us a reasonable place to stay in Flores. Finally I start to like Guatemala.
60 kilometers to Tikal, a famous ancient Maya city. We spend a night in our tent in a luxury lodge in the humid and hot National Park. Werner meets us the next morning, and together we stroll through the thick jungle to various temples and pyramids until lunch. Between 0 and 900 AD the city was build and prospered, with 200,000 people living here before it was all abandoned and reclaimed by nature. Only a fraction of the ancient buildings has been carved out of the jungle, but what has been restored is breathtaking enough to marvel upon the achievements of the Mayas. The temples, some as high as 65 meters above the ground top the canopies of the tallest trees, and provide a splendid outlook to the other temple tops. A famous Star Wars scene was taken here, and that is how extraterrestrial that place looks like in the morning mist!

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Pooring rain on the way out of Tikal, a night in a bungalow in El Remate. On the next day we make it all the way to Belize. Rain after we cross the border. We reach San Ignacio and get pretty surprised by the price level for accomodation and food. Everything seems to be at least twice as much as Guatemala for no better quality or service. Cycling in Belize is great. There is hardly any traffic on the road through the farmland to Belmopan. Rain. Cycling on the Hummingbird Highway South towards Dangriga through jungle mountains and many citrus plantations. The few trucks that we meet out here are loaded with tons of oranges on their trailers, the best smelling trucks I've ever experienced. In a Amish-run bakery in a little village we meet an Canadian woman who recommends us to visit Hopkins instead of Dangriga on the way to Placencia.
Yeeha, we finally stay on the Carribean shore! Never mind that the water is brown from all the rain from the last couple of days. After three nights, we ride on to Placencia to meet Werner. He finds us a great spot on the beach a little off the touristy town, where a family lets us camp for little money between the trees on their piece of beach. Urs and Jean join us a day later. Belize beach holidays at its best: snorkeling, kanooing and fishing for free for a few days. Campfires and BBQ and fireflies in the fullmoon nights. One day we spoil us with a great snorkeling trip out to Silk Cayes, seeing corals and colorful fish and turtles and rays and so on. Afterwards we dance on a Reggea party till 1 AM. Time to say good bye, or rather 'See you in Guatemala'. Urs, Jean and Werner hitch to Lake Attitlan, where Kathrin and I hope to meet them again. The two of us cycle down to Punta Gorda, camp a night in the Tranquility Lodge and take a boat over to Livingston, Guatemala on the following morning.
On the same afternoon we arrived in Livingston, we catch a great scenic boat ride through a gorge up the river to Rio Dulce. Somewhere in between, there is a hot spring that runs directly into the river. The shoreline is forested, jungle everywhere. Plenty of sailboats anchor in El Golfete, which is a famous hurricane shelter as we learn later while talking to a skipper in our hotel in Rio Dulce. Sailing down to Panama, or even further - that would be great!

Guatemala II: By all kinds of transportation

2012-03-25T17:20:33+00:00

Kathrin and I spend a few days in tropical Rio Dulce. We visit the old Spanish Castle that used to protect the area from the pirates, and Agua Caliente, a small but hot(!) waterfall into a cool jungle creek 20 kilometers outside Rio Dulce. Holes in the yellow rocks on the waterfall smell like the door to hell - a really impressive scenario. On this day I break the 8000 kilometers mark. Never traveled so far on my bicycle! In the evenings we marvel upon the anchored sail boats on the lake and the possibility to sail ourself. Joey, an American rasta guy is actually selling his Yacht. Lots of beers and talking and hot heads at night.

We rest our bicycles at the hotel and hitchhike on a side route to lake Atitlan where Urs, Werner and Jean are waiting for us. What a change of pace! It feels funny to carry our sea bags on our heads or shoulders rather then having them on the carrier of our bikes. In El Estor we get a ride on a Cardamom truck. A minute later a group of 7 young chaotic Americans dressed entirely in rags joins us on the truck bed. What a great smell! There is no pavement on the road anymore, and we eat a lot of dust during the bumpy ride. Just before La Tinta we (respectively Kathrin who speak proper Spanish) haggle for a reasonable fare with the armed co-driver of the truck. La Tinta is little appealing to us, and it is geting late. Therefore the two of us take a Collectivo for the remaining 30 something kilometers on a unpaved and bumpy road to Tactic near Coban. It is a long ride up the steep hills, ascending some 1500 meters...

On the following day we get a lot of rides with police cars, farmers, collectivos and merchants through a very hilly country on really lonesome and rough roads. For the last stretch to Santa Cruz del Quiche we take another Collectivo and once again congratulate ourselfes for hitchhiking rather than cycling. How many steep mountain passes did we cross today?

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One more day to Lake Atitlan. We take roaring ride in a cramped bus up and down some steep narrow valleys on roads apparently not made for ordinary cars. According to noise level and fierce acceleration of the bus, it must be powered by giant WWII bomber engines or similar. In Solola we marvel upon the colorful traditional dresses of man and women. They wear thick wollen blankets and kind of pillows above their neatly embroidered trousers around their waists. Pillows for man, that's fun for me who's somewhat used to the look of pillows in the back of Japanese women. In Solala we catch a first glimpse of the lake and the volcanos behind. Panajachel is a touristy town some 500 metres below Solola, from where boats go to San Pedro la Laguna on the other side of the lake. We wait for half an hour for more passengers before the boat sets out to a pretty scenic 40 minute ride over the wavy lake. The spirit of San Pedro welcomes us with a nice view over the colorful lakeside hotels and restaurants, and the village itself with the big white church building on the hill. Behind that, the San Pedro Volcano is towering, and further behind the Atitlan Vulacano. San Pedro is somewhat touristy along the lakeside, yet feels authentical further up the hill arround the market, where tiny old cottages neighbor new two or three storey houses. Progress everywhere. We meet our friends again and spend a few days recovering from the bumpy dusty roads that led us here. It is comfortably warm during the day, good for swimming and kajaking, and refreshingly cool at night. Not much mosquitos, what a blessing! San Pedro is known not only for hiking and kajaking and coffee but as well for affordable Spanish classes. After some investigations Kathin and I agree to have found a nice place to hang out for a few weeks soon.

But first we join our friends on another bus ride to Xena. The grey and brown and green highlands with the distant volcanos and the trucks thundering on the Panamericana give a very special scenery. Urs and Jean investigated about a climbing spot nearby the city. Werner finds us the oldest cab in town, a rusty yellow Japanese something. It takes a bumpy 20 minutes ride uphill and we find ourselfes in one of the most amazing places I've ever been to. In the steep gravel and lava fields of an exploded volcano are small leveled areas where local man and women of all ages gather daily arround their preachers or healers and spend hours praying and singing and whining between the rocks. Each of them seems to carry a bunch of flowers that is left somewhere on the caldera. A fresh breeze that blows scraps of clouds over the lava field with the screaming prayers in their colorful clothes, the distant cones of two more volcanos and a dozen more details manifest a moon-like scenario. What a blessing to spend three days out here, climbing, reading, marveling, being... Then our time is up - Urs, Jean and Werner have to go back to Mexico.

Kathrin and I take a bus to Antigua. Being once the glory capital of the Spaniard Guatemala, the town is now famous for the ruins of monasteries and cathedrals that a giant earthquake left. Just when we arrive an Easter procession takes place. From Antigua we head back to Rio Dulce, back to our sail boat dream. We spend a rainy afternoon on sailing boat with Greg, a retired American Hippie who teaches us some sailing basics. The day after Joey invites us to a marvelous two day sailing trip on his boat, which is fully equipped with 4 stoves, an oven and a french coffee press. We anchor at Agua Caliente and spend the night on the boat. On our way back we speed up to 6 knots, hard on the wind, the boat sloping some 45 degrees over the waves. What a feeling! We didn't want to leave the boat - thanks god it was sold already.

Two rainy days, a scorpion in our room and little Coral snake outside the door. We take a bus to Guatemala rather than to cycle. As I watch the various hills on the narrow road and the heavy traffic, I'm getting more and more happy about that decision. The way out of Guatemala City to Chimaltenango is rough enough. Seamless after the city centre with the crazy and dense traffic we face an 20 kilometre ascend and breathe little oxygen and stay overnight in a noise pink hotel just before Chimaltenango. Self brewed coffee on the rooftop, with a bright and almost full moon that illuminates the nearby forested hills and distant volcanoes. On the following day we ride on the old Panamericana, a scenic hilly side track to Panajachel with hardly any traffic. The last ascend up to the caldera is incredibly steep, even pushing our loaded bikes is painful. Kathrins smile secures herself (and a little later me too) a lift in a pickup for the last three steep kilometres uphill. The succeeding ride down to Panajachel with the fantastic views over the lake is well worth the effort. After a good night of sleep we take a boat to San Marcos to check oportunities for house rental and Spanish lessons but can't find what we were locking for. A Tuktuk ride to San Pedro, and we find what we've been looking for.

One day later we arrive with all our stuff by boat in San Pedro, ready to move into our rental house nearby the market. A somewhat familiar touring bike with paneers leans on a wall of a cafe. It belongs to Markus, the Austrian fellow I have met in California months ago. What a great coincidence! We share our house with him for a few days and talk a lot about our adventures. Kathrin and I will stay for a month here before cycling on. We both really like our house in that little lane in the middle of the colourful painted village. From the veranda we don't see the lake nor the volcanoes but a wild mess of conquest roofs and building sites for new three storey houses. Music plays all day from the playground or the church or elsewhere. We spend our days with visits to the market, reading, cooking and eating. On five days a week I take private Spanish classes with Fransisco, an experienced 32 year old teacher who runs a One-Man business. Even though my head is buzzing after the lessons, I enjoy the progress in understanding that language.

South America I: A cold Welcome

2012-05-25T02:14:33+00:00

Long time no write. More than 8 months I am on the road now, and almost 6 with Kathrin. We spent March and April resting our legs and bum from the pedaling, travelling by bus with friends. And for 5 weeks we rented us a house in San Pedro La Laguna at Lake Atitlan in Guatemala. I studied Spanish with a great private teacher that really got me into the language and the grammar, so that I felt much more confident talking with the locals. If you ever come by San Pedro, pay Fransisco a visit: www.spanishstepbystep.org. We hosted some travelling cyclists for a few nights and shared laughs, experiences and great food from our own kitchen. As well, we thought about how to continue our journey. Since we haven´t heard much good about the other parts of Central America, we decided to fly to Chile next, and cycle from there towards Peru, towards Machu Pichu.

Golden autumn leaves on the trees, dry meadows and a cold sunshine welcome us in Santiago de Chile. Fierce bus drivers in the city scared me more than anywhere else I rode so far. In the distance we could see the white peaks of the Andes already from Cerro Santa Lucia, and the prices are way on European level. Kathrin and I leave the city, and within two days riding through wineries and dry farm land we find ourselves in the Andes, heading for the Paseo de Liberadores. Cactuses and shrubs are the main vegetation out here in between the rocks, framed by snow capped peaks. Around and in the villages in the river valleys are cottonwood and willow trees planted. A train used to go from Santiago to Mendoza once, and its old railroad tracks lay on the other side of the valley. Another day of ascending the pass road, we reach the thirty something serpentines climbing up a steep hillside. Somewhere in between, a construction worker picks us up and brings us a few kilometers further up, having mercy on us with the snow to come soon enough. A few more kilometers, and we reach the tunnel Christo Redentor at about 3200 meters. The Chilenean police maintain a service for cyclists to bring them to the other side in a pickup truck. We go for it since the pass road is closed already, and the icy wind chilled our enthusiasm already a lot. A few kilometers past the tunnel we can spot Aconcagua, the highest mountain in South America. The abandoned rails with its demolished snow shelters still run parallel to the road. We spend an expensive but warm night in a hotel at Puente del Inca, and visit the famous natural bridge with the colorful sediments from a hot spring on the next morning. It is a long way down to Uspallata. We enjoy magnificent views in a wide valley framed by steep colorful mountains but suffer constant face wind and many little ascends on those 70 kilometers. During that day we get a glimpse what is ahead of us - long stretches without settlements and shops for supplies and hardly traffic, which is good. We see the town from the distance in the evening sun, a big yellow colored cottonwood carpet between the dry rocky mountains. Finally we reach an ATM (with a big queue in front of it), and finally we find some shops with vegetables after eating mainly meat for two days. And we get some other glimpses of Argentine: the dialect is very tough for me to understand, and the vehicles are a wide spectrum ranging from 30 some year old Renaults, Fords and Fiat to the latest SUV models.

It takes us two more days to get to Mendoza. On the way my helmet and my drinking bottle were removed from a lonely junction where I left them as a sign for Kathrin for half an hour or so. I hope someone needed them more urgent than I. Mendoza is a big city in an area famous for its wine at the footsteps of the Andes. We are happy to be out of the cold, and less than 1000 metres above sea level. After a noisy night in a hostel I am eager to leave town, to get further North. On our way out we pass some rather desolate stretches of garbage and poor looking huts. After 55 kilometers I rest to wait for Kathrin, do some Yoga on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. When Kathrin arrives, we talk about cycling on for another hour before pitching out tent somewhere. Suddenly two young men ran over the street, yell "Plata, plata" at us. One of them waves with a silver revolver at me, the other stays at Kathrins side. Kathrin tells them she would give them the money, holds her wallet already in her hand, when the guy with the pistol decides to take my backpack instead. Both disappear in the shrubs on the other side of the road, the whole scene took place in less than a minute. We stop a car to call the police immediately. The police men interview us and search the area with horsemen, yet without any trace of the gangsters. After what seems ages on the side of the road and in a police office, we were brought back to Mendoza.

The backpack contained not much money, but the passport, the wallet with the credit cards, my diary of the last 4 months on the road, my cheapish camera and my old laptop. These wrenches basically took a lot of stuff without much monetary value. Thus we hoped they might have dumped it somewhere nearby, and went out to search for it on our own the following day in a rental car. Yet without luck, we could not find any trace of the backpack nor the diaries. Luckily I could block the credit cards before they were used.

What to do? Terminate the trip or keep going? Evaluating the situation on the following days, we found that I could order a new passport at the German consulate in Mendoza, and have it sent to Salta within two weeks. To see how much we were still eager to travel Argentina after the raid, we decided to go on a road trip in a rental car, and visit some nearby National parks. But that’s for the next chapter…

Argentina II: Roadtrip by car

2012-05-30T09:05:56+00:00

After a few days digesting what happened in Mendoza we parked our bicycles in the office of a car rental, loaded the car with our camping gear and left. Once again we passed the spot of the raid. Once again I went very emotional on it. We left a dozen flyers at gas stations and power poles indicating a finder´s reward for the lost items, still hoping to get at least the diary and passport back. Meanwhile Kathrin paid all my bills and even bought me a new harmonica. Near Villa San Agustin we find an empty campground next to a farm at dusk, and finally camped under a marvelous open sky again, cooking our food and singing along under the bright shining moon. On the next day we visit the Ischigualasto National Park. With a group of other cars, led by a guide we drive the 40 some kilometers circuit on gravel that is not allowed by feet or bicycle. At the various stops our guide explains the archeological events that shaped the moon-like area with its multicolored layers of soft round shaped rock formations and the steep red cliffs behind within hundreds of millions of years. At some places, petrified plants were clearly visible, and apparently there were certain types of saurian in the area too. Just as we are on our way out, a bright big full moon rises behind the red rocks. We spent a cold and windy night at the campground, and went to see the nearby Tamalpaya National Park on the next day.

For today, we go on a two hour bus tour. Petroglyphes at the entrance of the Quebrada (a canyon), vertical towering red rock walls reaching some hundred meters frame the sandy river bed. The green of thorny shrubs and low trees of a few hundred years of age display a splendid contrast to the red rocks and red sands. We spend the night in an inexpensive cabaña in Villa Union, and another day in the National Park. Tired of sitting in a car we go on a guided hike this time that brings us much closer to the beauty of the area. Stunning rock creations and an incredible view where the canyon opens into a distant wide plain and the sun shines at the rock walls at the very gate are the reward for following our private guide.

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The drive to Rodeo seems to go forever through very boring plains of shrubs again before reaching a small town that is locked up for the siesta. Commonly, most of the shops are closed between noon and 5pm in Argentina, and therefore settlements often look a little like ghost towns. After the brief visit we drive for hours through a stunning black and grey rocky canyon, eventually leading to a reservoir under blue skies. As usual out here, the town is indicated by the yellow autumn leaves of cottonwood plantations. We can pitch our tent in the shelter of some Police campground. On the next day we warm ourselves thoroughly in the inexpensive hot tubs of the nearby hot springs before moving on towards Barreal. Again we cross flat plains with nothing but stones and shrubs for hours before hitting the next hill range in these endless lonesome highlands. It seems fairly difficult to estimate the distances in these open plains - what appears as 5 or 10 kilometers often turns out to be three or four times more. We often wonder how much water and food cyclists would have to carry out here.

The Leoncito National Park, famous for its two world-class observatories out in the high lands is a great spot. There is unguided hiking through alleys of cottonwood, small foot paths through rocky hills to a little waterfall, and splendid picnic areas with views to snow capped mountains. Autumn colors at its best. A long ride back to Mendoza on the same day, finishing the loop, seeing the road from Uspallata to Mendoza for the second time, in quick motion this time…

Argentina III: La Rioja to Salta

2012-06-07T00:25:42+00:00

Half asleep we drop out of the night bus from Mendoza at the bus station way outside La Rioja early in the morning of May, 13th. After two coffees and breadies from a lonesome street merchant we load our bikes and head North on lonesome roads, heading for Salta. At some reservoir between the rocky mountains I chat with some Colombians, a little later, again on lonesome roads two young guys wave me down for some tools for their broken motorbike. I don't feel well stopping, but I do at the second chance. Kathrin and I move up into the mountains again, on what seems to be endless straight roads. Eventually we find an abandoned camp ground in Agua Blanca at dusk. Two days cycling through the pampas - on straight roads through plains of shrubs and dry sands for hours. At times we disturb the Condors eating their meals of hit rabbits or foxes on the road. The days are warm and sunny, the nights are almost freezing. When we reach Londres fairly exhausted in the afternoon we struggle to find a hostel. Locals ask us to knock on some doors without signs on it. I'm still puzzled by the amount of advertisement done in this village. Eventually we find some hut just on the way out to Belen.

The landscape on the first part from Belen to Hualfin is pretty picturesque, with some hot caves in the canyons. We run into Martha, a cyclist from Poland on her way to Ushuaya. A dozen kilometres before Hualfin the pavement ends, and a dirt track leads on a ridge between two valleys to Hualfin. A sandstorm on the gravel road out of town on the next morning, face wind gusts of probably 40 or 50 kilometers an hour make cycling impossible for us. We hitch for some 30 kilometres on Ruta 40, and cycle on without wind. Plain pampa again, not even a bend for ages. Just some guanacos, maras and a few donkeys for two more days to Amaicha de Valle. We stay in a nice hostel, but cannot find any open restaurants on that Sunday night.

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Nor was it easy to find the way out of town the following day, due to the lack of road signs and some locals we asked the wrong type of question. They sent us uphill out of town on a gravel road, rather then the easy way on pavement. Some funny roadsigns indicating the ruins of Quilmes send us again on the wrong dirt road. Barely amused we reach the spot a few kilometres off the highway. A set of walls indicate previous houses or temples running up a hill between two kind of framing rocks with watchtower like castles. The Quilmes tribe resisted the Incas here, but was conquered and eventually deported by the Spanish conquistadors later.
Swarms of green Loro parrots fly around the fields and gather screaming on power lines. Finally we reach Cafayate, a small town in the Salta district which is famous for some of the highest and finest vine yards of the world. Blue sky, a good pizza and a nice bottle of local red wine for lunch perfect the moment and make us feel home instantly. Instead of visiting the Bodegas (wine yards) around Cafayate, we go for a hike to the waterfalls of the Rio Colorado, a few kilometers west of town, talk us out of the local guides. A Western movie like scenario of a small red rock canyon with a vivid creek and yellow leave cottonwood trees welcomes us. For about two hours we are path-finding, rock-jumping (or wading) over the Rio Colorado up the canyon. We turn around, out of food. Certainly we underestimated that hike, in both beauty and length. Then we spend a splendid sunset on the rooftop from our hostel, with two french girls and Nahuel from the hostel who plays guitar. The first attempt to leave this charming town ends with a load BANG after just a few kilometres. Kathrins tire (Schwalbe Marathon Plus) exploded, ripped along the rim, irreparable. We get a lift back to town, and a new tire next morning.

The famous Quebrada de las Conchas starts about 20 kilometres North of Cafayate, as a wide canyon of red and white and green striped beautiful rock formations beside the river. Colors of the rainbows, these rocks have them all! We pass through the first part in the late afternoon in perfect light conditions, and eventually reach Santa Barbara after fighting heavy headwind just after sundown. Daniel, a indigenous local with feather adornments on his forehead, allows us to pitch our tent beside the school. On the next morning we move on, enjoy splendid views and visit fantastic rock formations like the Anfiteatro, or the Garganta del Diablo on our way through the wonderful, colorful quebrada. Some 70 kilometers after we left Cafayate we are really happy to find a little farm that sells tasty empanadas and goat cheese. Kathrin celebrates her 10000 kilometres milestone on this journey. Later we pass by Alemania, a little sleepy village with no much supplies. We have to cycle on until La Viña, where we can camp on the soccer field. Not for the first time we are attacked by those tiny flesh eating flies the US-Americans call "No see em's", whose bites itch for days.

The countryside changes, instead of dry pampa and rocky canyons we enjoy cycling small country roads framed by high yellow flowers and tobacco fields into the suburbs of Salta. Almost 700 kilometres we cycled again, touch wood! On the consulate I can finally receive my new passport, yeah! As well, I hear about the drug problems and the connected crimes here in the city. Still waiting for the replacement credit card to arrive at the post office and eager to reach some higher goals, Kathrin and I develop a new plan: to cycle up Abra el Acay, with almost 5000 metres the highest pass in Argentina...

Argentina IV: Cycling high

2012-06-10T02:59:07+00:00

Sporting time: 9 AM on International Children's Day - I hop on the bike, cycle out of Salta. Clouds cover the sky, but there is a blue hole in the west, where I'm heading. I pass by farms and trees and small villages on the first 30 kilometers, then enter the first stretch of unpaved road along the Rio ... near the train line. The destination is set for San Antonio de las Cobres, and perhaps Abra del Acay, with almost 5000m the highest pass in Argentina. Soon the area deserts, less trees, more colorful rocks, every once in a while a metal train bridge for what is nowadays the tourist attraction "Tren de las nubes", the train to the clouds. Kathrin follows me in a rental car. She reaches me after lunch at Ing. Maury, a little police station in the valley where I waited, almost scared without having money with me, having finished my few cookies already. Still, from time to time I pass by small settlements with yellow leaved cottonwood trees in the otherwise rather dry valley, pass by some goats or sheep or horses.

The first night we spend at Alfarcito, a little village not mentioned in any map, after 90k and 1600 elevation meters. There is a small hospedaje just opposite of the new little church that accommodates us, where we can use the rustic kitchen to cook our diner after hiking up the adventurous narrow local Via Dolorosa to the cactus on the hills. The next day is a long way up to Abra Blanca on 4100 metres. A steep climb, another village, a short break. While cycling I chew some Coca leaves to cope with the height and gain some minerals and vitamins. The bitter taste distracts the mind from brooding too much, and eases the pain. Just before lunch I reach a long softly ascending plain with a magnificent view to the white headed peaks of Mount Acay. Looking at the speedometer, I should be up at the pass already. Kathrin and the red rental car are no where to see. So I'm not on top yet and I roll on into a small valley with dry grass and a half frozen creek. The blood seems to cook in my head, I must be almost at 4000 metres. All of a sudden I'm surrounded by a bunch of mad barking dogs in the middle of no where. I stop, and one of them licks my salty gloves. The others keep barking at me, and an old woman appears and sort of talks the dogs away with her husky voice. Freaky...

A few more serpentines and I am at the pass. Kathrin waits for me with hot tea and snacks. What a feeling, and what a view onto the other side! The remaining 30 kilometres until San Antonio de las Cobres are unpaved washboard road. With the chilling head wind it is not much fun to cycle, not even with the soft decline. San Antonio de las Cobres is a mining town with clusters of stereotype small one storey houses. We get all sorts of information whether or not the road over the pass to Cachi is doable with our small rental car. Some say yes, others say not at all. What to do? We stay in a somewhat comfortable but cold guesthouse, talk with an American and a Swiss traveler.

The big day starts with a Yoga session despite the cold. The 13 kilometres back to the diversion to the Abra Acay roll more easy today, but after the diversion the road is sandy for the first 10 kilometres ascending a long plain. My spirits fight the fierce head winds. I have to push the bike a lot already at the easy part. But the sun is shining bright, and finally I reach that long awaited bend, the wind slows down, and Kathrin waits for me with hot tea, and bananas and bread and Nutella. Well motivated I move on after the break. More or less loose gravel and sand take their turns on the narrow road uphill, at times with the wind in my back, at times in my face. Curve by curve, kilometer by kilometer I climb up, looking down the long ascent every once in a while. Kathrin takes pictures of flocks of Vicuñas, strange rabbits with long curly tails, called Vizcachas and a stupid donkey called Sven (without luggage).

Time is running, unsure whether we could drive the road down to Cachi we wanted to be on top of the pass by 2, then by 3 PM. Not a single car passed us, no one to ask for the road conditions. And still some 15 kilometers to go, according to my speedometer. Kathrin drives ahead, I see the red car climbing up bend by bend, keep moving my feet step by step. Breath by breath...

My spirits crumble in the cold afternoon breeze, I'm ready to give up on the eager project. After what seems ages Kathrin returns, smiling - just 2.5 kilometers left to climb to the top, she says, gushing about the view from there. Wow, yes, I can do that, and I fight again! About 20 minutes later we celebrate what is my highest elevation ever reached, and reached by bicycle! We sip our tea, have some cookies, and store the bike in the boot of the car. Splendid afternoon light for the snow capped peaks above and the colorful rocks below us, and pretty loose gravel on the very narrow road down. 50 kilometers on gravel to go to La Poma. Beautiful peerless scenery. Kathrin masters a number of dangerous river crossings without bridges, and our brave little car serves us well. We've had lots of good luck on that stretch, and I'm pretty happy I'm sitting beside Kathrin in the car. The 50 more kilometers from La Poma to Cachi were full of unexpected sharp turns and arroyas, and wouldn't have been a piece of cake on the bicycle either. Bright shines the moon over the Calchaqua valley We reach Cachi late at night, find us a hostel and share a really great pizza, hot soups and dark beer. Now we know why that stretch of road is assigned for 4WD only!

We spend a resting day in Cachi, drinking some more dark beers in Olivers Wine Bar. 9 AM next morning, ready for the last part of the circuit, one more pass to climb. Long straight stretches of roads through cacti plains in the Parque de las Cordones. The climb is fierce because of the soft head wind and the cold. Finally - Piedra del Molino, at 3400 metres, which is followed by an incredible ride down the serpentines of the Cuesta de Obispo. What a joy for a cyclist! After 30 kilometres we are back in vivid green lush forests, find us a great camping spot on a river. Time to celebrate! What a ride that was, enabled due to the great support from Kathrin in the rental car! 4 days, 300km, 5500 elevation metres on the bike...

There is ice on the tent on the next morning. A cold front has arrived according to the weather forecasts. We decide to put the bicycle in the car again and drive "home", back to Salta, back to our double room in the Siete Rayos hostal with the window directly facing the road and the bus stop. And a letter with my new credit card waits for me at the main post - yeeha!

Argentina V: Time to say good bye

2012-07-02T02:44:00+00:00

We leave Salta on our way to the Bolivian border on a gray and chilly morning that should have been sunny according to the meteorologists. After some more or less inviting suburbs we are in the countryside again. Misty grassland and small trees for ages it seems. We are half frozen when we reach La Caldera, a small touristy village with old roots. The waiter in the only open restaurant mocks a bit for us wearing thick clothes within the place. Yet the place near the electric heater is occupied by someone else. Our search for a heated room for the rest of the day fails, for either the staff not wanting to host us or the place being as expensive as room in St. Moritz. Grumpy we move on through the farm land, climb up a little pass and suddenly find ourselves in thick rain forest. Our spirits rise instantly and we enjoy the long ride down the bends between mighty old trees with moss covered trunks. Later we reach a reservoir that looks like a hand with five fingers from above, climb the hills between the fingers and eventually spend the night in El Carmen. We reach Jujuy early enough on the following day and spoil us with hand made pasta and red wine for lunch. We still have enough time to do some sightseeing. So we stroll the lonesome shopping streets during the siesta hours, and visit some of the old churches and the plaza. When I go out to buy some food later in the evening, the same streets are incredibly crowded. Countless cars with speakers to the max roar through the alleys until dawn. Saturday Night Fever in Jujuy...

Somewhat querulous we leave Jujuy, heading into the Quebrada de Humahuaca, UNESCO World Heritage. After a few kilometers through suburbs and farmland the wide highway in construction narrows down to a regular road and climbs some hundred elevation meters up a hill with a few serpentines. Up here in the wide canyon the rocks are very colorful again, displaying all shades of white, yellow, red, green and purple. A few lamas and goats roam the scanty grass, some villages live either from mining or tourism. Just before sundown I arrive in scenic Pumamarca beside the famous Cerro de Siete Colores, the mountain of the seven colors. Kathrin awaits me at the colorful tourist market at the plaza, where mostly indigenous man and women sell all sorts of neon-colored fabric and souvenirs. Cobblestone alleys and rustic clay houses dominate the view of the village. Beside a small church is a great old tree said to be more than 700 years old. Suddenly I fell a little like in Central America again, with friendly smiles everywhere. The locals certainly did well to maintain this sort of old-fashioned character of the place. Having achieved my personal 10000k's on this trip, we celebrate the event with delicious lama steaks at Mama Cocas. A somewhat indigenous and slightly drunk artist from Buenos Aires is nice enough to explain a few of the Inca symbols on the cards he sells. That night in the hostal with the cacti funiture near the old tree is so tranquil and relaxing after all the fuzz in the cities...

We start the following day with a great breakfast and a decent hike through the spectacular colored rocky hills around the village. The green and white and purple stone seems to emit beams of energy, the hills almost glow in the morning sun. Then we mount our panniers on the carriers again and cycle the hilly 25ks to Tilcara, passing by Maymara with the paintbox rocks on the way. Still below 3000 metres we dare to pitch our tent nearby the river for two days, and find us a playful four-legged friend instantly. Tilcara is certainly bigger than Pumamarca, surrounded by rocks as well. It has a vivid green plaza and a anthropology museum and is famous for its ancient Inca settlements on a hill nearby, watching over the entire valley. Some of the stone houses and walls on that hill have been skillfully refurbished to illustrate how live might have been before the Spaniards came.

One more day cycling through the Quebrada to Humahuaca, passing by an ancient little church in Uquia and some more bizarre rock formations. Vincenz, a Swiss cyclist meets me while I'm waiting for Kathrin at the Plaza. The route over Paso de Sico which he did between Chile and Argentina is one of the most challenging ones out here. Almost only gravel, four passes of almost 5000 meters, almost no infrastructure. Yet it is encouraging to see someone with more than 60 years doing such crazy stuff!

Here in Humahuaca colonial buildings dominate the town with its cobblestone streets at almost 3000 meters above sea level. At the plaza indigeneous women with colorfull clothes and the typical round shaped hats sell snacks and souvenirs. In the afternoon sun it fells warm and cosy, but as soon as the sun is down temperature drops way below comfort level. It is difficult to find a place with heating and working internet. What to do? Shall we visit Iruya, the nearby mountain village? Or keep going North, out of Argentina? It won't be warmer anywhere we could go in the next couple of days up here in the Altiplano. More and more travel weary we are, and with little motivation where to go after Peru we decide to find us a flight back before summer ends at home. We leave Humahuaca a little easier. Kathrin takes a bus to Abra Pampa, I cycle some fresh 80 kilometers with soft headwind beside abandoned railroad tracks on washed out bridges through a scanty dry landscape of colorful rocks and distant snow capped peaks. Just after some 3700m pass I spot a rocket-like cyclist in the opposite direction on a recumbent bicycle, his face fully covered with sunglasses and sun protectors. After a while he is overtaking me, starting a chat. Ralph is his name, and he is the director of the hospital in Abra Pampa. If we'd meet in the Rincon Suiza Hotel? Walter, the head of the hotel and Ralph are good friends it seems, and we have a good chat that afternoon. Later Kathrin and I watch an interesting ceremony – man and women swinging goat halves in a kind of dance to the rhythm of drumming in front of the church. Unfortunately, no one would give us a reasonable explanation what this is all about. Anyway, we visit Ralph in his brand new hospital after the freak show, who gives us some insight in the Argentine social system and his projects. Walter would tell us a lot about his business and his view of the country too. I am both fascinated by the recent encounters, and puzzled by its timing. On the next day we take the bus to La Quiaca on the border to Bolivia. The Argentine border patrol examines my new preliminary passport without the appropriate entry stamp for some 15 minutes, and finally waves me through. Huuuhhh. After almost 7 weeks in Argentina - time to say good bye...

Right behind the border starts the buzzing town of Villazon. The shops burst from a wide range of quality cameras and computers for fair prices. The towns spirit seems to be much more progressive than the towns on the other side of the border. Argentinians come here in quantities to shop the goodies they can't get back home. They can pay in Argentine Peso, but with a very low exchange rate. I dump our remaining Pesos on a new pocket camera with 10x zoom before we take the night train to Uyuni, where we arrive at 1AM and sleep in a cheap hospedaje with 0 degrees...

the Centro Amercian spirit has widely vanished from my point of view.

Argentina V:

Bolivia I: Lagoons and Salt deserts of the Altiplano

2012-07-05T16:40:10+00:00

Uyuni is an interesting town. It is the major settlement on the worlds largest salt lake as well as the major departure point for the Jeep tours to the lagoons in the vast Southwest of Bolivia. Some old loco and a metal sculpture in front of the train station, and wide streets barely occupied with traffic give the town a bit of a Western movie feeling, except for the dozens of Landcruisers. There is a touristy pedestrian area with restaurants and souvenir shops as sort of city center, and a number of freshly painted colonial looking buildings including the church. Just a few hundred meters away the wide streets turn into wide bumpy dirt roads, with smaller unplastered red brick houses at its sides. A cold sun during the day barely warms, the usual west wind in the afternoon chills and at nightfall its getting really cold.

We do what most tourists do in Uyuni – we go on a three day jeep tour through some colorful lagoons and the Salar de Uyuni, the worlds biggest salt lake. We are a group of seven, Domingo the driver, a German couple and two young Swiss backpackers. 900 kilometers between 4000 and 5000 meters above sea level on sandy rough gravel with a handful villages – part of our cyclist minds already suffer from viewing the endless lonesome tracks we know that other bicycle travelers have done - with luggage and heaps of food and water.

But for the time being we enjoy the comfort of the warm jeep, the company and the contrast of the soft ascending reddish hills and some snow-capped mountains in the distance. Llama and Vicuna flocks dwell on the sparse dry grass. Ilian, the Swiss suggested to do the tour counterclockwise to avoid the crowds of other jeep tourists. Some 40 jeeps are on these tracks every day. That plan works out perfectly, and we have most of the sights for ourselves. Domingo, our driver would show us points of interest, explain that the locals here live from the Llamas and from growing Quinoa, a grain that only grows up here in the Altiplano. Apparently, some vegetables like potatoes and onions do grow as well here in the dry cold climate. Nowadays, mining companies are big employers here. Even a train line runs to Chile only for the valuable minerals like copper, silver and gold. Domingo would stop at small guest houses for lunch and diner, and cook simple and good meals himself with the food he carries on the jeep.

We reach the Laguna Colorada, one of the highlights of the tour by sunset of the first day. The water shimmers in perfect red and white and yellow in front of some mighty snow-capped peaks. White and purple flamingos wade the shallow ice cold water in the icy breeze. Not much grows here, except for a few dry grass tufts, and some water plants these graceful creatures live. Walking down to the shore to put my hand into the waters I'm really surprised, having found a hot spring spot by chance. Just as a perfect ending of the first day, the few clouds in the sky turn purple a after sunset.

The night we'd spend in a nearby set of long stone houses that serve the jeep tourists as hospedajes. There is no heating here, just a bit of solar powered light, so we wear all our clothes at diner. In the end, Domingo serves us hot spicy wine and provides each of us a hot-water bottle for the night. Once again I'm more than happy with Udos warm sleeping bag.

We rise very early on the next morning, have a quick breakfast and drive to a field of geysers called “Sol de mañana”. Icy winds blow sulfur smell into our noses when we walk around the hellish scenario of bubbling white mud wholes and steaming breaks in the icy covered earth. Not far away those who dare can warm up in a nice open air pool filled by some 38 degrees hot spring water. What a treat after the cold night!

Next we cross some 5000 meters altitude pass in snow storm on our way to the most southern point of our tour, the Laguna Verde. The lagoons at this altitude are actually lakes, filled by small rivers from the surrounding mountains with all sorts of salts and minerals like borax, copper or iron. These minerals would shape the colors of the lagoons, ranging from deep red over orange, white and even green as the sun shines. We are lucky to get a bit of sunshine, and a bit of the incredible green shimmer of the Laguna Verde.

We had back North, crossing the picturesque Dali desert, stop for photo shootings at the tree rock and a number of smaller lagoons full of red flamingos. The landscape is fantastic with its high rocky peaks and volcanoes and the soft shaped red hills. I have no idea how Domingo navigates between the dozens of jeep tracks running in every compass direction without any signs. Every once in a while we spot some vicunas, and by dusk we reach civilization again, spend the night in a little hospedaje made from salt in a small village near the salar.

After visiting a cave with petrified water plants we enter the wide and plain and incredibly white salar. Just a few weeks before the Salar was still flooded from the rainy season, and not different stages of dryness create different textures on the surface. For a while we drive over a little bumpy field, later the salt crystals would shine like crazy diamonds in the sunlight, and later the surface would develop the famous pentagonal or hexagonal textures. Out here without points of reference we take all sorts of funny photos. We drive for a while, barely without getting closer to the distant volcano on the opposite side. Eventually we reach Inca Huasi, a cacti covered rocky island in the middle of the salt desert. Some of the cacti are estimated to be more than 700 years old, and more than 10 meters high. All of a sudden it feels warm in the midday sun without icy winds. And if there were not flocks of yelling tourists, you could actually hear the cacti grow. We have lunch and leave the island all too soon for the latest stations of our trip, the salt production fields and the train cemetery near Uyuni. On the way, we spot two bicycle tourists heading for Uyuni, and admire their bravery! Later we'd meet the two again in our hotel, and marvel about bicycle touring. Rainer and Michaela from Frankonia, Germany tell us a lot about their adventure trip out there.

On the next day Kathrin and I ride our bicycles back over the bumpy road to the salar. We stop in the middle of the endless white, far away from the tourist tracks for some picnic, enjoy the warming sun beams, some Yoga and the almost perfect silence. Twice swarms of flamingos fly over us, incredible moments! The little shortcut we intend on our way back, directly to Uyuni ends up pushing our bikes through mud, covered with a thin layer of salt for a kilometer or so. We let the trip end with some great banana shakes in the last bit of sunlight, and our time in Uyuni phase out with some tasty hot cakes in our heated hotel room, looking forward to visit Potosi and La Paz by bus, and warm up in the subtropical Coroico for a few days soon after.

If you fancy more impressions, here are more pictures with german subtitles provided by Kathrin:

Bolivia II: El Dorado, the Death Road and the Inca myth

2012-07-07T18:36:26+00:00

It takes more than 4 hours on the meanwhile almost fully paved mountain road from Uyuni to Potosi. There are a number of long steep ascends, a few villages and a lot of beautiful rock formations and canyons on the way. After the Spaniards found one of the biggest silver resource in the prominent Cerro de Oro (gold mountain), they not only exploited it full scale with local and African slaves, but as well built a splendid colonial town with numerous churches. Back then, Potosi became the richest town in South America, and the legend says that the streets were plastered with silver and gold - a real El Dorado. With more than 4000 meters above the sea, it is as well the most elevated city today. Small red brick houses creep up the slopes of the surrounding hills. Heavy traffic on the steep and small cobblestone lanes mixes with a good portion of pedestrians. Soon I figured out that my idea to bike with all our stuff from the terminal into the center was not wise with all the fumes, and the little availability to store bikes and luggage. After what seems hours we find a hotel where we could leave our bikes, and stroll off to waste another hour waiting for our lunch in a Cafe.

At the best time of the day we visit the famous the Casa de Moneda and the impressive Torre de Compania Jesus. Walking the narrow cobblestone lanes we marvel at wooden balconies and carved doors on colorful painted old houses. At times, those gates were open to allow a view into the patios as well. Just before dusk we get a guided tour up to the magnificent bell tower of the cathedral. Eager to get to La Paz, eager to get out of the cold of the Altiplano we decide to catch a night bus. That bus terminal is even more outside of town, yet I'm not in the mood to cram our two bicycles and the luggage into a small taxi in these busy lanes. Luckily it is all downhill to the cold terminal, and we reach La Paz by sunrise on the next morning.

The view of the city squeezed between the hills from El Alto, the distant peak of the snow-caped Illumani and the steep uphill creeping settlements were touching me instantly. We spend two days organizing things, working a little and doing some sightseeing. Near the the footbridge over the capitals main streets through the city, young boys with wollen ski masks offer their services as sho shiners, and kind of scare the tourists. The side walks of the steep busteling roads east of the Iglesia de San Fransisco are plastered with colorful makeshift market stalls selling fruits, vegetables, radios and clothes. As usual in Latin America, street are dedicated to only one branch of products, electronics, or clothes, or food, or plumbing material. Vibrations of the outlook of prosperity and wealth seem to be omnipresent.

On the third morning we catch an old taxi with roof carrier to bring us and our bikes some 20 kilometers out of town, to the Paso de la Cumbre at 4700 meters above sea level. Our goal is the subtropical Coroico, to warm up and cure our chapped skins after weeks in the dry and cold Altiplano. The views from the pass to the surrounding snow peaks and the lake are spectacular. At the same time, two groups of “adventure downhill cyclists” start on the same route, and we rush down some 30 kilometers of thick gritted paved road into a scenic cloud dotted valley.

Little by little the vegetation becomes more lush and vivid. There are wild flowers and trees and even wild strawberries at the side of the road. For the next ascent, the adventure cyclists are loaded into their support vans and driven up. We reach the entrance of the “Camino de la Muerte”, the death road through misty jungle and waterfalls, dropping down to 1100 meters in the end. Before the new paved road was build, that stretch of 35 kilometer gravel road, built by Paraguayan prisoners, was the only connection from La Paz to the Bolivian Amazonian areas. Often the road is no wider than two or three meters, and bordered by almost perpendicular slopes. Just imagine how trucks and buses in opposite directions could possibly pass each other. Many lost their lives here.

Nowadays, the road is used almost only by herds of adventure cyclist groups, and I'd consider it a nice and easy downhill ride. And I ended up flat on the gravel, platsch. Well, we've had mist, we've had rain too, but enjoyed the lush and vivid green. An Argentine motorcyclist advised us about the 8 steep cobblestone kilometers from the bottom of the valley some 700 meters up to Coroico while waiting for better weather. In the end, we could pitch our tent in Attila's “La Jungla” restaurant and were spoiled with home made pesto and pasta and the first warm night in ages. Attila, the charismatic Hungarian owner told us a lot about the area and his business while we ate great breakfast before the fierce climb to Coroico. The views were perfect, the cobblestone was slippery and bumpy, and another surprise was just around the corner: those “no see em's”, the sand flies that gave us the itch in the Caribbean already were here too to spoil Paradise!

Anyhow, we settle in a cozy bungalow in the Villa Bonita for a few days. Hummingbirds fly, flowers blossom and ripe mandarines hang from the trees of the tropical garden. And with long sleeves and socks these nasty sand flies have less impact. Just resting, reading and little bit of work for me - peace on earth!

After five days in Paradise we decide to move on. Kathrin takes my luggage on the bus to La Paz, and I try to climb the Paso de la Cumbre. 11 kilometers down to 1100 meters on slippery cobblestone and dusty gravel, then the new road to La Paz climbs up to 4700m. Not as steep as some ascents in Guatemala, but steady. Serpentine by serpentine through the mountain woods I cycle on, every kilometer reveals new fantastic outlooks to the cordilleras or Coroico sitting on its cliff-like hill above the lush valleys. Half past 5, just past the Drug Control (they didn't even notice me) at 4000 meters and after 10 hrs cycling I run out of time and energy and try to hitch. A very friendly family from La Paz picks me up and brings me directly to the hotel.

Kathrins camera is repaired, her trekking boots repaired and my new round glasses are ready. With the flights home booked and the limited time we have left, we decide to take a bus to Copacabana on the famous Titicaca lake to spare time to visit Peru. After some great views from El Alto down to La Paz, the journey continues along the Cordilleras in the Altiplano. The area seems to be more fertile that what we've seen before, with more quinoa fields and more grass land. And finally we see the incredibly blue lake Titicaca. With 180km length and 70 kilometers width it is the highest navigable and second-largest lake of South America. Some wooden boat carries our bus over the lake to the Copacabana peninsula, where we passengers have to take a little motor boat. Another hour of steep climbs and series of serpentines until we arrive in Copacabana. The town is famous for its pilgrimage church at the Plaza, the blessings of cars and the mayor tourist access point for the Isla de Sol. Hospedajes, hostales, souvenir shops and restaurants border the buzzing tourist road from the Plaza to the docks at the lake. In the evening we walk the Via Dolorosa that leads up a rocky hill with a splendid views over the town between the hills at the shore of the lake. A series of crosses are installed at the top, with concrete benches for healers and snack vendors serving the gasping and beer-thirsty pilgrims. Not long and we marvel upon the fantastic sunset over the lake, and not long after that cold winds force us back down to town.

The nearby Isla de Sol is the birthplace of the Inca mythology. The tourist boats to the island leave at 8:30 AM. Both finding a open restaurant before that as well as the quality of the breakfast were disappointing. The small motor boat fills up with three dozen backpackers until the last space. It takes some two and a half hours with the lulling dull sound of the small engine for the few kilometers. We finally reach the Northern village. Some kids asking four times the regular charge for the public toilet after the long boat ride torpedo my mood heavily. A hike leads to the Inca ruins and over the hills to Yumani, the Southern village of the island. From there boats would pick up the tourists and bring them back to Copacabana.

Together with the backpackers from two boats that arrived at the same time we pay the 10 Bolivianos for the ruins and venture out for the walk. Certainly I did not expect such a crowd, and in my mood I feel simply no connection to the Inca culture at the places. Half way through the hike a white banner over the stone wall bordered trail greets the backpackers, and two villagers with nicely printed tickets ask again for money - 15 Bolivianos for trail maintenance. They must have invented that toll station just recently, as the low numbers on the tickets suggest. Grumpy as can be about the short sighted tourist concept I pay the fee.

The view over the lake to the Isla de la Luna and the distant white peaks reward for the hassle, as well as the charming spirit of Yumani. Its gardens look green, and small cobblestone paths and stairs bordered by stone walls lead from the hills down to the dock. Tourism picks up here too. There are guesthouses and restaurants. A 5 Boliviano fee has to be paid for the ancient Inca Stairs, yet that seems more appropriate than the funny toll stations in the middle of nowhere. We end our visit with an endless slow boat ride back to Copacabana, and book us a night bus to Cusco, Peru for the following day. Time to leave a surprising country that I really liked, and time to head go for the last great destination of my journey.

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Peru: The last month in the Valle Sagrado

2012-08-02T15:15:17+00:00

I'm sitting with Kathrin and a liter of ice cold Brahma beer in a bar in the center of misty Lima, beating time until midnight. Depeche Modes "Enjoy the Silence" pounds from the Jukebox, way too loud. We just survived the 20 hour bus ride from Cusco to here, and are now waiting for our flight back to Europe. It's been almost 11 months on the road for me, and 8 with Kathrin. Pictures of the amazing jouney and the last weeks in the Valle Sagrado pass through my mind.

We arrive at 5 AM in Cusco at the bus terminal. An older man approaches us, offers a range of hostales in town. Too tired to send him away, we sip our coffees and eventually follow him to a quiet hospedaje above San Blas. While walking he explains us the Puma design of the town intended by the Inca rulers and some sights on our way up. Climbing the cobblestone steps with our loaded bicycles is a torture, but when we arrive at the Hospedaje Inka we are more than happy with the breakfast in the car-free place with the great view over Cusco and our "suite". Hummingbirds dwell in the yellow blooming trees, and the cat plays with a mice every day in the garden. Five nights we stay, forge plans, stroll the narrow alleys framed by thick stone walls and visit some core tourist sites like Qoricancha and Saqsaywaman. The masons of the Incas left incredible evidence of their excellence in the mighty walls. Within some 200 years their masons cut and joined giant multi-edged and out-of-square stones together that no knife can be put between, and they did this without using metal tools nor wheels nor horses. Just at the peak of the Inca civilization the Spanish conquistadors arrived and succeeded. After their victory they built numerous churches on top of the foundations of the former Inca palaces, which gives the historic city center its incredible touch.

From Cusco we head to Pisac. We are a little late for the Rainbow gathering in the nearby Lares, so we decide to cycle slowly down the Valle Sagrado towards Machu Picchu, kind of avoiding all the expensive tourist tours, kind of doing things our way and our pace. The Sacred Valley of the Incas is less than a kilometer wide and flat with the Urubamba river, framed by bald rocky slopes and distant snow capped mountains. From Pisac to Ollantaytambo and further down the river various Inca sites tell the story of that once great civilisation.

The Spaniards planted a tree on the Plaza of Pisac when they arrived. That tree blossoms red still today, its canopy overlooking the field of souvenir market shacks. Still intact terraces on steep slopes and the picturesque setting of the ruins of Pisac overlook the surrounding valleys and give me a first glimpse what Machu Picchu might be like. The remains of castle and temple buildings are located on the ridge of a rocky hill towering some hundred meters above the village. We hike up early in the morning, barely meeting anyone until the tourist buses arrive about 9AM.

On the outskirts of Urubamba we pitch our tent at a quiet campground run by a German-Peruvian couple for a few nights. From there we visit the agricultural laboratories at Moray. It is a long way up from the Urubamba river to Maras, and still lots of up and down on gravel from that villages to the archeological site. Three giant round sinkholes have been dug here by the Incas, and framed by terrace steps. Scientists say, they used it probably to study crop behavior under the different climatic conditions on the different levels of the terraces. On the way back kids were often begging at us in languages, make us feel uncomfortable. One would eventually hit Kathrin with a whip. I never experienced something like that before.

From our campsite in the hardly touristic Urubamba we go hiking in a nearby valley and enjoy the tranquility of the unspoiled landscape near the glaciers of Nevado del Chicon. The visit of the parade of the Virgin Carmen in Pisac and an excursion to the salt producing sites near Urubamba keep us another day on the idyllic campground before we move on to Ollantaytambo.

For the ruins there we take a guide, who explains a lot about the meaning of the word Ollantaytambo, the advanced water system and how the 100 ton heavy rocks for the Temple of the Sun were brought here (without horses). The temple of the sun is actually a set of roughly 3 meter high 4-squared rocks, that have been joined together seamlessly. Looking at the bald hill slopes around us, I can imagine how many trunks of trees were abused for this project. What our guide does not mention is the one successful battle the Incas fought here against the Spanish, which was won by drowning the Spanish in the floods of a opened water reservoir. On the opposite hill are Colchas, old storehouses that could keep crops and corn fresh for months by utilizing the frequent chilly and dry winds. Trails lead to these ruins that are still free to visit. Other than that, Ollantaytambo is the starting point for many tracks as well as the train station to Machu Picchu. Therefore it is fairly crowded by tourists and has great pizza.

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On the following day we set out early in the morning, tackling Abra Malaga with 4300 meters above the sea. It is an amazing scenery to climb up. The road leads through a gap between two giant rocks with endless serpentines through lush green along a wild river and various Inca sites. We reach the pass in the late afternoon. The thick fog that renders to soft cold rain a little later. The awaited downhill ride turns out rather freezy. Soaked to the bone and shivering we reach a small borderhouse restaurant in a tiny settlement on the road just before nightfall. Natty and Pilar, the owners allow us to dry and warm at the wood fire, serve us a great trout diner and let us sleep in a corner of the shack. Business never really stops for Natty, every hour or so some truck driver bangs at the door shouting "Senora, senora, gasolina" or something like that.

Luckily the rain stopped at night, dawn brings blue skies and great views to Mnt. Veronika. We leave the place early, riding down the bumpy road under construction to Santa Maria at about 1100 meters above sea level. Vivid green banana and coffee plantations and temperatures way above 20ºC - we are back in the tropics. With the lack of sleep and motivation we find us a Formula 1 taxi driver that brings us to Santa Teresa in record time - over the dusty gravel death road cornered by steep slopes of the Urubamba canyon. A distant snow capped Mnt. Salcantay revives Kathrins memories on her rainy and misty trek there a few years ago. We put our tent at the hot tubs outside of town, and enjoy the bath before herds of young tourists arrive in tourist vans or on foot. We drink beers and chat with JP, an Californian surfer and Jerome, and author from Belgium.

The next morning we ride two hours up and down on dusty gravel to the train station at Hidro Electrica, where we can store our bikes for a few Soles. The last leg on our way to Aguas Calientes is a very scenic two hour walk along the Urubamba river and the train line. We are already spotting the steep slopes of the rocky walls of Machu Picchu. How does it feel to be so close to the dream destination of this trip! When we arrive, we put our tent a little outside Aguas Calientes on a campsite near the bridge and the bottom entrance of Machu Picchu.

The great day starts funny - we could not hear the alarm and wake up just before 6. So we climb up to the main entrance, some 500 elevation metres. All works out well, and we arrive at the viewpoint terraces of Machu Picchu just in time for a great sunrise on a spotless blue sky! Sipping our self-made ice coffee while watching the sunbeams reaching the peak of Wayna Picchu first, then little by little lightening up the temple ruins - what a feeling! We walk around the ruins after, listening to the guides explanations and marvel upon the architecture of the Incas. When by 9:30 AM the bigger crowds arrive, we are already on our steep way up to Mnt. Machu Picchu. On the way we meet Max from Luxembourg who studies Engineering in Zurich. On top at 3000 meters above sea level a giant rainbow colored Inka flag moves majestically in the winds above the great scenery of the Machu Picchu ruins in front of Mnt Wayna Picchu. In the distance, the white peaks of mnt. Salcantay and mnt. Veronika and other mountain ranges are clearly visible, a 1000 meters beneath us the Urubamba river rushes in his rocky river bed in the narrow S-shaped valley. What a day! Just before we leave the Machu Picchu area, a park ranger tells us a few insights of the Machu Picchu business, e.g. that the very expensive tourist trains are run by Chile and little of the money stays in Peru.

The hike and bike back to Santa Teresa goes easy. Once again we enjoy the hot tubs, and decide to take a little detour to Quillabamba, wishing to see the rain forests. The 20 kilometres from Santa Maria to Quillabamba turn into a real torture on a very bumpy, very dusty, very busy road. It takes us more than two hours pedalling. When we reach the bustling city, we can't find a peaceful place in town, nor a reasonable way to get into rain forest. So we leave, head back to Abra Malaga by bus, cycle down the scenic serpentines in best weather to Ollantaytambo and finally reach the peaceful campground in Urubamba again. A few more nights there, an incredible Ayuhuasca ceremony of dancing rainbow colored wines in an electric jungle for me, and time is up for this journey of the Americas. A 20 hour bus from Cusco to Lima, some more 20 hours in airports and airplanes, and we are back in Germany.