Author Archives: jacob
Wishing you all the best this holiday season. We have been traveling for about a year and a half now, and are still having the time of our lives.  A special thanks to all who have supported us with donations, words of encouragement, and help along the way. It has made a tremendous difference in our lives. Â
We are spending the holidays in Semuc Champey (pictured below) at a rafting commune of sorts and are enjoying the company and hospitality.Â
Click on the photos to see the udpated Guatemala Gallery.
Our route map consisted of four photocopied pages, kindly drawn up by a couple guides from Quetzaltrekkers. Two pages were narrative instructions, the other two – a crudely drawn map. It was 50 or 60 kilometers from Xela to Lago Atitlan as the crow flies, and a mere 20 inches worth of lines scribbled to guide us. Our plan was to bike the recently blazed hiking trail, and these sheets of paper were supposed to get us there.It began in the village of Xecam, at a church with a road leading towards the mountains. I stepped into the tienda to verify, “Which road leads to the trails over the mountain?”The Dueño, looked at me, then my bike, and said, “Forget about it. There´s no way you will make it with your bikes.”
My Spanish fails me often, so I had to ask again,…
Our first turn was “up a path with flat smooth stones”. We each tested our biking abilities against the obstacle . We each made it about 20 feet until our rear wheels began to skid, forcing us to step off our bikes. The trail leveled out here and there, allowing us to saddle up momentarily, but after we crossed a creek, the real pushing began.
“Remember when we used to ride our bikes?”I joked.
“Yep. Sometimes even downhill. Those were good times.” Sean responded.
The sun began to set. And we hurriedly looked around for a campsite.
“Glad we have our hammocks, would sure be tough to find a level spot on this cliff.”I commented.
I was becoming more certain that north and south America were ramming into Guatemala, squishing the country up into torturous mountains. The locals didn´t seem to notice or care, walking up and down the trails with ease, often accompanied by a horse or two helping to carry the burden of leña (firewood) for cooking and heating. Every hour or two — into the night, a dozen or so locals would trample past us; until the foot traffic dwindled with the remaining twilight.
“Buenas DIAS!”A native merrily greeted me the next morning, shortly before the sun was up.
I was startled, and not just because it was so early, but because his dark stubby face was a mere 18 inches from mine, peering into my hammock.
“Si.”I muttered sleepily and rolled over, hoping he would go away.
“Donde vas?”He implored.
“A dormir, con suerte.”
“Y después?”
“Lago Atitlan.”
At breakfast, we sat and watched all the locals passing by.
“There they are.”Many would say, having heard about us in Xecam, where word of three gringos passing on bikes must have circulated like the wind.
Then came pounding footsteps accompanied by nervous laughter, followed by two guys — apparently startled, they slowed down noticeably. “Seems they didn´t hear about us,” I thought to myself.
Shortly after, I went to pack up my hammock, but encountered it on the trail, hastily stuffed into one of my dry bags. “Uh oh. What`s this doing, here?” I asked myself.
Stuffed inside the dry bag, I found the camera and most of my sleeping gear. But I was still missing my pillow, the straps for my hammock and some metal stakes.
“It´s just not right to steal a man´s pillow.” Sean said when I told him what happened.
Within an hour, it was no longer feasible to drag our loaded bikes up the steep trail. Forced to carry our gear and bikes separately, we shuttled them up, one at a time, one hundred yards at a time, again and again.
I find it hard to believe, but, eventually we did reach the “cuesta” of the mountain and celebrated with some banana bread and peanut butter, purchased from the Mennonite Bakery in Xela (a place performing small miracles of gastronomical delight every Tuesday and Friday).
We pulled out our map and realized that we were going to need a bit more than banana bread to keep us on the right track. “Ride through Pacural” was one of the more simple instructions we could latch onto, but when the (“Road will curve to the left, on the right side after the curve, some paths to right(ruts)”) ruts did not appear, I decided to inquire with the locals, “Is this Pacural?”
“Si.” Was the reply.
And to get a better sense of the area I asked, “And that town up there, what is it called?”
“Pacural”
“And down there. Pacural as well?”
“Si”
Plan B: Use our visual diagram to reach the trailhead to Santa Catarina. It was supposed to be at a school — there couldn’t be that many schools out here, right… So we went to the first one, and then saw another one further up the hill, so we went to that one, alas another one appeared at the absolute top of the ridge. “That´s the one.” I said confidently. I still believed in the power of our map.
We passed through small dirt streets in what appeared to be a long term refugee camp. After Hurricane Stan wiped out hundreds of homes with landslides around Lago Atitlan, many people were relocated up into these little mountain towns. USAID tents were still being used while they tried to scrounge up the resources to build more permanent adobe structures. Roadwork mangled the last stretch up to the school and a man stood by his truck, “Where are you going?”
“Lago Atitlan, por Santa Catarina.”
“But, the road is that way, pure pavement” He said pointing down the hill.
“We´re trying to find a hiking trail to ride.”
“No hay,” he said and repeated for emphasis, “There are none.”
He pointed across the mountains at the lake which we could see for the first time, its volcanoes rising sharply out of the terrain. “You can take a dirt road to the lake, it starts just 100 meters from here. Directo”
Directo. It´s what we want to hear, and it´s what they like to tell us, but it rarely implies what it means. The best translation I can come up with for the word is, “keep going until you reach a T and ask somebody else”
We looked at each other with expressions that clearly said, “Why not?”
Down the mountain road we raced, checking our brakes before hitting the sharp cliff-lined turns. When we found ourselves winding around the mountain and away from the volcanic peaks I skidded to a stop.
“Any thoughts?” I tossed out, “Anything on the map.”
“Off the grid.” Goat replied.
This was no surprise, and as I stole a brief glance at the map, I couldn´t help but laugh. It looked far too abstract to qualify as a map.
Through a patchwork of multi-colored agriculture draped over the mountainsides, we continued down the bumpy rutted out road. Creeping behind me was the feeling that this road was not as “directo” as promised, and the volcanoes faded from view.
Fortunately, dirt roads usually go somewhere, and we found ourselves in San Tomas La Union the next morning after having dropped about 5,000 feet elevation. We were such a rare sight in the town that they sent reporters to interview us and take photos.
“There is a road to Lago Atitlan?” Sean asked.
“Just turn left at the corner. Directo por San Miguel.” A fruit vendor said with an eager smile shaded by a wide brimmed hat.
Pavement abruptly ended into a chopped up track of dirt and rocks, passable only by pedestrians, motorcycles and four wheel drive vehicles. Men and women sat on bags of recently harvested coffee, waiting to be picked up. Their eyes followed us curiously. Pigs with floppy ears rooted along the roadside for food, and wild dogs tentatively followed our path. Coffee was being spread out under the sun with a rake, a rhythmic, musical sound. We traversed this neighborhood for many miles as we gradually climbed back up into the mountains.
By dark, we had come to the foot of what could only be described as “the hill,” because we would soon discover that it´s unrelenting steepness forced us to recognize it as the most challenging climb yet.
“We´re looking for a campsite, a place with a couple trees to hang our hammocks. You know of any places near here?” Goat asked a man in front of a house beside the river.
With some form of K`iche` his first language, he replied in soft uncertain Spanish, “You can sleep here in this building. There is no roof, but the weather is good.”
As soon as we began unpacking, we were swarmed by curious townsfolk. Every item we pulled from our dry bags elicited a quiet wave of curiosity. The headlamps were particularly fascinating, as were the Thermarest chairs we set up in the empty, roofless structure. The narrow doorway was painted with awestruck faces, watching our every movement. When I got up to grab my water bottle, the kids all ran off giggling, returning to their lookout posts as soon as I sat down.
It just so happened that the Bridge was out, and the trucks that shuttled the villagers up to the Lago had to stop in front of the house and discharge their passengers to cross the river on foot, and change trucks. Every hour or so, a new group would entertain themselves with a bit of gringo voyeurism while waiting for their ride. In exchange, our window was a constant reel of entertainment, a makeshift television splashing images of beautiful faces; kids covered with snot, others with leathery skin, tightening to expose a genuine smile.
All the while, an imposing wall of a mountain guarded the entrance to Lago Atitlan. It´s presence felt as we tried to sleep. Something just wasn´t right about it, the way the line cut up the mountain, the angle too abrupt, the pass too close. I pitied even the crow as it flies to the top of this mountain. The faint sound of giggling woke me up, bubbling into unrestrained laughter as I opened my eyes and sat up. I counted 17 different people standing around looking directly at me from various openings in the structure.“Buenos Dias” I greeted them as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
A chorus of voices echoed my words. I hoped we were right, but as I looked to our path ahead, I wasn`t so sure.
A desperate stretch of dirt road clung to the steep mountainside. Each turn switching back and forth, unsure about its destination.
Every revolution of my cranks caused my bike to creek and groan and I expected my chain to snap at any moment. I could have walked up this hill faster than I was riding and thought about one of those questions we get all the time, “You ever have to walk your bike up a hill?”
On this particular road, that would be a luxury, I thought… The reality is that walking a fully loaded touring bike is exponentially more exhausting than riding it, and so I made every effort to keep momentum. Stepping off meant having to step back on – a delicate maneuver at best, on such steep terrain. This involved holding the brakes and leaning against the bike so it wouldn`t slide down, jumping on, clicking into the pedals (maintaining balance through the first traction-less pedal stroke) and grinding your way up again.
“Guess how many kilometers that hill was?” Goat asked as we sat for lunch enjoying the view.
“Too many.” I replied.“8 K.” Goat verified after checking his computer. “Have any idea how long that took?”I looked down at my watch and answered, “Ooohh, about 4 since the river.”
“2 kilometers an hour.” Sean added.
“Ouch.”
“Heh, I probably sat against my handlebars wheezing for at least half of that.”
Just before sunset we found ourselves resting on the roof of a friend`s house. In front of us, a vivid panorama of the lake resting at the base of three volcanoes while the sky flashed its remaining torrid pigments across the cloud before the darkness brought out the stars. A lady was singing at the community church and her voice was amplified across the lake.
I thought about our map for a moment, laughing about the confidence a few scribbled lines can give us; I pulled it out to look it over. The pages weren`t much to look at, but they were an idea, and they had served their purpose.
And the view couldn`t be better.
The world is a little larger than we imagined, and our efforts to explore the non-paved roads and trails has extended the duration of the trip an extra year. Without the support of major sponsors or deep pockets, we are having to raise money to continue our journey.Â
With the help of Coast to Coast Adventures and John Yost, an exciting bike adventure has been organized to help us earn money. Come join us for an extraordinary section of our trip across the continental divide alongside Volcano Miravalle, and on to Arenal Volcano and lake. Click on the Picture for more info:
Not interested in joining but still want to help? You can donate to our trip by clicking here.
A Google Earth preview of our recent bike trek to Lago Atitlan attempting to follow a hiking trail. From Xecam up to the ridge was a serious hike-a-bike requiring us to haul up our gear and bike separately. From the ridge we had to blaze our own way down to San Tomas la Union on trails and dirt roads that were not on our map. From there we began a grueling climb back up into the mountains up to Santa Clara la Laguna and down into Lago Atitlan.
Full Dispatch to be posted later this week.
Check out photos of our latest adventure: a bike ascent/descent of Tajumulco Volcano, Central America´s tallest peak (13,845 feet)
Â
Click on the photo to visit the gallery.
Â
San Rafael Pie de La Cuesta, “Foot of the Hill,� but the huge climb getting there begged me to differ. However, the clouds cleared revealing the mountains towering above and the valididty of the name. At the “Pie de la Cuesta,� we were easily convinced to stick around the town for a weeklong celebration.
I never learned exactly what the ocassion was, but the constant aerial bombardment of multi-colored Chinese mortars ensured that I would not forget there was a festival happening. In the middle of the night, I would wake imagining a civil war was occurring outside the door. Hours before the sun rose, an concerted effort was made to destroy the sky with homemade mortars, which must have been unsuccessful, because around sunrise another attempt was made.
I was relieved to see that sky was still intact when I got up to make some coffee at La Finca Villa Alicia, the family coffee plantation of our friend Roberto. The hot, caffeinated beverage was just what I needed before a hike across the rugged Guatemalan terrain that brought us to a lookout over the city.
The horizon burned with a copper glow as the sun reflected along a sliver of the Pacific ocean. Below us was a clear view of the plantation, it´s rows of coffee plants and shade trees added lush texture to the mountainscape. Towards the center were the large cement panels used for drying the beans and a little cobblestone road connecting to the city.
“During the civil war,� Roberto began: “these mountains used to be a stronghold for the guerillas. The military once set up camp at our farm, and when the guerillas figured out where the generals were sleeping; they opened fire in the middle of the night, made Swiss Cheese of the tin roof. You can still see some of the bullet holes. Some nights we could sit on our porch and watch the guerillas exchanging rocketfire between those two mountains.�
“Are you sure that wasn´t last night,� Sean remarked sardonically.
“Hah..That was nothing,� Roberto said with a big smile trying to restrain laughter. “Wait until tonight, that´s when the real show begins.�
I was not concerned with the fireworks as much as with the promise I made to Mario, one of the kids living at the farm. “Sure I´ll go with you to the La Feria tomorrow,� I said, hoping he would to forget.
Maybe it is because we have seen these caravans of rickety contraptions pass us on the roads littering bolts and screws or that the rides are built and operated by thirteen year olds. But, I have come to understand a healthy fear of these nomadic playgrounds. So when Mario snuck up behind me and said, “¿Nos vamos?� my heart skipped a beat.
Only two rides were of interest to the kid, pushing thirteen years old, his hair combed and gelled, his shirt tucked in and shoes shined. The first was a large circle of rapidly spinning swings that I had to veto since I could see that the kids short legs came mere inches from hitting the power lines. The second was a large ferris-wheel named, “Anaconda,� that towered over the small village.
I handed our tickets to the youngster operating the ride and sat down while the “safety bar� was latched into place. With a heavy jerk, we began our ascent. Mario, quickly became bored with waiting as people were loaded, and began aggressively swinging our seat to add to the thrill. After making one slow revolution, the young worker stopped the ride long enough to utter a few broken sentences that amounted to, “Don´t swing in these, it´s dangerous, built by hand, one women fell,� and point to the thin bolt holding our seat onto the ride.
Of course, the ride then began for real and Mario was either unconcerned or unaware of the warning and continued with determination to flip our seat. The ferris-wheel spun fast enough to create the sensation of free-falling. And this combined with the swinging seat/warning, to make the ride both exhilerating and frightening.
Then the power suddenly failed for the entire Feria, jerking the ferris-wheel to a standstill while we were at the top. All the lights that had polluted our view were now absent and we could see down the mountain and just barely make out a silvery reflection of the moon on the Pacific Ocean. “I think I like the Feria after all,� I mused silently.
After 15 minutes of wondering how much longer I would be stuck on the Anaconda, the power sputtered back on. But the many lights on the ride, remained unlit, until the young worker climbed up the wheel and began turning each light on, one by one as the ride slowly spun around and the crowd watched, gasping at the boys dangerous maneuvers.
Eventually the “safety latch� was undone and we escaped La Feria to explore the festivities on main street. An inflated Globo ready to light the night sky stopped us in front of the church, while a 100 foot roll of firecrackers was laid out and quickly ignited, beginning the procession. A large gate opened for a couple dozen folks armed with mortars and “incendiares� marching ahead of a large shrine carried by the locals: two dolphins in mid-leap over sparkling ribbons fashioned into water and an angelic looking figurine standing on a large conch shell. A full marching band formed behind the float and played what I imagined was, “This Little Light of Mine.�.
Everybody nearby lit candles, and began following the procession. I sauntered behind all this trying to get back to the farm for dinner, but a candle appeared in my hand, and I was enveloped by a crowd of lit candles.
“What´s the candle for?� I asked Mario.
“It´s the light of God.� He whispered to me while looking around, apparently for an escape. “Hurry, put it out. Let´s cross the street here.�
His urgency made sense when I saw that he had just aquired a few feet of unexploded firecrackers and was eager to ignite them. “Can I have your candle?�
I left in search of food while he found people and toys to torment with his explosives. About midway up the cobblestone road, I saw my shadow suddenly cast in front of me, followed by the percussion and ear shattering boom that signaled the begining of the fireworks display. For the next thirty minutes, I sat on the mossy road, lined with bamboo hedges and coffee plants illuminated by the full moon and spectral brilliance of incendiares filling the sky.
“I think I like Guatemala,� I thought to myself.
           A substantial roundabout between the states of Michoacan and Guerrero wheels the traffic around like a spinning game of fate.  Roads spoke off to all parts of the country, including
           We were flushed out on a road heading towards Mexico City. The sky was draped over with a hazy layer of clouds delivering a steady drizzle. We shared the road with both the speeding vehicles and the ever encroaching jungle that formed an impenetrable six foot wall of barbed plants reaching out to snag us.  No…these conditions were not suitable to our desired mode of travel, but we could find no other options and only could hope that the cars on the road could see us through their rain splattered windshields.
           As the rain picked up, I wiped off my sunglasses and saw Sean talking to some locals resting from the laborious task of clearing a patch of roadside vegetation. The smell of liquor greeted me as I stopped to chat. A happy go lucky fella´ with a big machete and even bigger drunken smile made some incomprehensible noises while flailing his arms about in what appeared to be an attempt to communicate.
           “Amigos,� I was able to translate.
           We have had much experience with this apparently universal language of the village borrachos. They don’t know any English, they’re too drunk to play a proper game of charades or even articulate decipherable Spanish words, and they can’t fathom the gringo speaks Spanish anyways. This, however, does little to stop them from inventing their own language, which, as far as I can tell only really has one word in it´s vocabulary. Â
           “AMIGOS.â€�Â
             “Si, Buenas tardes AMIGO. ¿Como esta usted?� I said, instantly regretting further engagement in the conversation.
           Again, a wild gesticulation of body movements and boisterous speech was unleashed; this time, he almost lost his balance, nearly floundering into a pile of debris. But he steadied himself and grinned at his triumph over gravity while his eyes settled in a satisfied, but crooked, uncertain gaze.Â
           “Amigos,â€� We established again. Â
           The other guy, 53 years old, had divorced his wife and estranged his family in the
           “She’s one of about
           “That’s her uncle.� He motioned to the drunk, who was still amusingly staring off into space. “I just buy this land.� He looked over the lot, nodding his head with satisfaction. “I bring back a Jeep Grand Cherokee and pay a coyote to smuggle girl into the US and they give me this land.�
           “¿You want to come to my house? Eat authentic Mexican food. You can stay at my house.” He offered, carefull searching his English Words.
           Helpless to resist the magic phrase, “Free Food,� particularly when accompanied by an invitation to sleep under a roof during a rainstorm, we followed him home.
           Fate works like this in our world. If we lingered a few minutes longer at that roundabout, we would have spent the night with a tarp as our shelter and the same old meal of rice and beans. Instead, we feasted on tacos in town and slept inside, only to be awoken by the smell of hot coffee and a traditional Mexican breakfast.  We departed with full bellies and the satisfaction of a good night’s rest.
           Under a sky opened up by the blazing sun, we took to the road through an area called “Tierra Calienteâ€�. A description for which we could readily vouch as our shirts quickly became saturated with sweat and our gringo skin “tostadaâ€�. Feeling somewhat prematurely exhausted, we set up camp in avocado orchard well before dark. As we lounged in the shade, we couldn’t help but wonder if something more than the sun was responsible for draining our energy.   Â
             Our curiosity was soon abated by a collective need to empty our bowels in the middle of the night. Goat succumbed to a raging fever and passed out en route to the bathroom. We started the night with a full roll of toilet paper and by the time the sun rose, we were running low.
           The next morning we began eating Imodium AD like candy, to no avail and were forced to camp for two more nights while Goat’s fever broke. It became apparent that after living on the road with two of your friends for over a year, you run out of things to talk about.
           In an effort seek camaraderie, conversations about bowel movements can become an important bonding experience. For the next week, discussions about our “stool�  became commonplace and terms like “soft serve� and “explosive� took on whole new meanings. I wouldn’t let a day go by without knowing the intimate details about their digestive waste.
           Unfortunately, the few days of rest in the avocado orchard did not bring us back to good health; but we had to keep moving. We each stocked up on toilet paper to keep “at the ready” in our handlebar bags, and continued across the “tierra caliente”.Â
           Chronic dehydration plagued my ability to ride, and I sought electrolytes and cold beverages at every possible stop. But to put it gently, everything just went right through me. Â
             In spite of our health, we slowly and not so surely made our way over a sizeable mountain range before dropping into the town of Iguala. While squatting on top of the pass looking out over the valley, I couldn’t help but think back to that roundabout and wonder, “What if I had left that intersection just ten minutes later?â€�  Â
             Prologue: There was pain and anguish in the time of cholera. It was not until a heavy course of antibiotics were we able to produce anything but “soft serveâ€�.                                                                Â
Upon realizing that my tourist visa does not last a lifetime, I checked my visa to discover that its life expires before the end of the month.Â
Instead of our most anticipated bike explorations through the regions of Oaxaca and Chiapas, we struggled over the Sierra Madres on a paved road to the much quicker Coastal Route.Â
Our life is palm trees, mosquitos, sunshine and terrifying roads with overgrown spikey foliage where the bike lane would be where it to exist (which it doesn´t). We are looking forward to getting on the unkown dirt roads of Guatemala.
A river crossing.
An alacran in my bike shorts trying to hitch a ride.
We are not a decisive team and often settle into hopeless puddle of apathy until the levee is broken by a serious game of “ro-sham-bo”. “Live and die by the ´sham´” has become a necessary mantra for our lives. Though, (truth be told), it operates more as an oracle than absolute truth. Despite the prophetic implications of the game, we still approach the event with a practiced level of skill and concentration. The “sham”, at times, becomes more important than what we are shamming for.
And so, it was on a bright and sunny day we encountered a fork in the road. To the left, a guaranteed passage across the mountains to Autla and the main freeway. To the right, Tacotan, via “brechitas”(little roads for burros and 4-wheel drive vehicles) promising better riding, but plagued with uncertainty. It was doubly possible that either we would miss the turnoff for a trail to cross the mountain range, or that it did not even exist. Leaving us with a choice of either backtracking or continuing down to the humid coast where relief from tropical sea’level temperatures would be another 5,000-foot climb back into the mountains.
Ro-Sham-Bo… “Damn,” I cursed.
Ro-Sham-Bo… “Shit,” I cursed again.
“I always lose, and you always go for rock… every single time…without fail.. and I still can´t resist.”
“So who was shamming for what?”
“Ehh.. We didn´t say.”
“Head to Tacotan?”
“Sure.”
We had spent a couple days struggling to get back onto the “Spine,” enjoying each laborious pedal stroke knowing we were that much closer to an environment more suitable to mountain-bike touring.
The coast had taken its toll on our morale and motivation. Cars buzzed by us at alarming velocities, on roads that proved aggressively unaccommodating for bicycles. The sweltering heat forced us to wake up early and grumpy, to ride before the temperature consumed us and subjected us to an obligatory siesta. Every abarrotes en route was a veritable oasis, offering the only thing that mattered in my life, a cold drink. Even the shadows of the night failed to bring relief from the heat as we were subjected to the onslaught of biting insects that thrived so well in the humid climate.
And such easy prey we were without proper bug netting for our tent. With chemosensors attuned to carbon dioxide, warmth, lactic acid, and other bodily emanations (last shower, ehh..10 days), insects effortlessly honed in on any exposed morsel of skin. Our flesh would then be penetrated with needles and scalpels, as they employed siphons, and a large stock of pharmaceuticals, including: anaesthetics and anticoagulants, to get at our blood. We were forced to sweat through the nights under our sleeping bags to escape the torment, wishing we were back in the Sierra Madres.
Life in the mountains hit us abruptly. It started with a visible bolt of light, followed exactly 7 seconds later by a crack of thunder. Then 6.
“Uhh. Maybe we should set up camp?”
Then 5. But it was too late. Signalled by another crash of thunder, the rain poured down. We veered onto a small trail leading to a discreet roadside shrine where we camped. Tropical vines stretched to the high branches of the trees, trying desperately to pull them down. Leaves the size of my upper torso deflected the raindrops, and created an audible sound, much like that of a drum. And the water flowed freely, chaotically across the muddy surfaces.
And seeped through my shelter as the thunder tailed the flash of light be a mere 2 seconds. My sheetbag was soggy and I was for the first time in months, cold. My weary eyes pained for rest, my body, yearned for relaxation; but each bolt of lightning flashed through my eyelids and each crash of thunder changed the pattern of my heartbeat.
Then somebody appeared outside my tent. Apparently, there was a group of about 8 other bicycle tourists camped nearby and partying on occasion of the incredible storm. They summoned me to join them for some drinks. I was so excited that I didn’t even bother putting on my sandals and walked through mud, feeling it squish through my toes at each step.
Girls wearing cowboy hats and metallic clothing, danced around in the creek. Guys in fancy suits played hand drums, oblivious to the water cascading over their concentrated faces. They were such a lively and eccentric group that it did not even occur to me what a remarkably serendipitous event this was.
Or a pleasant dream. I woke up, sad that it was only a dream, happy that I had managed to sleep, and sick to my stomach from something I must have eaten. Instead of the party with a community of cyclists, I got to squat out in the rain. Fortunately, or unfortunately; I wasn´t alone, and could see Goat in the same predicament further up the road.
“Nice night, eh?” He said sarcastically.
“I just had the strangest dream,” I replied.
“At least you slept.”
After I had become thoroughly drenched and done my best to rid myself of whatever “animals” had attacked my intestines; I reached for a large lush leaf. The instant I grabbed a hold, it felt as if it were made of fire; my fingertips throbbed with pain from the poisonous spines.
The affliction followed me back to my sleeping pad, where I laid down in my own muddy rainforest hell to wait for the sun to rise, and hope for sleep while the thunder crashed. 6 seconds. At last, the rain eased from a torrential downpour. 7 seconds. 8. 9. Eventually, I found some warmth and rest in my soggy sleeping bag and dreamed of secret mountain brechitas.
           Guided by an unreliable map we pretend to use and the destiny of the “sham”, we encountered a sign about 7 miles after the pavement ended, with the enigmatic words “Bosque Maples, Ruta Turisticas”. And behind it was a road that wound straight towards the clouds.
“The `sham´ is infallible,” I boldly thought.
The rest of the day was defined by a grueling regimen of steep uphill riding. Due to the uncertain availability of water and supplies, we were carrying about 5 days worth of food and a full 13 liters of water, which made its presence known with every pedal stroke. My bike computer wouldn’t even acknowledge my painful efforts with a readout. 0.0 Km/H it would chuckle. Then jump to 3.3 and back down to ZERO.
A couple hours later, we had reached the clouds, and entered a misty elfin forest. Visibility was often slim, and ever shifting, morphing with the contours of the mountains. At times our narrow path would cut through a ridgeline, dropping abruptly on both sides, into an abyss of haze. Sharp turns were blinded by the murky air and shrouded the landscape with mystery.
Red mushrooms decorated with white spots, sprouted from the pine needles, and from the mossy roadside surfaces, large brown mushrooms materialized, some reaching 18¨in diameter. A few succulents lived incongruously in this wet forest, where tropical vines and blackberry patches intermingled in the maze of fauna, below the pine and oak trees.
Through the dark and foggy forest a resonating bass sound travelled languorously from above.
“Couldn´t be a puebla on such a steep grade.” I thought.
The rhythms intensified, reassuring me that it was not merely an auditory hallucination. Around a bend there were a few cars and a canopy set up, while a large family sat around laughing and cooking.
“You want a beer? Something to eat?” A man later introduced as Pedro asked. He was wearing a hat with American and Mexican flags intertwined. Within minutes, we had a bowl full of a carne asada, salsa Mexicana and freshly fried fish, recently caught in nets from a nearby lake. The pain of a fishbone lodged in my gums assured me it was not a dream.
As promised by the good’-natured family, about 5 kilometers further up the brecha; the grade tapered off and wound like an undulating ribbon of mud through a few “ranchitas” with corn fields and forgotten plazas. Briefly, we’d fall from the clouds down a steep technical section of rocky muddy trail, and then swiftly climb back up; a rhythm that continued until we passed San Miguel de la Sierra.
At the edge of the bumpy cobblestone “calle” through town, our trail widened into a smooth dirt road and steadily dropped until the impossible range of mountains opened up with a vista of an expansive valley. I was sure I could see Tacotan and it’s nearby lake. The only thing separating us was an hours worth of smooth downhill riding.
Therefore, it came as a surprise when we sped into the town of….
“Autla!” I said with dismay.
“Nahh.. Couldn’t be.” Goat replied after looking at the map.
“Live and die by the sham,” I said sardonically.
We shrugged our shoulders and pedaled on.
“Autla,” I thought to myself, “The ´sham’ works in mysterious ways.”
UPDATE: WE GOT LOST. WE TOOK A WRONG TURN.
It worked out, just got back onto pavement sooner than we anticipated. These maps are kind of a joke. The concept of a sign in these areas is you finding a person to ask for directions. Which would be one thing if the map gave us the actual names of the ranchitas or towns, but they don´t and when they do, it´s spelled incorrectly and unrecognizable after filtered through by our gringo accents. It was an amazingly beautiful stretch of trails, though, and I will soon update the interactive map with a detailed photographic tour of the section.
Thanks for your support and encouragement.
—————————————————————————————-
That is our planned route (which is NOT recommended by the locals). From Tacambaro de Codallos to Los Currindales and then Montecillo at the bottom right corner of the map. We were hoping for a more “substantial” “brecha(backroad)” to navigate, but just might be lucky enought to get lost on some singletrack.
We are bringing extra food. Wish us luck.
