Chapter 13: The Highest Road, Across Peru’s Heart and Spine
An unbroken transect of the Andes via Peru’s 3N and 3S — rough roads, dogs, sickness, and transcendence.
Part 1: The Ascent Begins
I left Palanda, Ecuador with a full heart and a mind crowded with questions—sensing, though not yet fully grasping, that I was on the brink of one of the hardest stretches of the tour. A threshold had formed beneath my wheels, and I was about to cross it. The last town before the Peruvian border had given me a warm bed and a quiet moment to gather myself. Ahead lay a jagged ribbon of gravel, steep and unforgiving, descending thousands of feet into Peru—a plunge both literal and metaphorical.
The descent to Namballe twisted like a knot coming undone. Sharp curves, loose rock, and hairpin turns kept me alert, hands on the brakes and eyes on the road. The Ecuadorian highlands gave way to the narrow Rio Canchis valley, and just beyond a modest bridge, I entered Peru—country sixteen of the tour. There was no welcome sign, no fanfare, only the shift in air and tone, and the subtle, dawning recognition that I had entered a new world.
In Namballe, six miles of clean asphalt guided me into town, a small outpost where I exhaled and found rest. But Peru was not waiting to ease me in. The very next day, I launched my southward transect of the Andes, and it hit like a hammer. Nearly 95 miles and almost 9,000 feet of climbing. The air got thinner. The climbs grew longer. I entered the Marañón River watershed and realized the scale of the Andes here: wild, disjointed, and sprawling in ways maps don’t prepare you for.
Each day brought a different shade of difficulty. I adapted by staying attuned to small rituals—morning gear checks, consistent hydration, quiet moments to breathe deeply at high altitudes. Physically, I conserved energy where I could, adjusting my pace on steep sections when necessary and eating even when my appetite lagged. Mentally, I learned to shift focus from the scale of the landscape to the immediacy of the road ahead, breaking each challenge into smaller, endurable parts.
What those challenges looked like changed constantly. Heat rising from the low valleys. Cold descending with altitude. Roads clinging to cliffs and dropping into ravines. In Jaén, after a long and punishing day, two kind women called a brother, James. They sensed I needed help. He walked me through a tangled SIM card activation at the Claro store and stayed by my side until it was done. I would remember his generosity for days.
Leaving Jaén, I played tag with buzzing tuk-tuks before the road gave way to isolation again. In Bambamarca, I began to understand how far I still had to go. Climbs stretched into hours. Descents vanished in minutes. This became the cadence of Peru.
In Cajabamba, a fellow cyclist and hospedaje owner named Orlando surprised me by riding up from behind on the final climb into town—in a heavy downpour. We quickly bonded in the storm, trading laughs and stories as if we’d known each other for years. Soon he invited me to stay at his hospedaje and guided me there himself. We continued talking well into the evening—short, slow exchanges across our language gap. He had done his own tours. He knew the road. He understood why I was here.
The day I left Cajabamba, the landscape changed again. The sky stretched high above the Peruvian cordillera, and the scale became incomprehensible. I was now riding through the spine of South America.
As I pushed toward Santiago de Chuco, past Huamachuco, the days began to pile up in my legs. The weather turned. One evening, I arrived caked in Andean mud, my voice hoarse from too many days of massive efforts. The couple who ran Hostal Luna welcomed me anyway, up two flights of stairs, dirty bike and all. They gave warmth when I had none left. I offered only smiles and gratitude in return.
I left the next morning still tired, but moving. The kindness of strangers, again, had done more than food or shelter could. It had given me the permission to continue.
Less than 24 hours later, after another punishing day on rough roads in Peru’s Andes, I found myself standing in the doorway of a bare-bones hospedaje in a remote mountain village. The shower drain was clogged, and the single overhead light didn’t work. When I retrieved my headlamp, I saw several inches of gray water pooled in the shower basin. The hospedaje seemed woven into the village itself—its lumber blending seamlessly into neighboring homes. Most of the structure had been built from stone, likely excavated centuries before, and still holding firm beneath the weathered timbers that had also stood the test of time. Nearby, two beds awaited—one clearly suspicious—and a massive puddle spread across the floor. I mopped it up myself and wrung the cloth out in a utility sink behind the bathroom. Then I stacked the mattresses, placing the cleanest one on top, hoping to avoid any visitors in the night.
Still, I would remember this place with only fondness.
That evening, I sat quietly by the door as livestock passed in the fading light, their bells echoing through the valley. The farmers moved past without a word, looking not at me, but across a land they knew well. Their silence was cosmic. Nearby, neighbors prepared dinner for their children, and now and then, someone stole a glance at the stranger in town—with only kindness in their eyes.
Then came Cabana. The room I rented, its thick stone walls leeching warmth, seemed to draw every iota of heat from my body. Despite being a warm sleeper—usually needing only a sheet, even in cool weather—I stacked all six blankets the room had, and never removed a single one. But the cold wasn’t the worst of it. I was vomiting, feverish, and in and out of the bathroom with diarrhea. Several times I tried to rise in the morning, only to collapse back into bed. It was the worst illness of the tour so far—so bad that it convinced me moving was the only cure. But as I rolled down a steep, uneven road back to the 3N, I struggled to brake efficiently or even focus. My vision blurred. My mind reeled. And when I reached the first clearing, looking out into the vast void ahead—where the backs of mountains rose like sleeping giants and the desert canyons stretched deep below—it was almost too much. The landscape offered no mercy, only magnitude, and I was too sick to meet it with strength. My mind teetered on the edge of comprehension and collapse.
But by then I was already in freefall—on a steep, winding descent, epic and glorious—a plunge that would conclude at Chuquicara, the lowest point I would reach in Peru, just 1,600 feet (490 meters) above sea level.
Cruelly, it was also the place from which I would begin the ascent to the highest: 15,420 feet (4,700 meters) at Yanashallash Pass. I arrived in Chuquicara deeply depleted—wracked by gastrointestinal distress after a fevered, sleepless night. I was likely in the weakest state of my entire tour. But the station attendant made an exception for me, cleared a place to rest, and offered kindness without ceremony. I was asleep by late afternoon, rose briefly for a light bowl of soup, then returned to sleep again. That quiet gesture, in that bleak place, returned just enough strength to my legs that I believed I could go on. Before the morning sun began to heat the canyon, I set out once more—aiming for a larger village with doctors, food, and an established hospedaje, about 40 miles (65 km) away.
Chuquicara sits at the confluence of two rivers. I had descended along the northern fork, the Rio Tablachaca, and would now trace the southern, climbing gradually at first, eastward and then south, deeper into the mountains. Peru’s 3N—and later, 3S—routes often sent travelers along wide lateral arcs. More than once, I would climb all day only to glimpse, across a vast canyon, the very village where I had slept the night before. Such was the nature of this terrain—long diversions, wide valleys, hidden ridgelines. Progress was slow and the views were earned.
From Chuquicara, the climb soon began in earnest—through desert canyons that must be brutal in the heat of summer. The road followed an old railway line, including many unlit tunnels, all carved into rock faces high above the energetic Rio Santa. Water seeped from fissures in the stone. The grade was consistent, sometimes harsh, and promised only more of the same. But by the time I reached Huallanca, I surrendered to rest. A field hospital administered fluids. When I couldn't pay, they unhesitantly waived the charge—I hadn’t planned to be sick here, or to stay this long, so didn't have enough cash on hand.
I spent three nights in Huallanca. The women at Hospedaje Santa Rosa treated me like family—serving soup, watching over me, speaking softly. They helped carry me through.
In the days ahead, I would climb into the company of glaciers—rising from this hard-won valley toward places colder, higher, and more severe than anything I'd yet faced, stand atop the highest pass of my life, and be bitten by a dog whose teeth left a deeper imprint in memory than in skin. But all of that still waited in the distance—beyond this valley, down a road that at times barely clung to the slopes above, offering only the illusion of safety. Below it roared a river the color of earth, swollen with silt and fury, its voice so loud and relentless it seemed to rise through the rock itself. It pounded stone to dust, its current tearing at the bones of the mountains—even as that same voice soothed all who witnessed the annihilation, like the call of sirens ancient and indifferent.
The descent to Namballe twisted like a knot coming undone. Sharp curves, loose rock, and hairpin turns kept me alert, hands on the brakes and eyes on the road. The Ecuadorian highlands gave way to the narrow Rio Canchis valley, and just beyond a modest bridge, I entered Peru—country sixteen of the tour. There was no welcome sign, no fanfare, only the shift in air and tone, and the subtle, dawning recognition that I had entered a new world.
In Namballe, six miles of clean asphalt guided me into town, a small outpost where I exhaled and found rest. But Peru was not waiting to ease me in. The very next day, I launched my southward transect of the Andes, and it hit like a hammer. Nearly 95 miles and almost 9,000 feet of climbing. The air got thinner. The climbs grew longer. I entered the Marañón River watershed and realized the scale of the Andes here: wild, disjointed, and sprawling in ways maps don’t prepare you for.
Each day brought a different shade of difficulty. I adapted by staying attuned to small rituals—morning gear checks, consistent hydration, quiet moments to breathe deeply at high altitudes. Physically, I conserved energy where I could, adjusting my pace on steep sections when necessary and eating even when my appetite lagged. Mentally, I learned to shift focus from the scale of the landscape to the immediacy of the road ahead, breaking each challenge into smaller, endurable parts.
What those challenges looked like changed constantly. Heat rising from the low valleys. Cold descending with altitude. Roads clinging to cliffs and dropping into ravines. In Jaén, after a long and punishing day, two kind women called a brother, James. They sensed I needed help. He walked me through a tangled SIM card activation at the Claro store and stayed by my side until it was done. I would remember his generosity for days.
Leaving Jaén, I played tag with buzzing tuk-tuks before the road gave way to isolation again. In Bambamarca, I began to understand how far I still had to go. Climbs stretched into hours. Descents vanished in minutes. This became the cadence of Peru.
In Cajabamba, a fellow cyclist and hospedaje owner named Orlando surprised me by riding up from behind on the final climb into town—in a heavy downpour. We quickly bonded in the storm, trading laughs and stories as if we’d known each other for years. Soon he invited me to stay at his hospedaje and guided me there himself. We continued talking well into the evening—short, slow exchanges across our language gap. He had done his own tours. He knew the road. He understood why I was here.
The day I left Cajabamba, the landscape changed again. The sky stretched high above the Peruvian cordillera, and the scale became incomprehensible. I was now riding through the spine of South America.
As I pushed toward Santiago de Chuco, past Huamachuco, the days began to pile up in my legs. The weather turned. One evening, I arrived caked in Andean mud, my voice hoarse from too many days of massive efforts. The couple who ran Hostal Luna welcomed me anyway, up two flights of stairs, dirty bike and all. They gave warmth when I had none left. I offered only smiles and gratitude in return.
I left the next morning still tired, but moving. The kindness of strangers, again, had done more than food or shelter could. It had given me the permission to continue.
Less than 24 hours later, after another punishing day on rough roads in Peru’s Andes, I found myself standing in the doorway of a bare-bones hospedaje in a remote mountain village. The shower drain was clogged, and the single overhead light didn’t work. When I retrieved my headlamp, I saw several inches of gray water pooled in the shower basin. The hospedaje seemed woven into the village itself—its lumber blending seamlessly into neighboring homes. Most of the structure had been built from stone, likely excavated centuries before, and still holding firm beneath the weathered timbers that had also stood the test of time. Nearby, two beds awaited—one clearly suspicious—and a massive puddle spread across the floor. I mopped it up myself and wrung the cloth out in a utility sink behind the bathroom. Then I stacked the mattresses, placing the cleanest one on top, hoping to avoid any visitors in the night.
Still, I would remember this place with only fondness.
That evening, I sat quietly by the door as livestock passed in the fading light, their bells echoing through the valley. The farmers moved past without a word, looking not at me, but across a land they knew well. Their silence was cosmic. Nearby, neighbors prepared dinner for their children, and now and then, someone stole a glance at the stranger in town—with only kindness in their eyes.
Then came Cabana. The room I rented, its thick stone walls leeching warmth, seemed to draw every iota of heat from my body. Despite being a warm sleeper—usually needing only a sheet, even in cool weather—I stacked all six blankets the room had, and never removed a single one. But the cold wasn’t the worst of it. I was vomiting, feverish, and in and out of the bathroom with diarrhea. Several times I tried to rise in the morning, only to collapse back into bed. It was the worst illness of the tour so far—so bad that it convinced me moving was the only cure. But as I rolled down a steep, uneven road back to the 3N, I struggled to brake efficiently or even focus. My vision blurred. My mind reeled. And when I reached the first clearing, looking out into the vast void ahead—where the backs of mountains rose like sleeping giants and the desert canyons stretched deep below—it was almost too much. The landscape offered no mercy, only magnitude, and I was too sick to meet it with strength. My mind teetered on the edge of comprehension and collapse.
But by then I was already in freefall—on a steep, winding descent, epic and glorious—a plunge that would conclude at Chuquicara, the lowest point I would reach in Peru, just 1,600 feet (490 meters) above sea level.
Cruelly, it was also the place from which I would begin the ascent to the highest: 15,420 feet (4,700 meters) at Yanashallash Pass. I arrived in Chuquicara deeply depleted—wracked by gastrointestinal distress after a fevered, sleepless night. I was likely in the weakest state of my entire tour. But the station attendant made an exception for me, cleared a place to rest, and offered kindness without ceremony. I was asleep by late afternoon, rose briefly for a light bowl of soup, then returned to sleep again. That quiet gesture, in that bleak place, returned just enough strength to my legs that I believed I could go on. Before the morning sun began to heat the canyon, I set out once more—aiming for a larger village with doctors, food, and an established hospedaje, about 40 miles (65 km) away.
Chuquicara sits at the confluence of two rivers. I had descended along the northern fork, the Rio Tablachaca, and would now trace the southern, climbing gradually at first, eastward and then south, deeper into the mountains. Peru’s 3N—and later, 3S—routes often sent travelers along wide lateral arcs. More than once, I would climb all day only to glimpse, across a vast canyon, the very village where I had slept the night before. Such was the nature of this terrain—long diversions, wide valleys, hidden ridgelines. Progress was slow and the views were earned.
From Chuquicara, the climb soon began in earnest—through desert canyons that must be brutal in the heat of summer. The road followed an old railway line, including many unlit tunnels, all carved into rock faces high above the energetic Rio Santa. Water seeped from fissures in the stone. The grade was consistent, sometimes harsh, and promised only more of the same. But by the time I reached Huallanca, I surrendered to rest. A field hospital administered fluids. When I couldn't pay, they unhesitantly waived the charge—I hadn’t planned to be sick here, or to stay this long, so didn't have enough cash on hand.
I spent three nights in Huallanca. The women at Hospedaje Santa Rosa treated me like family—serving soup, watching over me, speaking softly. They helped carry me through.
In the days ahead, I would climb into the company of glaciers—rising from this hard-won valley toward places colder, higher, and more severe than anything I'd yet faced, stand atop the highest pass of my life, and be bitten by a dog whose teeth left a deeper imprint in memory than in skin. But all of that still waited in the distance—beyond this valley, down a road that at times barely clung to the slopes above, offering only the illusion of safety. Below it roared a river the color of earth, swollen with silt and fury, its voice so loud and relentless it seemed to rise through the rock itself. It pounded stone to dust, its current tearing at the bones of the mountains—even as that same voice soothed all who witnessed the annihilation, like the call of sirens ancient and indifferent.
Part 2: The Roof of the Andes
After days of battling illness and riding beneath the roar of a river that seemed to dissolve the Andes themselves, I left Huallanca with quiet resolve. The canyon walls towered above me, stone stacked on stone, while the brown, silt-choked river thundered far below. My road—little more than a converted rail bed—clung to the cliffs and threaded through unlit tunnels, water spilling from cracks and gushing from side canyons. I was climbing again, out of the desert, and though still weak, I felt something blooming inside me: gratitude—not loud, but persistent, like a desert flower clinging to rock.
Two days later, I faced a choice. A remote shortcut tempted me—a rough, gravel track vanishing into deeper wilderness—but instinct pulled me back. I had paid a local landowner to pass, pedaled less than a mile, and stopped. After much internal and external debate, I made the difficult decision to turn around. The risk was too great: illness still lingered, and a breakdown or bad night out here could cost me more than time.
I rerouted to the 3N and returned to the long, slow climb toward Conococha—a wind-swept town perched on a vast plateau above 13,000 feet—where the road rose steadily beneath a sky crowned by Andean peaks, their flanks still patched with lingering snow. The setting felt suspended between two elements: ice and willpower. It was a frozen backdrop to the heat, doubt, and resolve I carried upward.
After spending the night in Conococha, somehow managing to rest in the oxygen-starved air and collecting my strength, I set out again from that same highland plain above 13,000 feet with caution and resolve. My body still lagged from the days of illness, and the terrain ahead would demand everything I had left.
As the climb resumed—part of a nearly unbroken ascent that had stretched from the canyon floor at Chuquicara—it didn’t take long for the day to take a turn. A massive sheepdog, working in a group with four smaller companions, lunged at me and sank its teeth into my leg, pulling me off the bike and onto the asphalt. I lay on the ground, stunned but not surprised. This had been a long time coming. Ever since I'd approached Namballe and Peru, dogs had been threatening my well-being, sometimes in groups of 10–20. I had nothing to treat the wounds, but I took some comfort knowing I’d received two rabies vaccinations back in New England before the tour began, just for scenarios like this. I inspected the two puncture wounds. The damage would heal quickly on its own, and I planned to inquire at a pharmacy in the next town for advice. I stood up and checked my carbon fiber bike for damage—it was unscathed. Luck had been on my side despite the wounds. I remounted and began the process of acceptance and gratitude as I resumed an ascent I had begun days before.
That summit ahead—Yanashallash Pass—was the highest point I would reach on the entire tour: 15,420 feet above sea level, the highest I had ever stood in my life by any means other than air travel. A number that now lives in my memory not just for its altitude but for the effort it demanded. The road was, fortunately, paved from at least Huaraz, where I spent the night before Conococha, to the pass, and the weather was favorable—overcast with light winds—until I reached the final switchbacks, less than two miles from the summit, which I patiently ascended in drizzle. Each turn revealed a world pulled thin by altitude and cloud.
At the summit, I dismounted and stood still in the rain, naturally gravitating toward the stability of two feet planted firmly on the ground while the reality of what I had just achieved settled deeper than the chill in my skin, or the wet through seams of my clothing. Yanashallash Pass was more than a high point on a map—it was a culmination of suffering, perseverance, and decision-making that had spanned hundreds of miles through Peru's incredible Andes. I walked slowly along the edge of the road, recording my thoughts aloud into the camera—not just to preserve the moment, but to remember the mood. I was alone, and the experience felt sacred in its silence. I had earned this view, this air, this memory. And I knew I’d carry it with me.
The descent into Huallanca was long, raw, and initially cold. Already on the pass, the rain had intensified, and the temperature compounded the experience—mid to low 40s (F). I was wearing my usual warm-weather gloves, gel-padded from Sportful, which were soaked through before the descent even began. My hands suffered considerably. But that’s part of the obligation an adventure cyclist accepts: staying light, staying frugal, and enduring. Paved roads held for a few miles, then gave way to dirt and construction zones. For at least twenty miles, I navigated potholes and uneven surfaces before finally arriving at the south bank of the Rio Urqumayu, excavator of the Urqumayu Valley and the ancient towns that continue to flourish there, including Huallanca.
Somewhere on that stretch, the physical challenge gave way to reflection. I thought of the absurdity, from the perspective of a normal human life, of what I’d just come through—the entire journey from Chuquicara below 1,600 feet (470 m) to the summit and down. The elements, the dogs, the illness, the strangers, and the silence up high—a journey within a journey. When I arrived in Huallanca, still weakened from the gastrointestinal illness that had hit me seven days before, I knew I needed more time. I checked into a hospedaje, met kind pharmacy staff, and took their suggestions seriously. I stayed for two nights. Nausea the most persistent symptom. Not just to heal my body, but to pause.
I was embedded in a town untouched by tourism. Only locals, it seemed, moved through its streets. The women wore traditional dress with striking pride—ready for a stage they never sought. And despite the nausea that lingered, I was aware, deeply, of my fortune. I had arrived. No small feat. I found rest. And for two days I stayed, recovering not just from the bite but from the long slow drain that the last week had imposed.
When I finally pushed on, the road, all rough gravel, and the Urqumayu River guided me into La Unión, toward the high plains that fan out to Huánuco. Here, the winds tested me more than the climbs. I rode, by now back on asphalt, into a headwind across a great shelf of earth, rising slowly to 14,000 feet. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon and drifted closer. I rode through them, one pedal stroke at a time.
Finding a place to stay in Huánuco took effort. Doors were closed or full. Bells rang unanswered. But eventually, I reluctantly returned to the primary road through town, the same one I'd ridden in on, and booked into a small hotel. From my room, I sat cross-legged on the floor, propped up by a cushion, looking outward from the massive, tinted windows that separated me from the outside world. Here the town consisted of only a row of structures on either side of the road. Beyond, a great, intermontane plain stretched to distant mountains. I was reminded of places back home, like South Park in Colorado. Familiarity brought comfort, and I sat there with it, allowing my systems to come down and normalize. The following morning, I returned to the café tienda where I'd eaten dinner the night before—chicken soup for breakfast was unusual but nonetheless available, served hot in the quiet of morning. My body gratefully received all of it before I departed.
By Day 222, the rhythm of the ride took on a softer pace, through more spectacular scenery, including drier environments where massive sedimentary layers were on display—their reds, yellows, and oranges inspiring devotion from their observers. I took it as a sign. I would ride and dedicate this section in memorial, and later generated a film, dedicated to my friend Artie—a kind, funny, generous man who passed on March 22, 2024, when I was riding through an Amazonian deluge near Puyo, Ecuador. As I rode across peaks and other high places, I imagined speaking to Artie and, in my solitude, I let his memory ripple through the landscape—each pedal stroke a quiet tribute. It was a good day to remember someone who always treated me with kindness and respect, who encouraged my exploits on a bicycle, and who offered the same to everyone who knew him.
From there, the route turned south again, through corridors rarely seen by outsiders. Quichuas. The Mantaro Canyon. Huanta. Days stacked up with dirt roads and switchbacks, crumbling cliffs and green valleys. In Huanta, I was welcomed by a family whose warmth was more restorative than the altitude was cruel. A hot breakfast from the mother arrived unexpectedly the next morning. Shy smiles from her children added warmth to a morning already rich with quiet generosity, deepening a memory I would carry fondly.
Eventually, I reached Ayacucho, then climbed above it to a guesthouse called the Spirit of Pachamama. It had technically closed, but the owner still welcomed travelers. I sat there alone that evening, at over 13,000 feet, watching the Andes fold into one another like paper.
Day 226 brought another long ride through towering country—even towering from the perspective of Peru’s Andes. At times, the immensity of the landscape pushed language beyond its limits, rendering words inadequate to capture what the eyes beheld. But perhaps it didn’t need description—it asked only for presence. I gave what I had and received its quiet in return. Along this track, I encountered small herds of what were very likely vicuña (Lama vicugna), a high-elevation, wild variety of llama. Beyond their curious glances, as they otherwise chewed their most recent offering from their alpine home, I dropped from the sky to another river and then almost immediately began climbing—the normal procedure in this part of the world.
The last stretch before Cusco was one of the most draining of the entire tour—not particularly due to the elevation gain, but the psychological toll. I left Abancay early, climbing for twenty miles before dropping into the monumental Apurímac River canyon, one of the major tributaries to the Amazon. On the far side, the climbing resumed—long, punishing miles as dusk fell and the dogs of Peru emerged from seemingly every imaginable space, public and private.
Since approaching Peru, loose and aggressive dogs had been a daily trial, but the climb to Limatambo was different. Packs of barking, approaching canines haunted the switchbacks, especially in the dark. Big ones, small ones, from both sides of the road or in ambush from behind. My headlight caught their eyes again and again. I had no choice but to ride into it. I kept my pace, shouted when they drew too close, and tried not to make it worse by amplifying stress in my mind and body. The day had already left me exposed and tired; the climb demanded concentration and calm. Somehow, I arrived in Limatambo intact, nerves frayed but not bitten.
Limatambo rests in the foothills below the Sacred Valley of the Incas, not far from Cusco. The final approach from here was more than symbolic—it was a crossing into mythic territory. The roads bent and coiled like questions through mountains carved by time. Suburbs gathered gradually along the roadside, hinting at the legendary city that waited beyond.
I would arrive the next day, quietly, alone, worn out but deeply grounded in the ride that brought me there. At the summit of a final climb, the city revealed itself in full—sprawled below in all its glory, the culmination of one of the most trying legs of the entire tour. I had achieved another major goal—and settled into an extended period of rest days to allow time to service the bike, begin preparing for acquisition of a Bolivian visa, and more. I was a shattered, tired man—but intact and feeling genuine celebration to be in Cusco, all the way from Cartwright, in any cell that had the energy to ignite a warm flame.
After three full days of rest and repair—gear, body, and spirit—I departed Cusco and set my sights on the Bolivian border. The route quickly carried me back to altitude. I returned to over 14,000 feet via one of the most sublime intermontane valleys I’d encountered, then coasted down toward Pucara where I rested and dreamed of vast spaces. The land here was different: painted in pastels, stretched wide and open, ancient and kind. I descended into it with reverence, humbled by the scale and gifted by the gravity.
By the time I reached Puno, I was alongside Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world and a mirror of the sky. Here I secured my Bolivian visa and contemplated the road ahead. This was the final stage of Peru. A closing movement in a symphony of ascent and suffering, resilience and reflection—of monumental privilege. From a low point of about 1,600 feet to 15,420 feet, from the Amazon to the Andes, from illness to restoration—I had crossed the country via a continuous, unbroken, brave transect through the Andes. And now, Bolivia waited.
Two days later, I faced a choice. A remote shortcut tempted me—a rough, gravel track vanishing into deeper wilderness—but instinct pulled me back. I had paid a local landowner to pass, pedaled less than a mile, and stopped. After much internal and external debate, I made the difficult decision to turn around. The risk was too great: illness still lingered, and a breakdown or bad night out here could cost me more than time.
I rerouted to the 3N and returned to the long, slow climb toward Conococha—a wind-swept town perched on a vast plateau above 13,000 feet—where the road rose steadily beneath a sky crowned by Andean peaks, their flanks still patched with lingering snow. The setting felt suspended between two elements: ice and willpower. It was a frozen backdrop to the heat, doubt, and resolve I carried upward.
After spending the night in Conococha, somehow managing to rest in the oxygen-starved air and collecting my strength, I set out again from that same highland plain above 13,000 feet with caution and resolve. My body still lagged from the days of illness, and the terrain ahead would demand everything I had left.
As the climb resumed—part of a nearly unbroken ascent that had stretched from the canyon floor at Chuquicara—it didn’t take long for the day to take a turn. A massive sheepdog, working in a group with four smaller companions, lunged at me and sank its teeth into my leg, pulling me off the bike and onto the asphalt. I lay on the ground, stunned but not surprised. This had been a long time coming. Ever since I'd approached Namballe and Peru, dogs had been threatening my well-being, sometimes in groups of 10–20. I had nothing to treat the wounds, but I took some comfort knowing I’d received two rabies vaccinations back in New England before the tour began, just for scenarios like this. I inspected the two puncture wounds. The damage would heal quickly on its own, and I planned to inquire at a pharmacy in the next town for advice. I stood up and checked my carbon fiber bike for damage—it was unscathed. Luck had been on my side despite the wounds. I remounted and began the process of acceptance and gratitude as I resumed an ascent I had begun days before.
That summit ahead—Yanashallash Pass—was the highest point I would reach on the entire tour: 15,420 feet above sea level, the highest I had ever stood in my life by any means other than air travel. A number that now lives in my memory not just for its altitude but for the effort it demanded. The road was, fortunately, paved from at least Huaraz, where I spent the night before Conococha, to the pass, and the weather was favorable—overcast with light winds—until I reached the final switchbacks, less than two miles from the summit, which I patiently ascended in drizzle. Each turn revealed a world pulled thin by altitude and cloud.
At the summit, I dismounted and stood still in the rain, naturally gravitating toward the stability of two feet planted firmly on the ground while the reality of what I had just achieved settled deeper than the chill in my skin, or the wet through seams of my clothing. Yanashallash Pass was more than a high point on a map—it was a culmination of suffering, perseverance, and decision-making that had spanned hundreds of miles through Peru's incredible Andes. I walked slowly along the edge of the road, recording my thoughts aloud into the camera—not just to preserve the moment, but to remember the mood. I was alone, and the experience felt sacred in its silence. I had earned this view, this air, this memory. And I knew I’d carry it with me.
The descent into Huallanca was long, raw, and initially cold. Already on the pass, the rain had intensified, and the temperature compounded the experience—mid to low 40s (F). I was wearing my usual warm-weather gloves, gel-padded from Sportful, which were soaked through before the descent even began. My hands suffered considerably. But that’s part of the obligation an adventure cyclist accepts: staying light, staying frugal, and enduring. Paved roads held for a few miles, then gave way to dirt and construction zones. For at least twenty miles, I navigated potholes and uneven surfaces before finally arriving at the south bank of the Rio Urqumayu, excavator of the Urqumayu Valley and the ancient towns that continue to flourish there, including Huallanca.
Somewhere on that stretch, the physical challenge gave way to reflection. I thought of the absurdity, from the perspective of a normal human life, of what I’d just come through—the entire journey from Chuquicara below 1,600 feet (470 m) to the summit and down. The elements, the dogs, the illness, the strangers, and the silence up high—a journey within a journey. When I arrived in Huallanca, still weakened from the gastrointestinal illness that had hit me seven days before, I knew I needed more time. I checked into a hospedaje, met kind pharmacy staff, and took their suggestions seriously. I stayed for two nights. Nausea the most persistent symptom. Not just to heal my body, but to pause.
I was embedded in a town untouched by tourism. Only locals, it seemed, moved through its streets. The women wore traditional dress with striking pride—ready for a stage they never sought. And despite the nausea that lingered, I was aware, deeply, of my fortune. I had arrived. No small feat. I found rest. And for two days I stayed, recovering not just from the bite but from the long slow drain that the last week had imposed.
When I finally pushed on, the road, all rough gravel, and the Urqumayu River guided me into La Unión, toward the high plains that fan out to Huánuco. Here, the winds tested me more than the climbs. I rode, by now back on asphalt, into a headwind across a great shelf of earth, rising slowly to 14,000 feet. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon and drifted closer. I rode through them, one pedal stroke at a time.
Finding a place to stay in Huánuco took effort. Doors were closed or full. Bells rang unanswered. But eventually, I reluctantly returned to the primary road through town, the same one I'd ridden in on, and booked into a small hotel. From my room, I sat cross-legged on the floor, propped up by a cushion, looking outward from the massive, tinted windows that separated me from the outside world. Here the town consisted of only a row of structures on either side of the road. Beyond, a great, intermontane plain stretched to distant mountains. I was reminded of places back home, like South Park in Colorado. Familiarity brought comfort, and I sat there with it, allowing my systems to come down and normalize. The following morning, I returned to the café tienda where I'd eaten dinner the night before—chicken soup for breakfast was unusual but nonetheless available, served hot in the quiet of morning. My body gratefully received all of it before I departed.
By Day 222, the rhythm of the ride took on a softer pace, through more spectacular scenery, including drier environments where massive sedimentary layers were on display—their reds, yellows, and oranges inspiring devotion from their observers. I took it as a sign. I would ride and dedicate this section in memorial, and later generated a film, dedicated to my friend Artie—a kind, funny, generous man who passed on March 22, 2024, when I was riding through an Amazonian deluge near Puyo, Ecuador. As I rode across peaks and other high places, I imagined speaking to Artie and, in my solitude, I let his memory ripple through the landscape—each pedal stroke a quiet tribute. It was a good day to remember someone who always treated me with kindness and respect, who encouraged my exploits on a bicycle, and who offered the same to everyone who knew him.
From there, the route turned south again, through corridors rarely seen by outsiders. Quichuas. The Mantaro Canyon. Huanta. Days stacked up with dirt roads and switchbacks, crumbling cliffs and green valleys. In Huanta, I was welcomed by a family whose warmth was more restorative than the altitude was cruel. A hot breakfast from the mother arrived unexpectedly the next morning. Shy smiles from her children added warmth to a morning already rich with quiet generosity, deepening a memory I would carry fondly.
Eventually, I reached Ayacucho, then climbed above it to a guesthouse called the Spirit of Pachamama. It had technically closed, but the owner still welcomed travelers. I sat there alone that evening, at over 13,000 feet, watching the Andes fold into one another like paper.
Day 226 brought another long ride through towering country—even towering from the perspective of Peru’s Andes. At times, the immensity of the landscape pushed language beyond its limits, rendering words inadequate to capture what the eyes beheld. But perhaps it didn’t need description—it asked only for presence. I gave what I had and received its quiet in return. Along this track, I encountered small herds of what were very likely vicuña (Lama vicugna), a high-elevation, wild variety of llama. Beyond their curious glances, as they otherwise chewed their most recent offering from their alpine home, I dropped from the sky to another river and then almost immediately began climbing—the normal procedure in this part of the world.
The last stretch before Cusco was one of the most draining of the entire tour—not particularly due to the elevation gain, but the psychological toll. I left Abancay early, climbing for twenty miles before dropping into the monumental Apurímac River canyon, one of the major tributaries to the Amazon. On the far side, the climbing resumed—long, punishing miles as dusk fell and the dogs of Peru emerged from seemingly every imaginable space, public and private.
Since approaching Peru, loose and aggressive dogs had been a daily trial, but the climb to Limatambo was different. Packs of barking, approaching canines haunted the switchbacks, especially in the dark. Big ones, small ones, from both sides of the road or in ambush from behind. My headlight caught their eyes again and again. I had no choice but to ride into it. I kept my pace, shouted when they drew too close, and tried not to make it worse by amplifying stress in my mind and body. The day had already left me exposed and tired; the climb demanded concentration and calm. Somehow, I arrived in Limatambo intact, nerves frayed but not bitten.
Limatambo rests in the foothills below the Sacred Valley of the Incas, not far from Cusco. The final approach from here was more than symbolic—it was a crossing into mythic territory. The roads bent and coiled like questions through mountains carved by time. Suburbs gathered gradually along the roadside, hinting at the legendary city that waited beyond.
I would arrive the next day, quietly, alone, worn out but deeply grounded in the ride that brought me there. At the summit of a final climb, the city revealed itself in full—sprawled below in all its glory, the culmination of one of the most trying legs of the entire tour. I had achieved another major goal—and settled into an extended period of rest days to allow time to service the bike, begin preparing for acquisition of a Bolivian visa, and more. I was a shattered, tired man—but intact and feeling genuine celebration to be in Cusco, all the way from Cartwright, in any cell that had the energy to ignite a warm flame.
After three full days of rest and repair—gear, body, and spirit—I departed Cusco and set my sights on the Bolivian border. The route quickly carried me back to altitude. I returned to over 14,000 feet via one of the most sublime intermontane valleys I’d encountered, then coasted down toward Pucara where I rested and dreamed of vast spaces. The land here was different: painted in pastels, stretched wide and open, ancient and kind. I descended into it with reverence, humbled by the scale and gifted by the gravity.
By the time I reached Puno, I was alongside Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world and a mirror of the sky. Here I secured my Bolivian visa and contemplated the road ahead. This was the final stage of Peru. A closing movement in a symphony of ascent and suffering, resilience and reflection—of monumental privilege. From a low point of about 1,600 feet to 15,420 feet, from the Amazon to the Andes, from illness to restoration—I had crossed the country via a continuous, unbroken, brave transect through the Andes. And now, Bolivia waited.