Heaven’s salty gates
Días 53-55: The altitude starts to bite so we escape on a death slide (343km)
Part of Chapter 7 Flirting with the Atacama
Post #46
Día 53 Heaven’s gate
Purmamarca to Salinas Grandes (GPX 70km) 1,780m climbing
Scottish inspiration
It was Sam’s idea.
After a rapid train from London to Edinburgh and then another onto Inverness we had arrived to a rather un-Scottish scene. On a late afternoon at the end of July 2021, the sun filtered through our sunglasses, draping us in that first-day-of-summer mood. The downing of work tools and the end to planning and packing has made space for a new sentiment; the slow burn of two wheeled magic. As we set up camp on top of Callachy hill, 10pm had been and gone and still a faint light light was seeping through the trees. The weather forecast was absurdly good for Scotland.
The North Coast 500 is a well known cycle tour to anyone worth their GB bikepacking salt. It wiggles around the northerly highlands, taking in the farmlands of Skelbo and Culmaily, the isolated beaches at Melvich and Durness, and the serene waters of Lochinver and Shieldag.
Travel Warning
Your eyeballs may pop out of their sockets in awe at the Summer Idles and and you just might develop an insatiable urge to eat a salmon bap (even if you are theoretically vegetarian). The whiskey is pure Barry too.
Day 3 started bright. Following the coast to Helmsdale we turned inland to a lesser known path. The tarmac dissappeared and in its place rocks and dribbling streams formed a poor imitation of a road. The peaks around were shrouded in mist and sounds of the A-road behind faded to nothing. We pressed on into those hills, leaving the safety of modern infrastructure and going in search of something more elusive.
I don’t listen to much music on these rides. Sometimes it takes you far from your surroundings. But at the right time, a carefully selected track can be transcendental. As one my best mates surged off into the heavens above, I flicked on an understated masterpiece. Floating Points collaboration with Pharaoh Sanders an the London Symphony Orchestra is mysterious, brooding and uplifting all at once. It charts my course through these sentient hills and into the heart of wild Scotland. The end of term stress stinks away like something that will never come back.
Full route: https://www.komoot.es/collection/1767266/-north-coast-500-in-sun-drenched-scotland
Back in Argentina
We stock up on 6 large tortillas each from the roadside stall. There be no food where we are headed. No shops for two days. Adding to the 2,000m climbing of the last 2 days, today we have 1,780m elevation over a 35km uphill. It’s the steepest, highest and most intense climb of the trip so far and the altitude is likely to be a problem. I scratch the chin of a handsome dog before we’re up and out of Purmamarca and headed for the clouds.
The first rocks of the day are turrets of yellow sandstone rising like welded termite mounds to our left. Lorries drive terrifyingly fast, careering into corners I don’t dare look back at. It’s too easy to imagine the horrors of faulty brakes or a misjudged switchback. Car passengers are mainly our friends; beeping, flashing (with their lights!), punching the air or clapping. We’re the only ones using leg-powered transport.
A 5% incline is our mercy. Everything else is steeper. Time and again I look up and try to imagine what comes next. Faint lines etched into towering mounds are the only clues. It often feels like we’ve made great progress to reach a particular curve, but half an hour later and what we thought was a lofty peak has shrunk to a lowly molehill far below. To call the cars ants would be innacurate. They are motes of dust reflecting the light of a powerful sun.
The going is hot and the shade is minimal. Think 5 seconds of shadows every hour. The sun bakes our heads and the altitude blurs our vision. Hearts hammer and chests heave. Bursts of leg power are futile, they leave you gasping for oxygen. Yellow warning signs with llama silhouettes deck the roadside. Birds wheel and squawk overhead. At least I think they do, but I’m too slow to catch sight of them.
Jake is a burnished tan, like finely polished wood, his mullet and moustache combo becoming ever more Aussie as the days go by. He’s convinced that the visible summit is the end of our toil. I’m pessimistic. It turns out to be false. At least three more times what we think is the roof turns out to be the stairs to another floor of this rickety house. In the end it’s a four hour ascent; no respite, no earphones, just the purity of the climb.
At 4,100m the temperature instantly drops. We switch from tshirt and shorts to trousers, double coats, gloves and buffs. Truthfully it had been cold for a while, but still bodies skating downhill retain none of the warmth that a strenuous uphill gives.
There’s a glimmer of salt flats in the distance. The great white expanse of Salinas Grandes. I’ve never seen anything like it. I press play on Floating Points and glide down with ephemeral ease.
Once we reach the flats we turn northwards, heading for our next hostel and a shred of warmth. A vegetable stew is left on the table in an otherwise deserted dining room.
After a brief photo sheet with a motley crew of llamas, alpacas, sheep and goats we head back towards our haven. The stars outside are extraordinary, but it’s too cold to stay out for long; it could drop to -10 degrees Celsius tonight. We share a bed with 4 blankets.
“Is there anyone you would die for?” I ask Jake.
Día 54 The Road
Salinas Grandes to San Antonio de los Cobres (GPX 109km) 510m climbing
We wake early at the Inn of silence. It is indeed oppressively quiet. Incredibly cozy under four blankets, but way below zero outside. Breakfast is a nut selection, marmalade, sweet pastry, bread and coffee. Jake props his feet on the radiator whilst he waits.
Clothes this morning
cycle shorts
tights
tracksuit trousers
double layer thermal socks
cycle tee
thin coat
fleece
big coat
gloves (x2)
thermal headband
alpaca wool hat
buff
Believe it or not I am still cold. The sun does nothing to warm us at this stage of the morning.
The road is initially ok but it starts to disintegrate around an hour in. All too soon we’re cycling on a corrugated iron roof. They call it laminas here. Waves of lumpy sand and gravel that are torture to bundle your way through and banish any thoughts of picking up speed.
Four donkeys stare as I trundle past. A family of spooked vicuñas accelerate across the route ahead, suddenly desperate to reach the other side. A cemetery surviving the tiny hamlet of Tres Morros is around 5% full. It’ll take 500 years to fill that.
The six large tortillas have proved their worth. They are the stodge we need to get us through this epic and lonely route. We peel off layers as the day wears on, the temperatures steadily increase until the sun disappears and then they plummet once more. Alpacas decked in multicolored baubles wander aimlessly as we bump and shudder down this awful road. Necks burnt and faces blasted by the sun, our interactions are stunted and basic.
Night comes and makes this a serious test of our resolve. We’re determined to make San Antonio de Los Cobres. In fact, we have no choice. We can’t stay out here without tents or sleeping bags. The only option is to continue.
After what seemed an interminable night ride, lights pock the near horizon. The edge of town is dark and forboding. A mural emerges from the gloom: No more violence against women. Police conduct doorstep interviews by the roadside rubbish and street dogs fight or turn on us, snapping angrily at our heels. We order all the plates and find a friendly hostel that beckon us in from the freeze. We are safe.
Día 53 The Drop
San Antonio de los Cobres to Salta (GPX 164km) 640m climbing then 3,100m descent
Today is the payback. It’s a reward for all our strain and struggle in the previous 400km. We’ve got 560m elevation up to Abra Blanca before a 100 (ONE HUNDRED) mile descent into Salta; the longest downhill of our lives.
“That road makes me feel sick,” says Jake, as we glance back towards yesterday’s route on the other side of the valley.
Silence dominates once more. There are no birds. No trees. No animals that announce their presence. It’s broken only by a stuttering pickup belching black smoke that can barely outrun us on its way towards the summit.
Once more, breathing becomes tricky. It’s all I can do to let my mouth hang open to fill up with air and then force it back out again by pushing out with feeble lungs.
At the Abra, all the layers go back on, prepare for take off. The initial descent is terrifying, treacherous winds batter our puffa jackets and claw at our bags. 12-wheeler lorries suck us into their swirling eddies. Finally, the gorge closes in around us, giving protection from those evil gusts. We fly 40km in just over an hour. It’s so much descent that my brain cannot compute; each dipping valley more memorable than the last. It’s black rock, lunar ridges and a phalanx of cacti. Jake says this landscape makes him think of Pakistan and the Hindu Kush.
Eventually the gorge opens out and we’re steaming back down to Salta. We rush in after 100 miles, shower, pack, and go out to eat, realizing all too late that the bus we hurriedly booked had left the night before. Luckily there’s another tonight, but those lost funds are a kick in the teeth.
At the station the bus is unbearably warm, but at one point in the night, as it crosses back over the altiplano, the cold returns and the glass freezes over. We’re a tiny capsule of warmth crossing a vast expanse of frío. At dawn we stop at the Chilean border and turn our backs on this fine country.
Goodbye Argentina. I think you might be my new favourite in all the world.
P.S I have some fantastic videos of these days to put on Instagram so click the link below and follow along.
The story so far
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7
Odometer: 55 Tours. 271 hours. 4,573 km. 45,320 m.
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