Andes 2024: Lessons in Humility

Overview

In February and March of 2024, I made my fourth expedition into the Andes. It was a bit of a mess - I think I had more problems and mishaps on this trip than all my previous Andes trips combined. Even so, it was fun. I climbed some new peaks, learned (and re-learend) some lessons about backcountry mobility, and pushed my adventuring skills one step further. 

The main focus of this trip was to climb the 6000 m peaks surrounding the Corona del Inca supervolcano, a massive caldera on the southern Puna de Atacama plateau in Argentina. If time allowed (spoiler: it did not), I would then head north to climb a few mountains around Ojos del Salado. As it happened, I was able to check nine more summits off of my list:

• Cerro Reclus (6275 m)
• Cerro Baboso (6070 m)
• Cerro del Veladero (6436 m)
• Bonete Norte I, II, and III (6175 - 6240 m)
• Los Gemelos Norte and Sur (both approx. 6135 m)
• Monte Pissis Altar (6130 m)

The highlight reel of misadventures on this expedition included:

• Custom front rack didn't fit my fork, so I had to jerry-rig a workaround at the last minute
• Fleeing a rural town in Chile after a local warned me I was gonna get mugged (not a great first day on the road!)
• Having to enter Argentina improperly since the border crossing I planned to use was unexpectedly closed
• Frequent bike issues including tire rubbing, rear rack structural deformation, excessive chainring wear, and chronic tire leaks
• Several unplanned unrideable ascents and descents that massively sapped time and energy
• Twisted my ankle while pushing my bike up a sandy slope
• Food poisoning from some dried shrimp
• Thrice failing to reach the main summit of Cerro Bonete Chico (twice due to cold, once due to aforementioned shrimp)
• Abandoning the most epic climb of the trip because of unsafe glacier conditions and incipient thunderstorms
• Bonking on the final day of riding because I left way too much distance and had no extra time

More on all that later...

 

Planning

I'm not going to do the usual exhaustive explanation of my intended goals and itinerary - suffice it to say that I had planned to climb a lot more peaks than I did. My overall route was to ride southeast out of Copiapo to cross into Argentina at Paso Pircas Negras, then travel north through the backcountry to return to Chile via Paso San Francisco. At least a couple of other cyclists have done this from the other direction, so I figured it was probably possible.

One notable change from my previous trips was that I've replaced my mountain bike and it's 2.3" tires with a brand-new fat-tire bike. With 27.5 x 4.5" tires, this bike is massive even for a fatbike. The hope was that it would enable me to ride over a lot of terrain where I'd otherwise have to hike-a-bike, and thus enable faster/farther travel overall. I outfitted the fatbike with an off-the-shelf rear rack, but made a custom front rack using carbon fibre composites and aerospace honeycomb structural core. Apart from getting one dimension wrong and having to make some adapter plates from aluminum to get the custom rack to fit, that front rack was a work of art! It's sleek, lighter and stronger than any off-the-shelf alternative, corrosion-proof, and the material cost was way less than even the crappiest store-bought alternative. 

You can put a typical MTB in pretty much any reasonably large bike box, but a fatbike (especially with 27.5" tires) is a different situation. I had called around to all the local bike stores trying to find a large enough box, and was informed that normally, most fatbikes are shipped in two boxes. That wouldn't work for an international flight, so I kept looking for other options. Eventually, the friendly and practical staff at Sweet Pete's Bike Shop were able to find me a massive box from an e-bike they had recently received. It was just barely large enough for my partially-disassembled bike, and about 3 cm less than the maximum linear dimensions permitted by Air Canada - success!

Just days prior to leaving, I stumbled across a website listing Paso Pircas Negras as "temporarily closed". This clashed with information I'd seen regarding the seasonal hours of the border crossing, but nevertheless I took a look on Google Earth to find that days-old imagery showed the Chilean border complex apparently abandoned and partially dismantled, with a concrete roadblock across the road at the pass itself. Not wanting to fully re-plan my expedition, I looked for alternatives. However, none of the "proper" routes seemed remotely feasible in the time I had available. From my own experiences and from other hikers and climbers I've spoken to on past trips, I knew that - particularly on the Argentinian side - crossing the border while hiking in the backcountry was usually ignored by the authorities as long as you didn't make it a problem. With that in mind, I noted that just north of my planned crossing at Pircas Negras was another low point on the ridge: Paso Quebrada Seca. Although labeled on a few topographic maps, this narrow ravine had no road or trail running through it. It was close enough to a buldozed mining road that I figured I could get my bike through if the official route was in fact closed when I arrived. 

Getting There

I left Toronto in the early evening on February 5. It was an uneventful flight, and I arrived in Santiago around sunrise - too early to get a great view of the High Andes, but I have lots of pictures of Aconcagua and Mercedario from previous flights. After a few hours' layover I boarded a connecting flight to CPO outside of Copiapó and took an overpriced airport transfer to my hotel in town. It was still early enough that stores were open, so I wasted no time in grabbing a first backpack full of groceries. Copiapó doesn't have much of a nightlife - most of the stores were long-since closed by 21:00, and the streets were quiet even though the sun had only just set. I spent the evening getting a head-start on reassembling my bike and organizing my supplies.

In the morning, I picked up a second backpack full of food and got ready to go. To prevent a repeat of the previous trip's bike box loss (particularly since this was an unusual size of box), I took extra care to explain to the Hotel Pulmahue staff exactly when I would return to Copiapó and that this box was very important to me. I even sent them a message on my InReach so they could get in touch if they needed to.

Into the Wilderness

I rode southeast out of Copiapó on C-35. It was a very different feel than heading north as I'd done on previous expeditions. On C-31 to the north, there are a handful of mineral processing facilities (the phrase "industrial wasteland" comes to mind) and then nothing but dry, dusty desert valleys for hundreds of kilometers until well into Argentina. To the south, however, the road winds through a river valley filled edge-to-edge in most places with vineyards and orchards. The asphalt was excellent, and though there was some vehicle traffic, it wasn't too bad - maybe a car or truck every couple of minutes on average.

As the day wore on, my rig seemed to settle a bit under all the weight I was carrying. Although I had ridden the new fatbike occasionally for months back in Toronto, this was the first time I had put a maximum load on it for any length of time. The result was that the rear tire began to rub quite severely on both the frame and the rear rack. This was sapping a major fraction of my athletic power while riding, so I knew I needed to fix is at the earliest opportunity. As luck would have it, I passed by a small community with a convenience store soon after noticing the problem. After a bit of back-and-forth with the woman running the store, I was able to communicate that I needed a utility knife to fix a problem with my bike. She thought for a moment and then recalled that they had a bag of small utility knives buried under a bunch of other stuff in a cupboard - I bought one for 700 pesos and got to work cutting two of the seven lines of tread off of my rear tire. After about an hour of slicing (as well as two bottles of Powerade and a second 700 peso knife), I had fixed the tire rubbing to my satisfaction.

It was at about this time that a well-spoken local gentleman - perhaps in his late forties - walked up to me and asked if we could speak briefly. In fairly good English, he proceeded to explain to me that this entire valley was full of fruit farms that relied on migrant workers for the ongoing harvest. He opined that, while of course most Chileans would never accost a tourist, the foreign fruit harvesters were often desperate for money and thus far less trustworthy. He was convinced that if I stayed much longer, people would certainly come and steal my stuff - he advised me to pack up quickly and be very far away before sunset.

I'm not normally a very anxious traveler, but if a local tells me that a place isn't safe, then I'll take them at their word. It took just a couple of minutes to pack up and secure my kit, then I was back on the road as the sun dipped over the west side of the valley. The bike rode much better without the tire rubbing and I made it another 15 km before it was too dark to comfortably continue. I dragged my bike a short distance up a side trail on the slope of the valley above the road, then set up my tent in a gulley where it was invisible from even a few meters away. I was a bit on-edge from the man's warning, but at least I was out of sight of any settlements or vehicles driving by. Between that and a dog across the road barking every time I made the slightest sound, it wasn't the best night's sleep I've had.

I was on the road again at sunrise. There was again a significant amount of traffic as I continued southeast - mining trucks, fruit trucks, water trucks, and a fair number of smaller cars presumably carrying people to work. After about an hour, I rounded the final bend at the toe of a steep rocky ridge to reach the turn-off for C-459, a back-road that changes designation a few times along its length and runs all the way to the border. Although it had some rolling hills that were a bit of a drain when riding with such a heavy setup, both the paved and gravel sections were in overall very rideable condition. What really stood out, however, was the near-complete lack of traffic. The entire time from when I left C-35 heading out to when I rejoined C-35 on my return, I encountered maybe half a dozen vehicles.

My distance the previous day had been about 20 km short of what I'd planned, so I was aiming to make up some of the difference if I could. However, I still wasn't making great time. The hills were definitely a factor, but also the higher rolling drag on my fatbike was most prominent at this point in the trip when I was on smooth asphalt carrying a heavy load. I rode strongly through the morning and into the early afternoon - even with some breaks, it was a fairly long session.

When I'd completed 43 km and was contemplating an extended lunch break, the overcast sky suddenly turned into a torrential thunderstorm. Rain is one of a few things I never thought I'd have to deal with on an expedition in the Atacama Desert - clearly it does rain here sometimes, but I had never anticipated that I'd see a major storm in the middle of Austral summer. For me, the downpour was a bit of an issue since none of my gear was meaningfully waterproof. If I was feeling fresh, I might have kept going through the rain, but I was already much in need of a rest and a meal. I pulled off the road into a gravel pit I happened to be passing and scrambled to put up my tent and toss my dry clothes and sleeping bag inside. By the time I could get myself into the tent, I was thoroughly soaked. 

While initially a bit chilled by the rain, once I was in my tent I gradually transitioned from cold and wet to just wet. Outside, the thunderstorm had tapered off into a steady drizzle which faded to nothing over the next hour or so. I busied myself preparing a bag of pasta carbonera as a pick-me-up in addition to the planned soup-and-tortillas lunch, and watched a movie on my phone while the rain dissipated. The road was slow to dry - even after the rain stopped, it remained overcast until the evening. I contemplated whether to get back on my bike and continue onwards, but the bad sleep and long morning session had worn me out. I unpacked my sleeping bag and went to bed after an early dinner.

The third day on the road dawned clear and calm, and I was packed and ready to ride before the sun even hit my tent over the valley crest. The next few kilometers were beautiful. At times, the road dropped down near the level of the stream through the valley, and the vegetation was growing so thick and lush that it overhung the narrow lanes to form almost a green tunnel. Even when the road ran higher up the valley sides, every plant was bright and crisp from the previous day's rain - the valley had a wonderfully fresh feel that I've rarely encountered in the Atacama. I continued to pass the occasional small farm as I rode along. While most showed evidence of recent human activity, I rarely saw anything to indicate people were there presently - certainly nobody was outside. 

In the mid-morning, I finally reached the end of the asphalt. The gravel road wasn't in amazing shape, but neither was it awful - no problem at all for the fatbike. I also started to notice that my rear wheel was rubbing again, so I stopped for a snack break and trimmed off yet another line of tire tread. Even the relief from that fairly light rubbing made a noticeable increase to my speed, and I continued up the road at what felt like a good pace. I passed through a small settlement that Google Earth labels "La Gaurdia" in the late morning - here there were a dozen or so modern pickup trucks (mostly the ubiquitous Toyota Hilux) parked around what seemed to be a basecamp for miners. They had a sign out indicating that they had fresh eggs and cheese for sale, but I figured I had plenty of food already so I continued straight through. The valley floor in this area was nearly flat, resulting in a comparative abundance of arable land, but this also caused yesterday's rain to linger on the dirt road to form numerous stretches of thick mud. I stopped for lunch not long after - more soup and tortillas!

The weather was stable, but by late afternoon I had only done about 55 km and 1000 vertical meters - not that much for the hours I'd spent in the saddle. When I stopped for a snack upon reaching 3000 m elevation, I noted that my rear tire was again rubbing. As I inspected the rear wheel and rack, I realized that the rack supports - which I'd flexed out a bit to bolt in place on the wide rear axle of the fatbike - had been gradually deforming inwards to cause ever-greater contact with the rear tire. Worse still, I discovered that the single chainring had become severely worn after only three days on the road - there was even visible aluminum dust embedded in the residual wax on my chain. It was all very concerning, but I also knew I was too tired and stressed to figure this out right now. I set up my tent, washed my face and torso in the stream, cooked some dinner, and went to bed. I would reconvene my thoughts in the morning.

I slept in a bit, then got to work trying to fix the problems with my bike. I tackled the rear rack issue first - that one seemed more straightforward. By bending a few things and re-adjusting the seatstay braces to a more extended position, I was able to get it into a situation where it would probably not fail catastrophically if it did continue to bend. Continued deformation would first lead to a particular bolt rubbing against my brake disc, and that'd be a pretty obvious and benign indicator that I'd need to fix things again. The chainring was a bigger problem. In only a few days of riding - and quite likely all on the previous day - I'd worn off a noticeable fraction of the tooth thickness as the skewed chainline rubbed on the side of the chainring in the lowest gears. I hadn't previously appreciated how off-application my expedition was for this system on the bike; normally, a fatbike rider might spin in the lowest gears for an occasional brief climb before shifting back up for flat ground and descents. I'd been running in the lowest couple of gears for hours on end under sustained power to drag my bike (which with me and my supplies on it weighs twice as much as it normally should) up an endless series of hills. Add to that the previous day's frequent splatterings of gritty mud, and it's no wonder that components were showing serious wear. Understanding the cause seemed like little help; I had neither replacement parts nor the tools to install them, and I'd be unlikely to find those niche fatbike components in any city nearer than Santiago.

I pride myself on being a relatively conservative adventurer when it comes to personal safety. I do grand and daring expeditions, but always with a realistic backup plan. Proceeding on an apparently rapidly failing bike to do a solo overland expedition across abandoned roads and then into the trackless high-altitude desert... that seemed a bit too much. My equipment was failing in ways it shouldn't, the weather had been far different than expected, I was three days in and already a day behind schedule, and I was more tired and stressed than I felt I should be. It seemed like this just wasn't a trip I should continue. I packed up my bike and started back down the road to Copiapo. I told myself that maybe I could go back out after fixing my bike, but I felt like this would probably end up concluding my expedition.

About 5 km down the road, I happened to glance up a side-valley to the north. Far in the distance was a soaring mountain peak - not one of the 6000ers I'd set out to climb, and maybe not even a named summit, but still undoubtedly a couple kilometers higher than where I stood to take in the view. Much of the summit was covered in bright white snow, maybe from the storm two days prior. As I looked up at this peak, I realized that 1) what I really wanted was to go up and climb some snowy mountains, and 2) I would absolutely regret it if I turned back now. I sat on the side of the road and gamed it out: if my bike completely failed, I had the fitness and supplies to hike out on foot, and if that went wrong, I could still arrange an extraction over my InReach. 

As anyone who has overshot their exit on a highway knows, retracing ground you've already covered is no fun. It took 45 minutes to push my bike up the massive incline I'd just descended and get back to where I'd been. Luckily though, the road flattened out around the next bend after my campsite, and I was able to ride (rather than push) almost continuously for the rest of the day. To try to mitigate wear on my drivetrain, I periodically poured olive oil from my food supplies over the chain - often invoking some choice Latin phrases as I did so! The valley soon opened up into a broad marsh and meadow with dozens of goats and semi-wild horses. After lunch I approached the border outpost and found it every bit as abandoned as Google Earth had suggested, so I rode north on the mining road towards Paso Quebrada Seca.

Through the Pass

By the end of the fourth day, I had reached a point about 12 km from the pass at an altitude of 3700 m. This was a bit more than a day behind schedule, but I felt it prudent to take a rest day. In the afternoon, I biked - sans paniers - a short way back down the valley to refill my water bottles at a stream through a place my map said was called Playa de la Gallina. Without 60 kg of stuff strapped to it, the fatbike was surprisingly nimble.

On the morning of the sixth day, I continued up towards the pass, intending and expecting to be through that same day. The first 2.5 hours were spent pushing my bike up the steep mining road to an altitude of 4200 m where the ravine leading to the pass cuts through the ridge - once there, I left the road entirely. Maneuvering my bike around (and sometimes right through) hundreds of basketball-sized thorn bushes, I pushed my bike up the steadily-narrowing valley for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. It was far steeper terrain than I'd anticipated. I had to fully unload my bike several times to shuttle my panniers and backpack through the roughest sections, including a particularly memorable V-shaped gulley of cobble-sized roacks with multiple dessicated animal skeletons laying along the bottom - a desolate place indeed! As the sun started to dip below the valley walls, I had still not reached the top. I was blocked by a steep slope of rubble about 20 m tall; I'd definitely have to unload again and relay my gear up to the top, but I just didn't have the energy for it - I set up camp and went to bed.

In the morning, I was stiff and sore from moving my bike through such rough terrain - clearly brute force was not a great solution. Leaving my tent where it was, I hiked up to the top of the pass to see what was in store and make a plan. I soon discovered that, although the slope that had blocked me was not the last obstacle, it was probably the worst that I had yet to overcome. It was a relief to reach the crest and finally see the giant peaks I'd come all this way to climb. The far side of the pass opened up onto broad, gravelly slopes that would be rideable, and there were several clear routes down to and across the river that ran on the Argentinian side. From the edge of the river, I did some extensive reconnaisance with my drone to establish a feasible path up and around a series of foothills before the mountains I'd be climbing.

It was around 2:00 that I finally got back to my camp, and I decided to relax for the rest of the day. Lucky for me, Paso Quebrada Seca is not entirely "seca" (dry) - there was a clear and cold spring that emerged in the gulley not far from where I'd pitched my tent.

In the morning, I made no further delay in getting my gear up the slope and re-packing my bike to push onwards to the top. It wasn't easy, but knowing that the worst was behind me helped keep me upbeat and focused. I reached the border around noon and stopped for a snack at the rusty steel spire that marks the pass - I might not be the first person to have crossed here, but I'll bet I was the first one who brought a wheeled vehicle through!

I coasted down the slope to the river, walking my bike the last 40 vertical meters down a steep grassy ravine with a texture like a golf green. I made my lunch soup directly from the river water, and then relayed my gear up the far side before reassembling my bike to continue pushing up the long canyon that would lead me back up to the plateau.

Over the next half-hour of pushing, the ground got progressively more sandy. As I strained to drag my loaded bike up one particularly steep stretch, the ground under my left foot gave way - and my ankle with it. I let my bike flop over and sat down to check what the situation was. A few pokes and prods told me that at least nothing was broken, but it felt tender and painful to walk even without the bike. I dug out a tent pad on the slope a few meters away and set up camp - again far short of my daily goal, and now injured. 

My ankle was improved somewhat in the morning, and with no redness or swelling I figured it was rolled rather than sprained, and perhaps one day of recovery would be enough. Hooray - my third rest day in the last five days! I spent the day reclined in my tent watching shows I'd saved to my phone (mostly The Lincoln Lawyer) and reading an ebook (Geddy Lee's autobiography My Effin' Life). 

In the morning - now on day 10 of the expedition - I packed up my camp and carefully continued onwards. This time, I took no chances with overloading myself to get the bike uphill - wherever the slope became even somewhat steep or unstable, I unloaded the bike and relayed my supplies. Although it took much of the morning, I got myself and my gear up to the plateau and back into the saddle on marginally rideable terrain. As I began to ride, I noticed a series of well-worn trails in the sand - undoubtedly from the vicunas and guanacos native to the area (imagine something halfway between a deer and a llama). I followed these tracks through some of the undulating terrain and found it to be a very efficient route; these animals have been wandering through for millenia, so they've probably figured out the easiest paths. I rode across the plain until finally reaching the foot of the slope up to the col between two of my first objectives: Cerro Baboso and Cerro del Veladero. As was becoming a theme on my trip, the slope I'd planned to ascend was steeper and rockier than expected. I opted instead to work my way up a runoff gulley, which wasn't easy but at least was more gradual. By nightfall, I was most of the way up - I left the last few hundred vertical meters for morning and watched a very colurful sunset over the expanse of desert I'd just crossed. The 19 km I'd covered was hardly impressive, but better by far than I'd done the previous few days.

Reclus, Baboso, and del Veladero

I moved my camp up to the col itself in the morning, then took a brief hike around to scout the approaches to the three peaks I wanted to climb from this base. Prominent and clearly climbable ridges of Baboso and del Veladero led to within sight of my camp and would be accessed easily, but to reach Reclus I'd have a long walk with an unfortunate amount of elevation to be lost and then regained in both directions. The forecast for tomorrow was clear all day, so I figured I'd start with the trek to Cerro Reclus - probably the least technical mountain on the trip, but requiring nearly 30 km of travel for the round-trip hike.

Glad to finally be going for a summit, I set out in the mid-morning with my water bottle, a few granola bars, and my drone/camera bag all stuffed into a cheap drawstring satchel worn as an impromptu backpack. By noon, I'd rounded the base of Cerro Baboso and begun the long, easy slope up to Reclus. I took a line that initially seemed to avoid the roughest terrain, but looks were deceiving - I soon found myself scrambling side-slope on a mix of scree and exposed rock. As the weather was favourable for it, I stopped before the final push to the summit to fly my drone and capture some good shots for a planned SummitPost page. I also confirmed that the north peak was the high point on the mountain (marginally taller than the other one about 300 m away). I reached the summit at about 3:30 under clear skies, with an excellent view of the surrounding mountains. I had hoped to climb the south summit as well to see the Inca ruins reportedly located there, but the day was getting late and I had a long way to walk back to my camp. The sunset had just faded to full darkness when I finally reached my tent.

Wanting to make up lost time, I climbed Baboso the following day despite not setting out until early afternoon. Athletically, this climb would be the easiest of this first group at only 12 km round-trip with 800 m of elevation gain. My route - as I assume was the case for most prior climbers - followed the prominent southwest ridge of the mountain. After a modest hike and scramble to reach the low point of the ridge, I followed it all the way up to achieve the summit at 3:30. I flew my drone out as far as I dared to capture some of the grandeur of the ridgeline. Baboso is one of a handful of peaks in the area that has real glaciers; the slope immediately east of the ridge I'd climbed is home to a massive tongue of ice complete with crevasses and an exposed glacial toe. I conducted a second drone flight partway down the mountain to explore the glacier up close, even if I wouldn't actually be setting foot on it. I returned to camp in time to eat dinner watching the sunset.

I wouldn't say I was still feeling fresh, but the 14th day of the expedition had me in good enough shape that I went for the summit of del Veladero despite forecasted afternoon clouds and wind. Similar to Baboso, my route would follow a long ridge ascending the north face of the mountain - this time, nearly 400 m taller than yesterday. The ridge terrain was loose at times but mostly easy, and rarely was there any meaningful fall exposure. Around the 6000 m point, I climbed through a patch of scree populated by marble-sized pebbles of pure cystalline yellow sulfur. Farther up, the mountain was mostly covered with a thin layer of snow, and the scattered clouds started to coalesce into a storm as I approached the summit. Undeterred, I reached the top at 2:30 where there were the foundations of an Inca-era hut, as well as a more recent mining pickaxe leaning against the summit.

I once again tried flying my drone from the summit; after some initial success flying upwind, a stronger gust pushed it inexorably into the recirculation that typically forms in the lee of a big peak. Caught in the eddy, the drone lost altitude rapidly, and within seconds I had lost all contact with it. In calm conditions this would not be a problem - the drone would return to its launch point automatically - but in these conditions and terrain it would have no ability to fight the wind or navigate the side of the mountain. I sprinted across the broad summit to the very edge of the steep eastern slope and managed to reconnect with the drone and resume my fight against the elements. Continuing to lose altitude, I brought it to within a few meters of the mountainside to catch the updraft of the recirculating air. This got it back up to my height, and I flew it the last few hundred horizontal meters with the critical battery warning blaring from the controller to make a rushed landing on a smooth patch of snow. Chagrined by my near-miss, I packed up and made an otherwise uneventful descent.

Bonete

It was finally time to move my camp. My next objective was Cerro Bonete - the fourth-tallest peak in the Americas - and its four subsidiary summits. To get there, I needed to descend 600 m to the intervening plain and travel up a jeep trail in the winding gulley that leads to the Corona del Inca itself. After packing up my tent (at which time I discovered a break in one of my tent poles), I set out to the east. I expected an easy ride down gravelly slopes, but what I got was hours of pushing - downhill, mind you - through scree, cobbles, mud, and ankle-deep water. I reached the plain in time for a late lunch, but the afternoon wind was by then causing problems. It was strong enough that riding was becoming difficult, and had turned the gulley I aimed to ride into a column of thick dust spewing literally kilometers out onto the plain in front of me.

I found shelter for the night in a ring of truck-sized boulders, and evidently I was not the first to camp there. Under an overhang in the lee of one rock was a large pile of what I can only assume was uncut firewood. It was weathered to the point of looking burnt - the wood itself had cracked into a charcoal-like texture. Since jeep tracks often last a decade or more in this area, I looked around for any evidence of recent human access; I found nothing. I had seen wood like this once before on the summit of Volcan Copiapo adjacent to an Inca ceremonial structure. This leads me to believe that this ring of rocks may have been used as a camp by Inca climbers centuries ago - perhaps the same groups that constructed platforms and huts on Reclus and del Veladero. If you do happen to go here yourself, please take a look and let me know your thoughts - I left the site undisturbed.

The wind was still pumping dust through the valley in the morning, but I was in no mood to wait so I packed up my bike. I find that there's a point where adverse conditions - when not actually dangerous - become so bad that it becomes comical; this was one of those days. I dug out my ski googles, wrapped a balaclava over my face to block some of the particulates, then slogged my way up the valley facefirst into the torrent of dust. It seemed to come in waves - often, I could see a couple hundred meters ahead with blue sky above me, and then moments later it would be so thick that even my feet were blurred. It was one of the most fun sections of the trip, and I wish I could share the videos here!

After about 3 km of gulley almost perfectly aligned with and exposed to the wind, I finally reached a stretch that was marginally more sheltered. The next 5 km was still pretty brutal as I pushed my bike one step at a time through endless soft sand churned to a powder by the passage of hundreds of jeeps and motorcycles en-route to the caldera above. The situation eased as I entered a narrower, rockier stretch of the valley where the ground retained enough moisture to have frozen solid overnight - I could finally ride for short stretches again in between bouts of pushing. I reached my planned basecamp location in the early afternoon - a dune of smooth, clean sand beside a babbling brook in the lee of a larger hill to provide some shelter from the wind. When the breeze died down and the sun was out, it was almost like sitting on a beach!

I went to bed early in preparation for a hard climb: my plan was to do all five Bonete summits - including the main peak at 6760 m - in a single long day. I roused myself well before sunrise and was on my way after a quick breakfast. I made my way up the now-frozen brook beside my camp; it would lead me up a steep gulley to the north ridge of the main Bonete summit. The scramble up the gulley was fantastic - some of the most genuinely fun climbing I've done in the Andes so far. I had expected the usual stream running through channels in the scree, but in many places the meltwater here flows through hard-rock canyons over a series of 3-10 m waterfalls. In the pre-dawn cold, these were all frozen into delicate splashes of muddy ice.

Upon exiting the gulley, I could see that the ridge itself was for more rough and broken than I'd anticipated - It would be difficult and dangerous to follow it all the way up. Instead, I set out more or less directly up the north face of the mountain on the open slopes. As I climbed, the wind picked up and I started to get cold. Although I had worn all my layers and my large down mitts, my feet were protected only by the trail-running shoes I'd thought would be suitable for the entire trip; on this day, that was not enough. I reaced the ridge at an altitude of 6400 m to find that the far side was a sheer drop-off in most places and so there would be no sheltered alternate route out of the wind. Knowing that it would be two hours to the summit and at least another hour even to return to where I had now reached, I turned back to try again on a less windy day. The gulley was a similarly engaging scramble on the descent, even with the now-thawed stream gushing through.

The forecast for the next day was more promising, and I again was up before dawn. As I started my approach hike, I felt increasingly unwell. I had no energy to push my pace and no enthusiasm to complete the climb. I kept going for almost two hours, but - after leaving most of my undigested breakfast on the frozen ground - eventually decided that I was not in a condition to do the climb. I spent the rest of the morning rehydrating and dozing in my tent. Later, I inspected all the food I had recently eaten. To my dissatisfaction, the bag of dried shrimp I'd been using for my nightly soup had both condensation inside and a distinctly inedible odour. I checked the other unopened bags I still had - all were similarly spoiled. So... no more shrimp.

After resting for the afternoon and the following day, I resolved to give Bonete one more try. It didn't go any better. Once again, the wind picked up as I climbed - it was even colder this time since the sun was obscured by thick clouds forming in the air pushed up the side of the mountain. I made it only 50 m higher than I had on my first attempt before turning back once again.

I didn't feel like I could spare more time and energy for this summit, so I decided to climb the subsidiary peaks while I could and then move on with my expedition. I reached the closest summit at 2:40, then followed a mostly direct line from there to reach the second about 75 minutes later. I paused for a long while to study my topographic map - I wasn't entirely sure at the time whether the peak I'd just reached was the proper one, or if the next major bump on the ridge was the summit to be tagged. After a bit more hunting around, I finally found a plastic bag stuffed in a small cairn that indicated this was the place to be. I reached the third (and tallest) subsidiary summit around 6:00, but it took almost an hour of scrambling to find and confirm which spot was actually highest. By the time I was able to continue along the ridge, the sun was nearly at the horizon. As I descended to the final col, I realized it was already much later than I planned - climbing the final peak would keep me out a further two hours or more, and I'd be descending a steep slope in full darkness. I reached the col and headed down to find a route back to camp.

It was a long 10 km walk to reach my tent. After the initial descent, I had a bit of fading light as I traversed the lower slopes before the light was gone entirely. For lack of a better option, I continued downhill along the first major stream I came across. This led me into a series of steep-sided sandy gullies. The terrain seemed imposing in the limited reach of my headlamp. Each time the gulley widened or joined another, I thought it must be the main outflow which ran down the valley past my camp, but each time there seemed to be another narrowing and another descent. Several times, the stream passed through arches and tunnels of old snow and frozen sand - the largest of these were tens of meters long and tall enough to walk through upright, although only once did I go underneath rather than up and around on top. I still regret not taking any pictures - even with just my headlamp to illuminate the scene, it was one of the coolest terrain features I've encountered. I was back at my tent at around 11:00 after 16 hours of nearly continuous hiking.

 

Los Gemelos and Pissis

Feeling ready to see some different scenery, I packed up my camp and pushed my bike out to the main streambed and its myriad jeep tracks. The route I'd planned would follow these tracks to where they converge and ascend up the long slope on the south side of the Corona del Inca crater. As I'd expected (for once), the terrain here was generally sandy - pushing the bike up 300 vertical meters took about 3 hours aside from a long lunch break in the meager shadow of one of the few large rocks. Once I reached the rim, I was able to ride some of the time in between stretches of pushing through the softer ground. I think if I had been feeling fresh, it would have been almost entirely ride-able. By nightfall, I had traveled about 11 km and was nearing the high point on the west rim of the caldera. I climbed over the edge to harvest some penitentes from a snowfield on the crater rim, and set up my tent in the lee of another large rock.

I was up in good time the following morning, and after a short push uphill to the end of the jeep tracks, I was back in the saddle riding easily on level ground and gentle down-grades. Rounding some low hills, I picked up a drainage leading to a large pond at the base of Los Gemelos. As I rode, the trickle of water through the gulley began to thaw from its nightly freeze. I stopped for an early lunch on the sandy embankment with a good view of the twin summits. "Los Gemelos" literally means "The Twins", and the peaks are technically two subsidiary summits of Cerro Reclus to the south.

The forecast was mostly clear into the evening, so I ditched my supplies where I'd stopped and began my approach on the unloaded fatbike. I made good time for about a kilometer on a gentle uphill, then pushed my bike to the top of a steep rise. It was clear from there that the bike would be little help for the rest of the climb; even though the next kilometer or so had little elevation gain, it was cut by numerous deep gulleys that would be far easier to cross on foot. I left my bike and continued up towards the main outflow from between the two summits. The scramble led through easy terrain along a strongly-flowing stream. After reaching a fork, I turned towards the southern summit and headed for the top on a nearly direct line. After picking my way up a steep scree slope and delicately threading through a gap in the iced-over snowfield above, I reached the rockier summit plateau. It took a few minutes to confirm where the high point was, and I built (possibly rebuilt, as there were some rocks already there that may have been placed deliberately) a small cairn and left a Tibetan prayer flag as a token of reaching the summit.

After a granola bar and some aerial photography, I made a quick - if perhaps slightly precarious - descent of the south summit's north face towards to col. The slope was steep and loose, and I was glad not to have been ascending it. Passing by a few small clear ponds around the col, I made my way over several rocky hummocks to reach the much more stable (but similarly steep) south face of the north summit. The sun was not far from the horizon, so I quickly chose one of the blockier ribs on the face that was just barely still in the sunlight, got some Rush playing on my phone, and finished the final 100 vertical meters in less than 15 minutes. I swapped my drone batteries for another photography flight with the terrain highlighted by deep shadows from the nearly horizontal sunlight. This summit had a small cairn; I built it up taller and left another flag before descending as I had come. I had mostly completed my descent when the sun set just after 20:00, but it was fully dark when I reached my bike. I rode down along my ascending track (visible now in Google Earth imagery captured just days later) to return to my supplies by the streambed, and set up camp where I was. 

A short push up the dune north of my camp brought me to wavy sandy slopes trending downhill in the general direction of Monte Pissis. Pedaling lightly to maintain speed, I rode over this relatively easy terrain until reaching a broad delta in the streambed where it spreads into the sand and disappears. I cycled over the flats through the occasional puddle until rounding a nearby embankment to find dry ground and a clean snowfield. The previous day had been fairly taxing, so I set up camp and relaxed for the afternoon.

My original plan had been to climb a circuit of every named peak on Pissis (13 in total) in a single long push, but I no longer felt I had the energy for what would undoubtedly be 24+ hours of continuous hard effort. I still hoped to at least summit a few of the most prominent points on the massif, even if I had no further plans to complete the entire chain. I figured I'd start with Pissis Altar - the westernmost summit over 6000 m - and continue from there as I could.

I set out in the morning just after sunrise with a slightly larger load-out than usual (six granola bars instead of three) and started the 5 km walk to the base of Pissis Altar. Winding my way up one of the more prominent runoff gulleys, I had a great view of several small glaciers situated in the lee of the adjacent hills. Working my way northeast up some scree slopes, I reached a rocky ridge mere meters from a much larger glacier descending from the summit to the plateau below. I followed this ridge all the way up to the summit to find a small cairn containing a faded and cracking plastic bottle. I left a flag in the bottle and took a careful look at my options.

Immediately between me and the main bulk of Pissis were two bands of glacier. Unlike the previous satellite images I'd seen, the glaciers were substantially crevassed so crossing solo would be a gamble. Detouring around them would add at least 90 minutes to the climb. Although the weather was still clear around me, I observed that each of the tallest mountains in the area - Ojos del Salado to the north, Pissis to the east, Bonete to the southeast, and del Veladero almost due south - had thunderstorms either developing or in-progress. The detour or glacier crossing might have been feasible, but climbing into a storm above 6500 m would be exceedingly reckless, and a far greater risk that I was willing to take on a peakbagging expedition. 

I descended Pissis Altar and made my way back to camp in no particular hurry. I varied my route a bit to pass closer to some of the other small glaciers on the way down, and the scenery did not disappoint. One particularly memborable sight was a large rock - probably half a ton - that had fallen on the glacier surface from above and which subsequently shielded the underlying ice from the sun to leave itself balanced on the tip of a thick penitente. I reached the plateau a short while later and finished the 5 km walk back by late afternoon. The thunderstorm over Pissis lasted past sunset.

The Voyage Home

 I decided in the morning that I was not going to re-attempt Pissis; I was only a couple of days from exhausting the more palatable parts of my food inventory, and frankly I was getting worn out by the terrain, weather, and general hard effort of the expedition. Arranging over InReach for an earlier flight back to Toronto, I packed up my bike and started riding west back towards Chile.

With the help of a friend reviewing Google Earth via InReach, I was aiming to take a different and hopefully easier route back across the border. Rather than crossing at Paso Quebrada Seca, I would ascend a series of mine roads cut into the side of a hill several kilometers to the north to pass over the ridge at an altitude of about 5200 m to reach a similar series of mine roads on the other side. This would be considerably higher than my previous crossing, but hopefully much faster since all but a fairly level 900 m at the top would be on bulldozed roads.

I rode through the morning, often able to coast downhill as I decended 700 m over about 20 km horizontally. I reached the last backcountry road before the border at about noon and traveled 5 km south to reach the old mine and the foot of the ridge where I would cross. After a short break for a hot lunch, I started the long push up the switchbacks. The 500 m ascent took me the entire afternoon; the mine road was in many places just flattened stretches of cobble-sized rubble. The final 50 vertical meters had only the faintest remnant of a trail ascending a 35% slope, and I resorted to one last interval of relaying my panniers, backpack, and bike in separate trips up to the top of the ridge. There was just time to set up my tent in the fading light before full darkness. I ate my dinner while watching another round of massive electrical storms rage in the silent distance over Pissis, Bonete, Reclus, and del Veladero - there was rarely more than a second or two between flashes of lightning.

The sun rose to a clear and calm day, and I was packed and moving a short while later. The first challenge was getting down the far side of the ridge. Although there were wide and well-built mine roads below, the inital downhill grade exceeded 60% (the steep gulley at top right in the photo below). I walked my loaded bike down the incline one step at a time, squeezing the brakes the whole way. The mine roads on the Chilean side were in much better shape than the ones I'd climbed to ascend the day before, and I was able to coast downhill almost continuously to the valley floor. The road south started in the next valley over, so I had to regain about 100 m of elevation to reach it over a low ridge. As I reached the other side, a shadow as large as my bike passed over me - I looked up to see an enormous black bird (I assume an Andean condor, but not entirely sure) riding the ridge lift on the valley edge only about 20 m above me. I stopped to take pictures and eat a granola bar, and the bird obliged by continuing to circle for the next 15 minutes before departing to the north.

After my break, I continued downhill; to make my flight out of Copiapo, I'd need to be back by the next day at the latest. I passed by the ravine to Paso Quebrada Seca about an hour later, and my camp from Day 4 of the expedition shortly after that. After a hot lunch beside Rio de la Gallina, I continued downhill on the increasingly well-packed backcountry roads. It was mid-afternoon when I reached my Day 3 stopping point. I stopped briefly a little further down the road to look up again at the mountain view that prompted me to continue my expedition rather than throw in the towel 22 days prior. As the sun set, I reached a scenic campsite under a willow tree beside the fast-flowing Rio Jorquera. 

Knowing I had a long way to go on my final day of riding - much farther than I'd planned at nearly 140 km. The first 50 km was relatively easy as I biked along Rio Jorquera down to where it meets Rio Copiapo. This stretch wasn't uniformly downhill, but any climbs were short-lived before I could once again coast or pedal easily down the descending valley. However, the final 90 km was a slog. What little downhill grade was present on the road was entirely obviated by a stiff headwind that I fought for most of the rest of the day. I was making reasonable time despite the sustained effort, but just as I reached the outskirts of Copiapo itself, I bonked. For those unfamiliar with endurance sport, "bonking" is a casual term for acute hypoglycemia - essentially I had exhausted my body's glycogen reserves, leaving me barely able to stay on my feet let alone ride a heavy bike. I drank the last of my water and ate a granola bar in the shade of some trees while my metabolism slowly gained some ground. The last 8 km to my hotel took more than two hours as I walked and gently rode from one open-air convenience store to the next to keep up a steady intake of Powerade.

Finally reaching Hotel Pulmahue, I took my first shower in weeks and went out to find pizza, yogurt, juice, and a variety of fruits and veggies for dinner. I packed up my bike in the morning and - with the help of a random local whom I paid 2000 pesos (about $1.50 CAD, and double what he asked) - I hauled my bike box down to the bus station for the trip to the airport. The flight to Santiago was uneventful, and I spent an overnight layover mostly catching up on current events and writing a rough draft of SummitPost pages for Cerro Reclus and Cerro del Veladero. My flight back to Toronto left SCL just after dawn, and I was home in time for a late dinner.

 

Lessons Learned

As with my last trip, I relied way too heavily on satellite images and topographic maps to plan what would be feasible from one day to the next. Areas I thought would be smooth turned out to be rocky. Ravines I thought would be wide turned out to be steep and narrow. Trails I thought would be hard-packed turned out to be sand. All of these misunderstandings could have been avoided if I made sure to corroborate my information against boots-on-the-ground images and reports from other hikers.

My planning also fell short with regards to how much distance and elevation I could cover each day. My effort calculations are based on how fit I was on certain previous trips, but maybe I need some adjustment based on changes in fitness since then and in the future. As well, there is so much variability in backcountry terrain that it seems foolish in retrospect to have just one "value" of difficulty for all the different challenges of offroad cycling; the 8 km/h nominal speed I used might be realistic sometimes, but in other settings it is difficult or impossible to move that fast. I think I need to compare my time estimates to how other cyclists fare in the same terrain. If it takes Neil and Harriet Pike three days to cross over the Pissis Massif, it probably is going to take me a similar amount of time to cross a similar pass - even if the distance and altitude doesn't immediately seem to justify that sort of duration.

I slacked-off on my training prior to setting out on this trip because my life was busy and stressful, and I definitely noticed that I was both less fit and less motivated as a result. Particularly if I want to keep pushing the boundaries of my expedition capabilities, I need to make sure that I plan future trips for times when I have the ability to focus and train at a level commensurate with my ambitions. At a minimum, dragging my cycling FTP back up to 300 W should give me a bit more margin on actually achieving useful daily distances.

Even if I can become a lot more fit, relying purely on human power will inevitably limit how fast and how far I can travel in the backcountry. With that in mind, I am considering a bit of a relaxation of my personal climbing ethic: I might allow myself to use solar or wind power to cover more ground on future expeditions. I could quite readily fit 100 W of solar panels on my fatbike, and - with appropriate gearing - this could substantially improve my speed over level terrain and vastly reduce the effort required to push my bike up steep slopes. I have long been anticipating the direction and strength of the wind to push me where I wanted to go on these trips, and it seems little different with regards to sportsmanship to use solar power as and when it is available. The energy is out there anyway, so I may as well do something with it!

It was clear on this trip that I've not paid adequate attention to my footwear. On my first trip to the Andes in 2020, I wore insulated hiking boots and I was comfortable. On my second and third trips, I wore more typical hiking shoes and my toes sometimes got cold. This time, I wore trail-running shoes and had to turn back from a major summit twice due to my feet getting dangerously cold. I still don't think I'll be wearing mountaineering boots in the Puna de Atacama, but I definitely need to find some warmer footwear before I try summits like this again. A warmer jacket and/or some shell pants might also be helpful.

Crossing the border improperly isn't likely something I'll be doing again. Nothing happened and nobody knew or cared, but I'd rather focus on pushing limits of athleticism rather than limits of legality. It might mean taking longer routes in the future, or else having a full backup itinerary planned in case of unexpected closures, but I don't want my climbing to get me in (that kind of) trouble, or even just to annoy anyone who's trying to do their job.

Dried shrimp is clearly not shelf-stable through massive swings in temperature and humidity. I'm still struggling to find really appealing breakfast cereal in Chile. The local custom seems to be more focused on fresh bread and a hot breakfast, and maybe cereal is just not in high demand. Alternatively, perhaps I just haven't gone to the right stores. 

The fatbike worked well overall. Even if the road segments were a bit slower due to higher rolling drag, the ability to ride overland at all in the absence of trails more than made up for it. In addition ot the above remarks about solar power, I can substantially improve my bike by resurfacing the tires to leave a thinner and less prominent tread pattern for lower rolling resistance, adding tube sealant to automatically stop small leaks (which would make my wheels almost invulnerable to thorns), building a custom rear rack that fits properly, and possibly even replacing my aluminum frame with a custom carbon fiber version - not sure I have time in the near future for that last one.

My gear is still too heavy overall for what I'm doing. All the low-cost equipment, the over-specified sleeping bag, and my myriad nicknacks add up to be a lot more weight than is really needed, and the lingering inefficiencies in my meal planning result in probably 3-5 kg of excess mass there as well. On this trip, I knew I'd be biking along streams most of the way, but I still was often carrying 5 L of water or more. More regimented meal-by-meal planning would probably solve most of this, and might also make my daily routine faster and simpler to leave more time for expeditioning.

 

Closing Remarks

Despite all the challenges, I'm glad I did this trip - especially that I didn't bail when things started to go different than I'd planned. Getting injured, getting sick, and not feeling able to do some of the more ambitious objectives was frustrating, but most of the trip was exactly the kind of wilderness adventuring I had wanted to do.

My strategies for bicycle mountaineering are always evolving, and this expedition was no different. In hindsight, I definitely could have learned a lot of the lessons I've described if I had been more cognizant of the shortcomings of previous trips - most of the hardships I encountered were just more severe instances of situtations I'd faced before. Perhaps this time I will actually be able to recall and apply what I've learned for my next adventure.

I'm still a long way from climbing all of the 6000 m Andes - if I can do it at all, it'll probably take me another decade. That said, I fully intend to keep trying. My next plan is to put into practice some of my thoughts on lighter, leaner, and solar-assisted travel through the Atacama by doing a long overland trip from Calama to Copiapo to attempt the ~20 Puna summits I have yet to tag. My life is again getting busy and complicated, so that trip might have to wait for a year or two, but it'll be epic!

 

 

Images

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