Los Andes

Reflections on Crossing the Abra El Acay

It's been about a week since we crossed the Abra El Acay, the mountain pass that the Argentines claim is the 'world's steepest pass'. Whether or not it is the world's steepest motorable pass (actually, long bits of the road are challenging for 4x4 vehicles), one thing is for damn sure -- it is bloody steep!

Before we even got to the foothills of the pass, we were getting warnings that the idea of cycling it was dubious at best. Most of the locals in the tiny pueblitos along the road had never been to the top, and they only knew that the road was 'muy feo' and the top of the pass 'muy alto'. Perfect, we thought.

Even the first cycle tourists we met on the trip, a hardy pair of Germans named Andre Schumacher (no relation to the Formula One driver) and Burkhard Rothe (who goes by 'Pablo' in Spanish), issued ominous warnings about the pass.

Andre and Burkhard, who are on an extended odyssey from Patagonia to Alaska (check out their website), were planning to take another route through northern Argentina, one that would steer well clear of the Abra El Acay. When we passed them along a sand-buried stretch of Ruta 40, where they were repairing a thorn puncture on the roadside, they were already astonished by the abysmal state of the road from Cafayate to Cachi.

'It's almost impossible to cycle through this bloody stuff,' Burkhard bemoaned, stamping his foot into the mound of sand that happened to be Ruta 40.

'You're going to cycle the Abra El Acay?' queried Andre. 'We read in a cycling magazine that the road is very bad, very steep... basically, it is not recommended for cycling.'

That was exactly what we wanted to hear, especially from other long-distance cyclists, and even more so from the only ones we have seen in almost six weeks of cycling in Chile and Argentina. Without realising it, they had thrown down the gauntlet, issuing a genuine challenge.

One thing was clear: we would be cycling over that pass, come hell or high water, or both. If successful, our brand of ultra-lightweight 'expedition cycling' would once again be vindicated.

In the already tiny world of bicycle touring, Scott and I are among a miniscule minority of cyclists who actually go out of their way to take the most primitive tracks through high-altitude deserts and mountains. If you search the internet for information on cycling in South America, for example, most of the cyclists with websites have taken the major SEALED roads through South America, cruising along the boring Pan-American Highway and taking the paved main road from Chile to Bolivia and on to La Paz. In fact, when some of these cyclists mention places such as the Abra El Acay, they say it would be 'a serious adventure' and then bang on about their route along the trunk road to the next provincial capital.

The most obvious reason why these roads are impassable for these cyclists is simple: WEIGHT. The vast majority of long-distance cyclists we have met over the past decade seem compelled to carry all the creature comforts of home with them. In addition to all the necessary camping and survival gear, many carry a small library with them, notebook computers, the kitchen sink, you name it!

Question for continental European cyclists, especially the Germans: 'What is all that stuff you have in those bulging panniers?' 'And why do you need front panniers anyway?'

Without any disrespect to the Gerries, who are by far the world's biggest cycle tourists per capita, we have to question this heavily laden touring model. To be sure, we have seen Germans and Belgians cycling unsupported in remote places, but never without dozens of kilos of questionable kit.

In such instances, Scott and I invariably end up fielding a barrage of questions about our lack of gear and suspension front forks (these front shocks make it nearly impossible to attach front panniers, thereby forcing the cyclist to travel lighter).

'I don't believe in suspension forks,' sniffed a German poser five years ago in Tibet, about two days before he cracked and put his bike on a truck bound for Kathmandu! Nuff said.

On our second day out of Cachi, we were thrilled to be ultra-light and to have suspension forks -- the road spiked sharply upwards, rarely at a gradient of less than 17 degrees. The graded road narrowed to a dirt track, filled with rock gardens of river stones (this would be a downhiller's wet dream, going the other way on a full-suspension downhill rig, padded to the nines).

It took every ounce of strength to keep the bikes moving forward, balancing over the unavoidable stones in the way, sucking for oxygen as we gained altitude.

As if this wasn't enough, then came the river crossings, reminding us of the Tibetan river-crossing purgatory of five years ago. Unlike Western Tibet, when we were easily crossing 20 deep streams a day during the Tibetan 'mini-monsoon', this time we only had about half a dozen. But at more than 3,000 metres, each of them was cold enough to give us a severe case of 'cahones pequenos'!

Yet we were still cocky, convinced we were going to summit the pass by mid-afternoon. We climbed and climbed, completing one series of switchbacks after another, only to round a crest and see another stretch of switchbacks.

Knackered but still undaunted, we climbed some more. We passed a lone, weather-beaten sign that read 'Negra Muerta'. I gave the sign a defiant middle finger and we carried on.

When I got an altimeter reading of about 4,400 metres above sea level (the Abra El Acay is at 4,895 metres), we thought we were getting close, as my altimeter often undershoots elevation by about 150-200 metres due to fluctuations in air pressure such as wind, etc.

We were dead wrong. For the first time ever, my altimeter was pretty much spot on, and when we rounded the corner we looked with horror at yet another series of hellish switchbacks, winding not to a proper pass (or an opening through the mountains), but rather straight over the top of the mountain!

Expletive after expletive was shouted, until we were so winded from the altitude that we couldn't shout any more. For the first time in 10 years of expedition cycling, we were deflated and humbled.

We also faced a bit of a dilemma: we were at about 4,500 metres and had seriously exerted ourselves gaining about 2,000 metres in a single day, giving us slight concerns about the possibility of altitude sickness if we couldn't cross the pass that day and descend to lower elevation.

Just before the sun set behind the glacier-capped mountain behind us, we were given a sign from the gods -- Scott had a puncture, which meant we were pitching the tents and leaving the pass for the next morning.

Luckily, we didn't suffer much from the altitude and even managed to get a few winks in between shivers (it was well below zero).

We woke to a glorious sunrise over the glacier, poked our heads out of the tents to see herds of graceful vicuna staring down at us from the mountain above.

Puncture repaired, we staged our final assault on the Abra El Acay, finally summiting it after about 45 minutes of cranking. Lactic acid burned in our quadriceps, burning, burning, then burning some more.

When we reached the top, the stunning view of northern Argentina from the other side made us both forget about any and all hardship: as far as the eye could see were mountains and high-altitude desert, including a giant white salt plain called the Salinas Grandes.

Behind all that was altiplano, stretching into Bolivia, which was unsettlingly obscured under dark storm clouds. It was, after all, still 'invierno Boliviano' (Bolivian winter) on that part of the altiplano. This is where we were headed, and we were sure to get our share of Bolivian white powder, but not the kind you would look forward to.

Posted by Brice at April 4, 2005 08:04 PM