Before leaving Tupiza we visited some of the tour agencies which run 4x4 excursions into these high mountains. We needed basic information like critical junctions and availability of food and water.

"Go up to Uyuni and cycle from there, like everyone else. From Tupiza it would be too difficult." They emphasised that this region is all about climbing. "Subida, subida, subida."

We just replied that we have "mucha experiencia en la cordillera." That's no boast, just a reflection of our 10,000 plus kilometres of cycling history, 4,700 of it in Tibet. The point is that we've cycled mountains before, and we've come to this venture as well prepared as is likely possible: relatively fit from the several high passes in the 2,500 kms of Andes cycling we'd made from Santiago; outfitted with -12 degree sleeping bags and good tents; and having plenty of carrying capacity for food and water -- not to mention solid bikes and a Spartan approach to what we take with them.

The travel agencies introduced us to their drivers and we spoke about the route.

Given the lack of information on this route, and the near total absense of signage (whether for passes or junctions), we took detailed notes and present them here for the benefit of those who want to try this very challenging route.

We set off into a blazing hot Tupiza sun and were soon wishing for higher elevations if only to cool things off. We figured that if we had to climb all day, that'd be fine. That's what we do.

The road began climbing a ravine.

Brice drinking from a Camelbak in the pannier.

And climbed above the ravine.

Before long the switchbacks began.

An hour of this and we thought we were closing in on the top.

The saddle which we took for the top revealed ... higher ground and more switchbacks. This section is called El Sillar.

And climb again we did.

Looking back on El Sillar.

The road reached a small plateu from which we could see a higher pass yet. You can just make out the road scaling the mountain from left to right in this photo, and then switching back left again. Seeing this, we decided to stop for lunch.

An hour after lunch we felt we were closing in on the top (again). The small plateau where we ate lunch is down to the right of Brice's cap in this photo.

Keep your head down and climb.

Sailei Pass

Voilá! Day One's pass is reached. No adornment here so we took the liberty of naming it.

We were well chuffed to be on top.

The road dropped into a pueblo called Nacimiento. Here we found some Tupiza officials getting tanked. The more fargone ones were a little overzealous in expressing fondness for their newfound best foreign friends.

We drew water from a barrel behind the tienda, bought some sardine tins and cookies, and cycled another kilometre up the road to set up camp for the night.

We had picked a good spot to camp. It was sheltered from the wind and we had a tranquil night and sunny morning. When I rolled up my tent I found a surprise underneath: a small scorpion.

This photo is looking back from the day's first pass, which we named after the little fellow I found beneath my tent.

From Scorpion Crest looking ahead -- west -- we got a good view of the road to come. It dipped into a valley and then climbed a ridgeline, which it maintained for some distance.

The ridgeline turned out to be quite scenic and rolling. We named it Sundance Saddle; this is the view south from the saddle.

Sundance Saddle

Further on we came across a shepherdess. This photo was taken after we had humiliated her dog, which initially leapt into the road upon our arrival as if to scare us. Big mistake. We put the bikes down and came after the dog instead -- sending it running for its owner.

The turnoff for Chilcovija. The road in the background is for the mining settlement; it is not our road. Just above the road you can make out a volcano.

A few kilometres further we stopped for lunch. A driver named Simeon who we had met in Tupiza caught up to us here. He leaned out the window and called to us. "Butchcassidysundancekid!"

A kilometre further we came upon a grassland, or pampa, where water is piped up from the acquifer. We loaded the canteens and water bladders here, taking more than we thought we would need, to be on the safe side.

Water capacity is the ace card. Each of the two larger bottles is 1.5 litres; the smaller is 1 litre. These plus two 3-litre bladders yields a capacity of 9 litres. Sometimes we would stash an additional 1.5 litre bottle in the panniers.

The road eventually yields to a view and rides a crest down into a river valley. Scott is visible on the upper part of this road.

Brice heading further down the ridgeline toward the river valley.

The river flowed through a narrow pampa poplulated, as always, with llama. They have poor manners, always staring at you.

The road left this flat pampa and followed the river upstream into a gorge. The road hugged this gorge and began to climb steeply in places as the gorge narrowed and the water spilled sharply down. Each turn yielded only to a view of another turn a little further ahead.

It was becoming late in the day and we were ready to find a climax to this uphill stuff. We just wanted a view to a pass so we'd know what we were contending with.

The top of the gorge opened up to a higher valley. The road turned south up the valley, and here we spied our pass. It was getting late but we could see a group of people walking up the pass. If they weren't bothered by the late hour, then we wouldn't be either. We decided to go for it, guessing we would have just enough daylight to descend a bit on the other side and pitch camp.

Paso Cruzero

Looking back from near the top of the pass.

Brice catching up to the people we saw from the bottom.

One of the group pointed out where we should go to reach our next town -- Cerillos. He said it would be a quick trip, but we knew to discount such estimates. On a bike, up here, nothing is particularly quick. All we wanted was to be on the right road, and to find a place to camp. Flat and, preferably, sheltered.

I took some notes atop Paso Cruzero, as at all other passes, junctions and other landmarks. This road is so sparse, and so lacking in markers, that we wanted to record everything for anyone goofy enough to take this route in future. The altimetre read 4248 metres; it usually undershoots (by 300 metres on Paso Agua Negra back in Chile) so this is probably closer to 4500 metres.

We bid adieu to the group and plunged down the pass. Soon we came across a junction -- with clear signposts. To the right the road led to San Vicente, where 'Butchcassidysundancekid' met their end. To the left, San Pablo.

We went left and descended still more in the waning rays of light. The slope contained a small basin where we could pitch the tents. Here lay another junction, also signposted. To the left, Ca.... To the right, San Pablo.

We pitched camp and left the decision about which way to go to the morning.

In La Quiaca, Argentina, we had shared a room with two English travellers who had done a 4x4 excursion from Tupiza to the lagoons -- and so had been on this route. We'd plied them for information about it, and what we came away with, aside from memories of their bewilderment that anyone would cycle this route, was that there is a "high" road in addition to the main route. Their driver had taken them out on the low road and back on the high one.

"It's high but the road quality is better. The lower one follows a river and is quite rocky," the guy had said. "The high road is also much more scenic. There's nothing up there, so you'd need to be prepared and have enough of your own food and water."

Now, three days out of Tupiza, we began to reach important junctions but could not agree on which roads to take. We had camped at a junction where a sign said San Pablo to the right, Ca(something) to the left.

On the morning of the third day out of Tupiza we had to decide whether to take the road clearly marked "San Pablo" or the one marked Ca(something). San Pablo was our destination, but we were anxious to take the "high road" to reach it.

In the event, we decided to take the road marked San Pablo, and expected very shortly to hit a place called Cerillos.

Instead, after 17 kilometres, we came upon only a few lonely settlements. The people there told us Cerillos was just around the corner.

Hence we continued on our road -- which soon turned into a pass ... which did not summit but kept climbing, completing a 360-degree turn around a mountain. So we called it Paso 360.

Paso 360

It wasn't long before we realised that not only had we missed Cerillos, we had also inadvertantly wound up on the high road -- without the benefit of taking on extra water and food. We had food and water enough for one day, but San Pablo would be a big trip to make in one day.

View south from Paso 360

This road was called the High Road for good reason. For one thing, it just kept going up. But it also came through with amazing views. We were as high as anything for miles off into the horizon.

Skeleton Crest

Around 4400 metres the road levelled off. I could see some curious type of sign or vehicle off to the right ahead. The closer we got, the clearer it became: wreckage of a lama skeleton. Rather, two skeletons -- two skulls juxtaposed and a giant rib cage.

We were definitely on the high road and, for now, the road actually seemed to be at a crest. We could see nothing higher around us, except for far off in the distance.

The road left this high area and dipped down into a valley, before rising again and heading for higher country still.

Santa Isabel junction

Then we hit the rarest of all finds -- a sign with distances. It was a junction for a road down to a mine. The sign, painted onto a rock, said clearly that San Pablo was 30 kilometres, taking the righthand fork. Of course, that way lay higher country.

We set off anew and climbed, higher and higher. To our left a fabulous view of the highest mountains in this area. Up here the vicuna were startled by our presence. They ran ahead of us on the road and dropped down practically sheer faces of slopes. We had not seen a person all day, and we got the impression they didn't see many either.

We climbed until the road came to a crest, where the wind beat down on us. We put on the shells and had a look at the way forward. It seemed the road would dip and then climb a steep face ahead of us. San Pablo must lie behind the broad, circular rim there.

In the event, the road took a different route -- to the left, near a mine called Santa Isabel. We hunkered down and follwed the road around a mountain, climbing once again. We saw above us a saddle; beyond this for certain we'd see San Pablo.

It wasn't so. At the saddle the road jogged to the left a bit, and then ascended some switchbacks. There was no point in whining about the turn of fate, we could only continue. We were keen as hell to make it close to San Pablo. At least we'd only have one night without food, and we would make San Pablo in time for breakfast the next day.

That uphill segment came to a vista. The pass! Or not? We held off the celebrations. Let's go another 100 metres up here and see if the road is hiding another pass above us. We went 100 more metres and the road did no such thing. This was the top.

Paso Santa Isabel (looking west)

Even though light was quickly fading, we decided we make a dash for San Pablo. This involved an economical use of the brakes -- and a faster descent than called for by the fading light.

The horizontal light made for stunning scenes. But this quickly disapperared, and we were cycling on fumes of light. At speeds that seemed pretty imprudent. Amazingly, neither of us fell off the bike. All of a sudden -- in darkness -- we spied lights rising up from below us. San Pablo.

We reached the town to find a sizable river blocking our way. Amazing. This day just wasn't going to be easy or end easy. A bridge was under contruction but nowhere near being across the river. We pushed the bikes into the delta and approached the water. There were single 2x4 beams pitched across branches of the streams. We rolled out on them, waving up and down over the water. It required maximum attention.

Once in town there was darkness. There was no electricity, just a few windows lit with candles or batteries. Locals directed us to the hospedaje.

I knocked on the nondescript, unmarked door and waited in darkness.

After a while the door opened. A man pushed his way past the woman who'd opened it. He stumbled into the street and slurred some words, reeking of alcohol. Brice and I have been harassed by drunks too often. Foreigners seem to be a favourite target for them. This man -- like others we'd seen along the way during this trip -- was blotto, and in an unpleasant, teetering-on-agressive manner.

We walked away immediately, ignoring him and determined to find another place to stay. We realised after much inquiry that there was no place else. A young guy on a bike understood our predicament, and led us into the hospedaje through the back gate, avoiding the drunk. The hotel owners prepared some food for us. By the time it was ready, the drunk was incapacitated.

Bellies full, we retired to our room and surrendered to exhaustion.

People often ask how much distance one covers in a day of cycling. Expedition cyclists know the answer varies hugely, based on the terrain, topography and road surface. The 76 kilometres we rode today were probably twice the effort of the 130 we did crossing Paso Agua Negra back in Chile.

Read the day's journal entry

We woke up to a bright day and hot breakfast. One of our fellow breakfasters, "Nain" was very curious about us. He looked as tired as we did. A bit homesick. No wonder – his wife and children live in Cochabamba; he visits them once a month.

"Yo tambien voy por estos lados," he said. "En moto."

"Educacion en el campo, acerca de disastres naturales."

Que tipo de disastre?

"Nevada."

Nevada -- that's a word for mountain, right? After all, we'd cycled right alongside the snowy Nevada del Acay back in Argentina.

He made a gesture of a snowslide and said "Nieve".

Oh, I said. "Mi hermano murio en un nevada."

"Si," he said. "Son muy peligroso."

Puzzled, we pushed him a bit. "Pero la gente propio deben saber que hacer sobre el nieve. Tienen mucha experiencia."

"Si, pero ellos cuida primer en las llamas. Tenemos que ensenar les que el hombre es primero, llama es segundo."

Fair enough, but it seemed odd to us. Surely the people can decide for themselves what's best. They're adults.

We bade Nain farewell and stepped into the courtyard to start assembling our stuff. The daily ritual.

The owner of the hospedaje approached us. "You guys are really great," he said in Spanish. We gave him a mystified look. "Que atravesaron en bici."

Yet, it is great. For those fit enough, acclimatised enough, mentally tough enough, and materially prepared, I highly recommend it, and the 'high road' especially. Just incredible scenery. All one needs do is follow our example. In all respects, down to the very specifics: take water in Nacimiento and a ton of water in the 'agua pampa' location three kilometres further from the turnoff for Chilco Vija.

San Pablo is a charming hamlet. The main streets yield views of the mountain Cerro Bonete. According to the proprietor of our hotel, this flat-topped peak is famous for condors and minerals. This is the preferred side for climbing the mountain.

He pointed to Cerro Bonete. "Hay muchos caminos Incas por alla. Muchos."

On July 30, 2001 a terrible snowstorm befell this place. The snow was waist-deep in San Pablo. Many people, llamas and vicunas died.

This being our first settlement since leaving Tupiza, we were due for a call at the local store and hopefully a phone call home. As luck would have it, there was a satellite-connected public phone in the main square. I bought a calling card and placed a message with Merav’s voicemail. I emphasized the enjoyment we’ve had in reaching San Pablo but also the intensity of the voyage: countless mountains; little food and water.

Satellite call Part 1
Satellite call Part 2

In the square we drew attention from all of the village children. This drew the attention of the village priest. He was a 40-something year old man from Germany.

We set off and crossed the 2x4 planks again, reaching the road of the previous evening.

We continued south by south-west on this road. Unclear of which of the various forks to follow, we waited for a cyclist who was coming our way from across the basin. Reaching us, he dismounted and excitedly looked at our maps. He explained that we could take any of these paths across the basin, so long as we proceeded over a certain hilltop.

We thanked him and continued across the basin floor.

Our track eventually climbed out of the basin, up to a small ridge.

Here we saw our first ostriches. They are funny creatures, waddling quickly out of view as you approach. They were grey and nearly blended into the rock around them but for their frantic, awkward waddle.

The road followed a gentle, shallow ravine down to some sand basins that defied cycling.

We stopped for lunch amid a tremendous herd of llamas.

The afternoon ride was tinted in many hues of red, with a gentle, long climb to an ultimate crest overlooking San Antonio de Lipez.

Early evening we were overtaken by several tour jeeps in the final kilometres to Lipez. The tours from Tupiza stop in San Antonio de Lipez rather than San Pablo.

Upon arrival we quickly attracted the 10 or so small children of the village. An older one among them, perhaps 11 years old, asked to ride my bike. Regrettably, I allowed him to do so. He proceeded to ride it directly over a little toddler, laughing at the consequences. One of the children in the crowd emerged to scoop up the screaming toddler.

Impending collision

“He is your brother,” Brice said to the boy holding the toddler, half asking and half asserting. The boy nodded.

We asked the townspeople where we could stay. They directed us to a hospedaje where the jeeps were parked. One of the jeep drivers saw us and said “No cyclists”. We didn’t take him seriously. But we quickly found out that neither of the cooks preparing meals inside would sell us their food. They said the drivers forbade it. The tourists kindly offered us their bread. One of them offered to cook us his provisions of rice and beans.

Concerned with our lack of food, a shop owner offered to sell us a cooked meal from his home. We agreed -- it would be lama stew and rice. He showed us his house and told us to come back in half an hour.

We came back in darkness save for the beam of our flashlights. The inside of the house was dark. The floor was of dirt. The space was occupied by an extended family. The food was being cooked in a pot on the floor. A foot away a small child defecated.

We told the guy that we couldn’t eat there after all, and apologised. We left and bought some tinned fish and crackers. We took these to our room (at an empty hospedaje) and had our dinner of, yet again, sardines and crackers.

Read the next morning's Journal entry.

A late start today because we indulged in multiple breakfasts and cups of tea on top of coffee. It's always that way up here. Someone will bring you out the necessaries for coffee and tea. These are such luxuries and the caffeine is such a pleasure, we just drink everything they bring out. Yes, we know this is self-defeating: caffeine is a diuretic.

We left town in the company of another cyclist, heading to his home only a few miles away. He said the economic situation was tough. The only jobs were in mining.

A few miles outside of town we came upon an archaeological ruin and stopped to photograph it. There seems to be some work on it, and this could have the makings of a tourist venue one day. But it is hard to imagine big numbers making it all the way out here, beyond the 4x4 tourist excursions coming from Tupiza and Uyuni.

The road wound into the mountains, offering us our second glimpse of ostriches. These were much closer and even more hilarious with their un-natural waddle.

The roads in Bolivia are often steep -- without consideration given to switchbacks -- and this day was no exception.

We broke for lunch on the edge of a crest overlooking a small ravine.

Brice points to the far ridge where the road will climb back out of the ravine

After lunch we plunged into the ravine, where the road tacked and went back up out of the ravine, steeply. This was first-gear stuff, demanding all one's physical wherewithal. It was steep and lengthy -- no respite from the gradient. Getting off the bike was unappealing, as getting back on is difficult on such a slope. There is really no alternative to digging deep and moving the rig up the mountain. Again, it's true granny gear stuff.

The road finally switch-backed higher up, and this allowed us to stop and drink water.

It soon resumed its straight-up approach and demanded everything in one’s ability. As the road reached the heights of this area -- around 4900 metres -- I began to lose consciousness. I could feel the blood draining from my head. I could not afford to dismount on this steep slope -- there would be no possibility of re-mounting and assuming balance at these slow speeds from a standing start. I had to ‘psyche’ myself up, and music was the key. I heard a thunderous collapse of a drumstick onto a drum, then two, and two again, in a rhythm that yielded to a bass guitar line of such urgency that the heartbeat had no choice but to be stirred into action. Layered upon this came the guitar line. A familiar riff and lyrics: “Too alarming to talk about. Take those pictures down, shake them out…”

I followed Brice to the top, where we were treated to a stupendous view back from where we had ascended. The vista took in everything in this region of Bolivia, clear back to Tupiza surely, though one could not make out such a fine feature in the distant horizon.

We took several photographs and continued over the crest and down the other side. The other side was high, not a valley. Near the top a man was driving his burro team up the road. We stopped for a brief chat with him, but he needed to hustle to make it to his destination that day.

We descended into a fading day and camped on a mesa overlooking a stream bed, exhausted from the day’s effort.

Read the day's Journal Entry.

The river ensured us a cold start. We cursed the water as we pulled our kit together and packed up for the road; the joints are unwilling and the heart starts slowly in cold conditions.

Brice fought for the first saddle and made it without putting a foot down. The way was too steep at times, and my rear wheel lost purchase. At such slow speed, a moment of slip brings the whole endeavour to a close. At such a steep incline, it just isn't possible to mount and stay upright, much less get your feet into the toe clips. I pushed up to the rise.

The next section was a bit less steep, but still solidly uphill. We pressed on with it.

This section rose up to an amazing vantage point back to yesterday's pass. The road found a small stream which spread out to create an unusual sight up here – a grassy pasture. It looked like an inviting place to cool one's heels on the green grass, amid so much grey and red arid stone. But we simply need to press on.

The road from here chose to go up the streambed, which became steeper as one ascended. What a pass! We will call it Backbreak Pass.

The road comes out to the bottom of a falling high plateau, gently angled upward from here. The wind is blowing into our faces and at a good clip. This ensures that the final kilometre to the actual top is a slog. We know it will be the top because there are some cairns bracketing the road up there.

Brice summiting Backbreak Pass

The road stays at this high level, skirting a moon-like area with exotic wind-eroded rocks, before beginning a big descent into the basin of Laguna Morejon.

Brice suggests that I start down the descent to the basin so he can get a long-range photo. I set off, eager to crunch up some time with this downhill section. I let the gravity pull the bike quickly down the road, making sparing use of the brakes. I said under my breath, "I'll make short order of this," a second before the front wheel grabbed some soft dirt and twisted, sending me hurtling off the bike and straight into the ditch. It was a moment when a nanosecond seems to pass in a minute, in slow motion. "This is going to hurt…"

Slam! My head took part of the brunt, the whole thing finishing in an instant. I lay flat on my back wondering how I would be. I had to rest for a minute to collect my senses. Then, I slowly got to my knees and stood up. Brice was on his way down.

"Are you all right? I had you in my lens one second, the next second you disappeared."

I was actually no worse for the wear.

We descended to the basin, at a very gingerly pace in my case. Once there we faced the cold winds blowing off the laguna waters. These lagunas are heavily laden with minerals and remain liquid well below 0 degrees. As a result, they super-cool the winds rushing over them. We bundled up and made our way slowly, on bad, soft, sandy road, around the basin.

Laguna Morejon

At the far end of the basin the road runs into a mountainside and tacks to the right to climb up out of the basin. At this point sits a small hospedaje, with seemingly little to speak for it. There was not much on offer here. They kindly boiled some water and sold us tea and coffee, as well as some cookies, jarred fruit and a few other items.

After lunch we saddled up and tackled the pass out of the basin. Again, it took a sharp angle up the mountain. Brice was pulled over feeling unwell. He had already wretched twice from the exertion and the full stomach from lunch.

We rested at the top and again bundled up.

We carried on and began eyeing some suitable spots for a camp site. The last hour of the day is very cold, and setting up the campsite is tricky if you leave it too late. My hands tend to turn white and it gets difficult to manipulate the poles for the tent. It is classic Reynauld's condition. Very inconvenient. Yet, on the other hand, we absolutely need to reach out for a solid kilometre achievement each day if we are to make it out of here. In this extreme area of Bolivia, 35 kilometres in a day is our goal. We haven't clocked that up yet (judging from the cyclometers) so we press on.

Uturuncu – unbeknownst to us

The road tacked to the west and climbed a small rise. Nothing here offers shelter from the wind, which is preferable for a camp site. On the other side of the rise, the road jogs to the right and falls into a small salt flat nestled between the rise and an adjoining mountain. This is our home tonight.

See the day's journal entry.

Last night a burro stood a hundred feet away from us making a terrible racket. After our Salinas Grandes burro encounter back in Argentina, we are in no mood to put up with burro shenanigans. It is true that he was here first, and that we are interlopers. But we are the dominant species.

Last night was the coldest night yet. I slept with two of my water bottles next to me to prevent them from freezing. I had a hat on my head and pulled the mummy portion of the bag over my head. As the night got colder, I drew the sleeping bag's drawstring tight to create just a small hole through which to breathe, then no hole at all. I closed all of the tent's ventilation openings. We are sleeping above 14,200 feet.

The sun warms things up quickly. Once we've breakfasted on a few meagre provisions, we saddle up and continue west by southwest. We want to reach Quetena Chico today. It should be of a similar size to San Antonio de Lipez. It will be a very welcome oasis.

The 4x4s come over us as we are pulling our gear together. They are in a rush today, presumably trying to reach Laguna Verde having left San Antonio at 3 or 4 in the morning. None stop to chat.

By about noon we are traversing a plain that leads down from some gigantic peaks to our left. There are a few crossroads here. We stop to take measure of our location, and to contemplate the large peaks. Wait a minute. Those are the two cones of Uturuncu. They correspond exactly to the maps. We had been expecting to approach them from Quetena Chico, and we are today expecting to reach Quetena Chico.

Uturuncu

Those two peaks, and more importantly the saddle between them, where the sulphur mine sits at the top of a purported road – the world's highest, are pretty unappealing now. After the incredibly difficult journey from Tupiza thus far, additional efforts are hard to contemplate. We decide to leave it to Quetena Chico and reassess then.

By 12:45 we hit a work camp which has the makings of a park entrance of some kind. We are probably on the edge of some nature reserve.

Shortly after passing this area we come into view of a group of people doubled-over in the road. What on earth are they doing? As we reach them we see that they are grading the road, using hand tools. Incredible.

Road grading

Here the road ascends a steep mountainside to a pass. More first-gear stuff. We have to peel down for these climbs. At the top, you dress up again and prepare for a frostier downhill section.

We are expecting to see the settlement anywhere here but there is no sign of it. And no sign for it, as usual. By mid-afternoon the road is following a creek bed, which makes a sudden turn left, and the traveller has to cross the stream. We look across the stream and can make out some buildings in the distance: Quetena Chico.

It's a 2:30 arrival so we have some time to shoot some photos and find a restaurant without worrying much about accommodations. We don't want another San Antonio experience.

We ask someone in the street about a restaurant. He says there aren't any, but he knows of a woman who will cook en-spec. He takes us to her.

We knock at her door and find a very sweet-natured woman, slightly tentative, but entrepreneurial enough to plough through the cultural and linguistic barriers. We agree a time for lunch, and another for dinner, and another for breakfast. She says she is happy to go through with it so long as we understand that this isn't 'comida turista' – she will be making fried llama, rice and chips; not chicken or beef. Fine by us – we want to try llama anyway.

Bifstek de llama

We enjoy the generous quantities of food and heaps of tea and coffee on top.

We have no trouble finding a room in one of the hospedajes catering to the tour groups.

Read the day's journal entry.

We had llama again for breakfast and then set out. We overtook the misleadingly named Quetena Grande within five kilometres and thereafter embarked on another long, loney strectch of high-altitude desert.

I issued dire predictions to Brice. "This road is going to go straight up that mountain. Do you see it?"

We continued along the long, open valley, slowing approaching our meeting with the mountain.

I didn't seem to have any reserves of energy. The cycling was not coming easy, and I couldn't figure out why. Then I felt the swelling in my stomach. I've got an issue down there.

The llama came calling just as the road started its tentative, serpantine approach for the mountain. I evacuated my bowels a few times over. We began the climb in earnest.

Today's road is the quintessential example of Bolivian straight-line, straight-up road construction. There simply is no switchback on the majority of this climb.

The problem of today's diahhreoral, switchback-less road is compounded by the surface. This stretch of road has been recently graded, but the grading technique has left a thick layer of soft topsoil. It can be cycled through only with great effort.

Brice made it to the top through this hellish, steep stuff but I was not capable. I pushed my bike up a great deal of it.

We sat at the top and I watched Brice eat lunch. I didn't want to inflame my insides.

The terrain on this side of the mountain is quite high; there is no real descent. We headed south, gobbling more road since we want to clock in 35 kilometres for the day. We were pretty determined to do at least this distance each day in order to ensure the soonest possible exit from the Altiplano. This place is aesthetically appealing but not hospitable.

We came upon Laguna Collpa and saw our first flamingos. The bright pink creatures stand in the shallow waters with necks down.

In fading light we raced round the laguna basin and climbed out of it.

This led into an adjoining laguna basin. The sulphric smell blowing off this laguna was overwhelming. We raced round the edge of this basin in order to camp on the far side, hopefully with fresher air.

We reached a wrecked settlement, probably for minerals taken from the laguna, and pitched our tents in the lee of a small stone wall.

Read the day's journal entry.

As we pulled our tents together and packed up camp, we spied a small object on the far side of the laguna slowly making its way round the periphery. Eventually it became clear that this was a cyclist. We cooled our heels and awaited his approach.

In the morning we unzipped the tents and started quickly eating some small items, in a hurry to escape the odour.

The chap coming round the laguna was on an older bike but he had outfitted it well for long-distance cycling. He had a thermos strapped to one side of the rack and a floor pump to the other, with a rucksack on top. He was about 40 years old.

He was about to cycle right by us -- and would have -- if we hadn't flagged him down. He was clearly in a hurry to get somewhere. We guessed he was late for work.

This man in a rush had a huge wadge of coca leaf in his cheeck, so much that it was difficult to understand him. He said he was indeed going to work, at one of the huts next to the laguna where there is still some mineral extraction taking place.

He raced off.

We mounted the bikes and followed the road around the remainder of the laguna, coming across our closest sighting of flamigos yet.

We climbed out of the laguna basin and found a nice long descent into the salar de chivalri (undoubtedly misspelled here). The salt content in the terrain lent the road a tarmac-like quality, making for excellent cycling.

Brice speeds to the salar

Crossing to the far side, one is confused about which way to go. There is a road leading up over a pass directly to the west, slightly north. Another road leads to the south, following a valley.

My rear tyre goes flat, giving us some time to eat and contemplate our choices. We really don't want to make any mistakes up here, so Brice volunteers to cycle down to a nearby laguna where there is an obviously active mineral extraction facility, to ask the way. It turns out to be a borax plant.

They set us straight and we take the left-hand road, south.

There are tons of 4x4s in this area; not on our road, but crossing our road to the west.

We take the road south and come across a small hot springs. The springs are on the left-hand side of the road. On the right, an array of 4x4s are parked, some with music playing and doors open, waiting for their clients to finish soaking.

Our jaws hang down as we make out the surreal scene of semi-naked tourists scurrying from one side to the other. As we did so, someone near the jeeps called our attention.

"Grover!" Brice said, recognising the jeep driver we had met on our first day out of Tupiza. He came across us as we lunched on a saddle beneath the ultimate pass that day. His clients had wanted to chat with us so he pulled over and we had a ten minute talk. We came across him again one or two days later, and again he stopped to let us speak to his clients.

He asked us how many days it has been from Tupiza. "Nine," we told him, in a voice that conveyed a sense of "whew."

I told him that we took the high road from Cerillos, which turned out to be very enjoyable.

He raised an eyebrow. "Bien dificil."

He said we were 40 kms from Laguna Verde.

We decided to forego the hot springs and make a run for Laguna Verde, where there are said to be tourist facilities. Yet it was already pretty late in the day. Only a good effort and propitious conditions would save us from another night in the tents.

The road turned increasingly sandy and difficult to manage. Then it turned for the west, and became a long wind tunnel -- in our faces. Here we passed through the famous Dali rocks. They are wind-eroded and spread in a valley, giving it an otherworldy quality.

A jeep drove by us with a head craning from the driver's window. It flashed a brilliant smile. "Butchcassidysundancekid!" It was Simeon, one of the drivers we consulted on our last night in Tupiza.

We cycled up to the jeep to speak with him.

As Brice excitedly chatted with him, I stood over my bike staring at the passengers inside. One of them was looking me and my bike up and down. After a minute I could see through the window his lips moving. It looked like he said, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

We hunkered down for a long haul across the Dali valley, into a gale-force wind on bad road without a sun. A truly awful and testing experience. Just keep gritting teeth and get on with it, at a turtle's pace. Little by little. Notching up tiny morsels of progress towards the next pass.

It was exceptionally cold and we stopped to don our winter gear, especially the cycling trousers, fleece and wind breakers. I inserted the chemical hot pads into my gloves.

We climbed to 4600 or 4800 metres, where, surprisingly, there was no wind, and just a few last rays of sun. The horizontal rays demanded some hurried photos.

We descended toward Laguna Verde.

The sun was so low now, we had to scout a place to pitch the tents, and hope we would stay warm enough. Laguna Verde is a large laguna. As mentioned, these super-cool the air. The Laguna Verde region is known to exhibit temperatures a dozen degrees below zero.

After ten kilometres of descent, we left the road and pushed across the valley floor to a spot where a small rise might offer a sliver of protection from the winds blowing off of the Laguna, probably five or so kilometres further down the valley.

Brice snapping one end of the tent pole into the tent floor

From the journal:

Freaking cold in the tents, 3 degrees at 7:30 pm -- bad sign. We knew it would mean a cold night. I bundled up and set everything up. Shell and orange fleece under feet. Wearing two pairs of socks, one of them wool. Fleece trousers on. Silk shirt. Cycle shirt. Cycle vest. Hat plus sleeping bag hood drawn over head. Pulled it all up tight with no hole for breathing. Just blackness. Next thing I know -- I am awake. I just turn over, go back to sleep. I open my eyes and there is light. Shit -- is it morning? Yes! Slept the whole night through. The first time.

The temperature was -13 inside the tent last night. Yet, for the first time in a while, I've slept the whole night through.

We pack up amid bright sunlight, giddy at the day's prospects. We will cycle down to Laguna Verde, at the foot of Volcan Licancabur, and from there, up and over the pass into Chile.

Volcan Licancabur

We reached the far side of Laguna Verde, with some tourist facilities and a store. We bought enough food for the afternoon.

Laguna Verde

The road from here began to climb out of the basin. It crossed a newly constructed building where park rangers hit you with a park fee.

A kilometre or two further on you hit the border post. We took a final picture of the Laguna Verde basin, and asked the border official to take a photo of us under the Bolivian flag.

We are in no mood to climb today, but damned if this road doesn't do just that. Up, up and more up. It seems you have to buy your way out of the altiplano with unending effort. And there is no sense of 'payback' -- i.e. getting to go down after going up. You just kind of always go up.

Once on the Chilean side, we climbed up a bit further to a ridge, where we joined a brand-new tarmac road. To the left, the road would go all the way to Paso Jama and the Salinas Grandes area we'd been in several weeks before.

To the right, the road slides away to San Pedro de Atacama, some 40 kilometres and 2000 metres below us.

Volcan Licancabur

Volcan Licancabur

Volcan Licancabur

This beautiful road just plunged and plunged. There was so much speed on tap. Ocassionally a sign warns you that the road is about to become steeper -- just when it seemed steep already.

We arrived at San Pedro de Atacama, went through customs, and cycled into town.

We found Casa Corvach, the hostel where we'd sent our package from Santiago.

From the journal:

Nearly two months after we left Santiago, I rest here in San Pedro de Atacama. So glad to be down here. -13 inside the tent yesterday. But I slept well. Hustled down to Laguna Verde but -- surprise! You need to climb! Bolivia: You can come in but you can never leave without climbing. Maddening, hateful climb out even beyond the frontier. But alas at the top you hit tarmac, sweet tarmac. From there 42 kms of descent, all the way in. So happy. So bloody happy.

Great trip, about 1000 kms more than it should have been. Great finish. The road from Tupiza is mind-blowing. I won't recommend it, though. Just too difficult.