Catac, PE to Pachacoto, PE

14.9 mi / 5.0 mph / 2200 ft. climbing
Home: Puya Raimondii Wild Camp

Today we would begin our third crossing of the Cordillera Blanca mountain range. No, this high-altitude zig-zagging isn’t moving us south very efficiently! But we came to Huaraz and this part of Peru to see these mountains, and our previous two crossings indicate that we’d be fools to not do at least one more, if not a dozen!

This time the crossing would be on gravel (unlike our last two on pavement), and take us to a record altitude of 16,000 feet, so it was going to require two or three nights of wild camping along the way before we could drop down to the other side.

And suddenly, for the first time in weeks, there were rain chances in the forecast. It was already going to be cold and challenging at those elevations; adding in afternoon rain (or even snow) could completely negate any enjoyment, and if we aren’t going to enjoy ourselves, why do it? So after a chilly 7am breakfast (our 2nd Caldo de Gallina in a row), we got back to our room and had to have a frustrating discussion about what we wanted to do.

Catac had brought us within an easy 20-mile, paved, downhill ride back to Huaraz, Eva was generously still storing our bike boxes for us, as a safety net. We would never have an easier chance to declare that we’d had an amazing seven weeks in Peru, get back on a plane, and fly somewhere where it’s less-challenging to live on a bicycle.

But for some reason I don’t fully understand, we decided continue, leave our safety net behind, and ride onward with some faith that the wonders of this country will continue to exceed its challenges.

The Catac Community Gas Station must know about Sinclair gas stations in the US, though the dinosaurs here are much more detailed than Sinclair’s!

Riding away from the familiar bulk of Huascaran, touchstone of our time in Huaraz, was both scary and exciting.

A flock of sheep motoring down the shoulder of Peru’s National Highway 3N.

The weather forecast wasn’t the morning’s only source of stress. Less than two months ago, SERNANP (Peru’s equivalent of the US National Park Service) announced that they had abandoned the National Park entrance station along our route, in the face of threats from the local community. Essentially it was a minor insurrection, with the locals rejecting the authority of the federal government to manage these lands. The Catac community had created a new entrance gate lower down, in order to collect tourist income for themselves. SERNANP makes it sound like the area is no dangerous, and recommends that tourists avoid it, but we’d encountered a couple of similar “community fee” gates on Huaraz-area hikes, so it seems this isn’t an unprecedented action, and the tour companies quickly adjust to the “new normal”.

So the actual stress was related to a post from cyclists on iOverlander saying that they were scammed at the entrance gate for extra money once the clerks saw how much cash they had. I already feel conflicted about rewarding the insurrectionists with our money, so I really don’t want to give them more than whatever they’ve determined is “standard”.

After turning off the paved highway, we first lowered our tire pressure, and then rolled up to the official-looking booth. The clerks were wearing a semblance of a uniform, and they asked something about “Pastoruri” (the glacier we would be visiting midway, and the destination of all the tour buses that head up this road). Following the recommendation of the people who were scammed, we simply replied “Huallanca”, the town we would eventually end up on the other side. We got a brief quizzical look, but she went into the booth and quickly emerged with two receipts, pre-printed for S/10, which wasn’t just less than the S/90 that the other cyclists were charged, but also less than the S/25 posted on a sheet tacked to the booth that foreigners are supposed to pay. My best guess is that we were granted a special “just passing through on the road” rate, which wasn’t actually our plan. So suddenly I felt bad that we had unintentionally scammed them! And I was now worried that we could have trouble at the glacier if we didn’t have the correct pass. But it was too late, we had already paid, and continued on.

And soon all those morning stresses abated. We had the road almost entirely to ourselves, and quickly all-new snow-capped mountains emerged above the green-brown foothills. After an hour or so riding uphill, five tour-company vans passed in relatively short order on their way to the glacier, and we saw maybe 15 total vehicles all day. It quickly became clear that the community would have zero motivation or capability to run further checkpoints along this vast emptiness.

Riding up the Pastoruri Glacier road, with a rare vehicle ahead of us.

And the road was in pretty-decent shape. In their “battle” with SERNANP, one of the claims that the Catac community made is that the government had ignored road maintenance for years, while the local community would use the “road fees” to actually improve the gravel surface. It certainly didn’t seem like they had run a road-grader or anything yet, but there was clear evidence of pothole-filling for the first ten miles. That wasn’t a huge thing for us, because it’s relatively-easy on bikes to avoid potholes, but it was good to see that there is at least some level of honesty behind the community’s actions. It did eventually deteriorate and get more rocky and loose, but then near the (abandoned) entrance station, it improved significantly, and was easy riding (except for the slope!) after that.

A closer view at the road surface. Certainly not the world’s smoothest, but rideable for most of this section.

Hi horsies!

Halfway through our ride we got our first glimpse of the Puya Raimondii plants, bizarre black pipe-cleaners mounted on a golden base. They very much reminded us of the cirios cacti (aka “boojum trees”) in Baja, Mexico. They had some visual similarity in their bare verticality, but more than that, their sudden localized appearance, “hidden” in a pocket of this remote arid landscape, perfectly echoed the boojums. Like, why don’t they grow in all the other places that look just like this? My guess is they just like to maintain their exclusivity to reward adventurous travelers.

Our first view of Puya Raimondiis, which inspired us to stop for lunch.

As warm as it had been while we climbed, a stubborn cloud insisted on hanging over us for nearly our entire lunch, despite vast tracts of blue sky around it. Jerk!

We arrived to the official entrance station, and it was in fact abandoned, guarded only by a few lazy dogs. There were open bathrooms and garbage cans, and our baseline plan had been to camp here where there are walls and overhangs for weather protection. But the decent road meant we were still relatively early in the day, so we decided to push on a few miles further (along relatively-flat ground) to a wilder-camping opportunity that would shorten tomorrow’s ride.

The abandoned Carpa Entrance Station in Huascaran National Park. So far it still seems to be somewhat maintained (garbage cans weren’t overflowing) and not vandalized.

Officially entering the National Park (and World Heritage Site) through the no-longer-official entrance.

Usually found in groups, here a lone Puya Raimondii tries to reach as high as the mountains.

The scenes continued to grow, as Rett curves past a white mountain and toward a red one.

Once again we marvel at having this world-class National Park nearly to ourselves.

A forest of Puya Raimondiis, with their bases glinting like golden urns in a way that a photograph can’t quite capture.

A shepherd’s hut sits below a hillside of Puya Raimondiis.

I’m beginning to forget what normal snow-capped mountains look like. We lived in Washington for a couple years, which has no shortage of such mountains. But did they look like this?!

Continuing up the valley on decent gravel. Though it was about at this point that the pothole-filling operation ended (for now, maybe it will continue over time).

Like, I can’t remember getting too many photos like this of Rett in front of a mountain, but we’ve probably seen 30 mountains like this in Peru. So is this a normal mountain or something more? I simply can’t tell anymore!

For today’s Lord of the Rings reference, Rett suggested that this is where the Battle of Pellenor Fields was fought.

Hey, it turns out there is some volcanic activity here too. In addition to these flowing red pools, there was a visibly-boiling spring nearby.

It was initially a bit confusing to know where exactly the iOverlander-recommended camp spot was located. For vehicles, there was an obvious parking area, but for us (who wanted to be off the road and a bit hidden, even though probably only 5 more vehicles would pass through the night), we needed to head down a stone path on the left side of the road, and then continue on dirt for a bit to a relatively-flat cleared area (which Rett scouted out while I backtracked to fetch more water from a small stream I had seen).

All the difficulty of getting to the spot, and then setting up on the non-ideal site, made us second-guess our choice to push beyond the dead-simple option to camp at the entrance station. On top of that, the breeze was aligned with the setting sun, so using a Puya as a windblock (while cooking, or just sitting) meant that it was also blocking the warming rays. But then the clouds broke open enough to allow Rett to enjoy her dinner outside the tent for the first time in our Peru wild camping, and then it all seemed worth it. Because there was no doubt that this place was more beautiful than the area around the entrance station. Still, the evening chill forced her back into the tent by 6pm, and me by 7, ready for another night that might be cold enough to freeze our water.