Chavin Ruinas and the road to Huanuco

I hit a construction road closure south of Huaraz less than a half hour out of town.

As I sit waiting for the attendant to flip the Pare sign and wave me through I reminisce of Colombia where moto riders are waved through road closures and construction typically translated in to me riding long stretches of road in near isolation from any other traffic.

The road into Huascaran National Park is characteristic of high mountain pavement in a state of disrepair, deep square potholes, lots of flaking asphalt with large sections of road missing, and rippling due to erosion and harsh temperatures. Shock waves oscillate through my wrists as I get up on the pegs to decouple my body from the bike. “Will the gps mount hold this time?”, I wonder as my attention shifts to the snow capped peaks towering above me. The air thins as I climb the switchbacks leading up to the Kahuish tunnel. I see a giant Jesus when I exit the tunnel and wonder if the lack of oxygen and abundance of carbon monoxide in the tunnel was taking a toll on me. Nope, it’s real.

Once in Chavin de Huantar I have some trouble locating the ruins. As usual the main road is ripped up for reconstruction and I find myself in a labyrinth of calles going this way and that. Sometimes the small towns give me more fits than the big cities. After circling the pueblo twice I stop to reassess my location. My upper peripheral catches a large stone object extending above the wall where I’ve stopped, the main pyramid or square of the ruinas. I rode by the entrance twice and didn’t notice it, my superior navigation skills never disappoint. My initial impression of Chavin is somewhat underwhelming but when I consider this city is over 3,000 years old I gain an appreciation for the site and the accomplishments of its architects. As I’m on the short side of a long riding day I depart Chavin after a quick tour of the ruins.

I head north to San Marcos where I will look for the road to La Union, a small pueblo I’m not too keen on seeing but serves as an optional stopping place for the day if time runs short. It’s worth noting at this time the GPS map I’m using for Peru is pretty much useless out here. Most of the roads I’ve ridden so far are not on the map which makes routing impossible. So basically the GPS is only useful for point navigation which is an interesting exercise when most of the points are separated by 15K foot passes.

The main road ends in San Marcos to the usual construction and in this particular instance the absence of the bridge leading across the river running through town. The construction gods are not smiling on me today. My paper map indicates a “trail” running southeast from San Marcos to La Union. The GPS doesn’t show the main road let alone a goat trail that may or may not exist. After a half hour of dead ends and querying local tour bus drivers, “Donde esta La Union?” all I come up with is the road leading north to Pomachaca. The paper map indicates a “4wd Road” running southeast to La Union out of Pomachaca so I audible.

As I make my way north I’m attentive to turnoffs that could be potential routes to La Union and certain I have passed none, well, as certain as one can be in Latin America. I’ve passed a number of gas stations up to this point. None had the 90 octane fuel I prefer to use and since the bike’s carbs are already struggling due to lack of oxygen I opt to pass and I’m confident La Union is well within the bike’s 260+ mile range. I arrive at a fork in the road at Pomachaca with a sign indicating Huari is to the left and no indication for the right. I know I’m not going to Huari so I take the right fork. I get confirmation from a passing tour bus driver as he gestures to the right, “La Union”. After listening to him I realize I haven’t been pronouncing “La Union” correctly.

I immediately start climbing after the turn off. The road is freshly graded and I pass a few construction crews, no heavy equipment, mostly pick axes, shovels, and big sledge hammers, at work on the road. Still climbing after almost an hour the terrain begins to change from brown dusty hard pack to wet slippery red mud. I finally crest the pass, the last altitude I saw on the GPS (at least it can do altitude well) was 14.5K ft fifteen minutes earlier.

I stop at the top and a sense of solitude sweeps over me as I consider my existence in the shadows of the looming peaks around me. For a moment I forget about running out of fuel, oozing fork seals, broken GPS mounts, sickness, and any other inconveniences of the moment. This, this feeling, is why I’m here, in this spot, at this moment. I haven’t passed another traveler on this road for 2 hours and with the exception of the road construction crew far below me I’m the only one on this mountain.

It starts to rain and I refocus my attention on the road ahead of me. It rains most days I ride and when it does I’m reminded of how much I miss the warm rain of Central America. Most of the time I didn’t bother to put in my rain liners as the rain was refreshing and an economical way to wash off road grime and cool off. South America is a different story, rain in the Andes is cold and penetrating, bone chilling, if you will. I think I’ve only removed my rain liners once since entering the Andes.

The front scorpion (tire) struggles to find traction in the red Andean mud as the rain intensifies. I’m three quarters of the way up the second large pass since leaving Pomachaca when I see a village in the distance. With the exception of the small town square the town is comprised of a series of mud tracks cut out of the mountain with some concrete structures and mostly wooden or adobe type homes. The town is not on any of my maps and I see no signs indicating the name of the pueblo. There is a small Movil shop so it is connected to the world in some sense. My quiver of Spanish phrases fail to elicit cogent responses and I struggle to comprehend the speech of the folks I speak with. If they’re speaking Spanish it’s a dialect I haven’t heard before.

I find the track leading out of town and curse myself for not making better attempts at finding fuel. The mud gets deeper and overall road conditions deteriorate. At least I get a temporary reprieve from the rain. The road doesn’t climb much and after a half hour of sliding the bike through mud and small lakes of water on the increasingly narrow road I spot another village. This one is smaller than the previous and there is no pavement in the town, just mud. The calles off the town square either go up a tract of mud or down a tract of mud and I can’t locate any road exiting the town that isn’t the road I came in on. Again, communication with the town’s folks is a struggle and I appear to have reached the end of the road in this small pueblo at 14K+ feet. In one last attempt I see a road going straight down a mud tract from the town square that appears to be going “somewhere”. I slip the clutch and slide the bike down through the rutted mud. I get a little too much bite on the front brake as I near the bottom and the Scorpion yields its traction. I go down into a slow speed low slide. The good thing about mud is it’s soft, no damage to me or bike.

I’m 7 to 8 hours into the ride at this point and wondering if I will see La Union today. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve camped on a mountain. I right the bike and after talking with a local ascertain the road has indeed ended here and I’ve missed a turn off. I begin to back track the 20+ miles of mud track from where I just rode and my fuel reserve light comes on half way back at 160 miles on the trip meter. The altitude must really be doing a number on my carbs for the light to come on 40+ miles early. It will take something short of a miracle to avoid running out of fuel given my current location. I’ve been close a number of times on this trip but my goose is cooked for sure this time.

This is an all too familiar feeling for me. What is my malfunction? How many perfectly good fuel stations did I pass today? 84 octane is not good enough? Wtf was I thinking!? It serves me right, perhaps freezing my ass off on this mountain tonight is just what I need. I swear I’ll never pass another petrol station without topping off. I swear!

I find the turn off and nurse the throttle as I creep slowly up the muddy switch backs. To my disappointment I see multiple switchbacks ahead, another big mountain. The engine surges as it struggles for oxygen and what little fuel remains is wasted through my jetting. I approach every blind corner with the hope of seeing the road descend only to be disappointed. Switchback after switchback I climb. The fuel meter at 30 miles now, I wonder when I will hear the engine take its last breath. I’ve seen 45 miles on the fuel meter in the past but that’s in ideal oxygen conditions. There’s no way I’ll see that today. The shadows are long now as the sun is in its late afternoon descent. It’ll be dark soon. The bike surges more as the dwindling fuel supply settles into the respective lobes of the tank and the fuel pump is left with air. I crest the main peak and breathe a sigh of relief. I roll off the throttle and coast the bike down the descending road. Between coasting and pushing I figure I can get the bike most of the way down the mountain at this point.

I don’t know what occurred first, the engine dying or me spotting the village in the distance. It doesn’t matter, I coasted into the town without having to push the bike. After spending some time explaining to the locals I’m not an alien I was able to communicate I need fuel. A man gestured to a “cafe” a couple blocks away and to my surprise the bike fired up. I gave the throttle a blip to get me under way before the engine died and I coasted up to the shop. The woman comes out and knew right away that I needed fuel. She clearly does this often. She gets out her cut milk jug/funnel and we get the bike topped off. The fuel smells and looks no different from the fuel I get at the petrol station so I convince myself it won’t hurt my carbs. Like it matters at this point.

With a full tank of fuel I renew my focus on finding La Union. For the record I haven’t seen a sign for La Union the entire day and I’m still not certain as to my whereabouts. The road turns back to dusty hard pack and I race the setting sun as I descend the big mountain. After an hour or so it’s dusk and I’m at 10K feet running along a river, cruising altitude for Peru. The traffic has picked up noticeably and I come across a number of small towns, none of which I see signs for. Though it’s not raining the roads are wet and the towns along the river are quite muddy. I reach a fork in the road and I see the first sign indicating La Union exists. La Union to the right and Huanuco to the left. Hmmm. After talking with the locals I learn Huanuco is about 100 kilometers away. I have plenty of fuel, my lights are doing a great job of illuminating the road, and the traffic is light so I press on to Huanuco. The road turns to good condition pavement after 15 miles or so and I hold steady at a 40mph pace for the remaining distance. I roll into the city just before 11 PM, muddy and tired.

(I couldn’t recreate the actual route in Bing maps but this should be close)