173 - PDF - The Rider's Digest

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to the volcano so we retraced our steps back
for thirty odd kilometres and rejoined the Pan
Americana. We continued south and the road
started its ascent again into the Andes. Up
and up we rode and just when we thought
it couldn’t be possible to go any higher,
we would crest a rise and the road would
disappear over yet another, higher crest. We
carried on climbing, the temperature dropping
as we went. Twist, turn and climb, twist, turn
and climb, a seemingly never-ending sequence
of roads from some sort of motorcycle heaven.
I slow my pace off to almost nothing and drop
to a low gear before taking a look around. There
is little or no traffic up here and we have the
mountainside to ourselves with the exception
of a few sheep and their herder, who is sitting on
the roadside. There are mountains all around;
behind us they drop into the valley we have
just risen from, on the far side of which they
seem even taller than the range we are now on.
We are higher than I have ever been on a
motorcycle, over 3,000 metres above sea level.
While I’m quietly impressed with the electronic
fuel injection system on the bikes, neither of
them have missed a beat at this altitude, I’m even
more impressed with our surroundings. It is one
of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.
We’re sitting on the side of the road looking
down on the clouds that seem to lap against the
side of the hills as the ocean would against the
shore. We sit there in silence for quite some time,
ISSUE 173 December 2012
there is no need to talk, no need to recognise
where we are. We just sit and let everything be.
We continue to follow the snaking path around
the sides and along the top of the Andes. It’s the
guts of four hundred kilometres from Baños to
Cuenca, our destination for the evening, and
we’re both baffled as to why everyone we asked
said the journey would take six to eight hours.
However, the reason soon became apparent
when the road in the sky suddenly ceased to
be decent tarmac and turned to a gravel and
stone track.
From a high viewpoint we can see the
construction trucks in various locations littered
along the road as it winds its way for kilometre
after kilometre in front of us. We ride slowly
along the hazardous route admiring the
patchwork of beige and russet brown fields
that fill the mountain slopes. We stop to take
pictures. The journey was amazing and before
either of us knew it, signs were indicating it was
less than sixty kilometres to Cuenca.
Sad to be leaving the lofty heights of the
mountain roads, but glad to be arriving in a
new city, we made our way to the old centre
and to the street where we had booked our
accommodation. This was fairly easy, the
problems started when we couldn’t get into
the hostel. The doors were firmly bolted and a
sign said “fully booked”. Persistent pounding and
ringing of doorbells failed to bring any response.
We’ve been using a website called hostalworld.
com for the last number of weeks and this is the
first time we’ve booked somewhere and found
it shut. Frustrated we start to look elsewhere.
We try a few other hotels and hostels we’d seen
recommended, but each one was full. I started to
get a little worried, it was the weekend after all,
but surely the whole town couldn’t be booked
out? We rode a little further and saw some flags
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