Mérida, Venezuela -- My rear tire is somewhere between a skid and a slide, it depends how well the gravel under it adheres to the eroded track I'm on. I'm taking the high road to Mérida, but as far as I knew 25 minutes ago when I started up this track, it was the only road. From here, however, I can see the road I missed, one thousand feet below in the valley bottom. I'm wishing I was on it.
I think the views from here are quite astounding, but I really can't be sure. Right now I'm concentraing 110% on keeping me and El Cab from falling off the side of the road.
I asked four different rimes if this was the road to Mérida. I think the reply I got was, yes this is "a road to Mérida," but I know now it's not the only, nor the best. No one in their right mind would frequent this rocky, sandy, eroded dirt track. I have some friends who would love to ride it, but their not in their right minds.
So down I go, switchback after switchback. Slip after slide. About half way down, the road turns 180° to the right. With so much sand and marbly gravel there's not enough friction between my 700 pound gorilla of a bike and the road to slow down and make the turn. I try, believe me, but I just can't, so I don't.
Six inches before losing it over the edge of the switchback, I bail. The bike falls to the left, and I just stand there over it. I hit the kill switch and turn off the idling engine, the smell of gasoline pouring out of one orafice or another tickles my nose. Unfortunately, after close to ten such spills so far, that scent is all too familiar.
After righting the bike, I make the vain attempt of pushing it back up hill a bit so I can turn right and continue on my way. The bike not only refuses to nudge, but every time I pull in the clutch to start pushing, it just moves one inch closer to the edge. It's three inches from bye-bye at this point.
I contemplate getting out my Z drag pulley system to haul the bike uphill some, but before I even get in my side bag to get it, along comes a young chap to my aid. He's walking down the track I'm riding and by the look on his face, he's never seen another bike on this road either.
"Can you lend me a hand?" I ask sheepishly, and he gladly complies. He stands downhill of the bike pushing on the fairing, locking his toes in the sand and gravel of the hillside as best he can, while I run the clutch and brakes at mid bike. Together, we pull El Cab back from the brink of the ride of his life and set him ready to ride in the left hand track.
I ask the kid if the road gets much worse from here (is it possible?!) and he just laughs and nods, as if he knows we'll be seeing more of each other today. I hope not.
Soon, I'm off and running again, and white-knuckle my way to the bottom after another 20 minutes. I pass the kid again just as I ride past a family of ranchers having lunch in the shade of a broad tree. I think to wave, but the road continues to demand all my attention.
At the bottom, my dirt track turns onto one of the finest works of pavement I've ever seen, or at least that's what it seems like at this point. Smooth is good. Traction is better.
The road winds its way up another valley heading southwest over the highest paved pass in Venezuela, Pico Águila at 4,035m, just over 13,200 feet. It cuts through a fertile and steep valley, lined with fields of carrots, lettuce, root crops, and corn. I watch as men break earth with teams of oxen. Their latest harvest or garlic and carrots hangs in wood slat stalls along the road.
After 3,000 meters, the climate turns too cold for farming, and is instead used as pasture, the hillsides scarred with cris-crossed cow paths. As I approach the pass, both the bike and I are struggling for air.
Soon, I am enveloped in a cloud bank that slowly creeps over the divide. The clouds form as the moist air from the valley below is pushed up over the mountains; they dissipate once again on their way down the other side.
Once over the pass, the road desends rapidly into the Rio Chama valley. Within 10 minutes I'm back down to 3,000 m, and within a hour I arrive at 1,500 m in Mérida. The incredible variation in altitude in this mountainous terrain cannot be understated.
After a day of poking around Mérida, I decide to take a trip to the mountian hamlet of Los Nevados, "the snowy ones." From there I will hike ten miles through Sierra Nevada National Park to the second to last station of "the world's highest and longest aerial tram" and take it back down. It's only a one night trip, but a good taste of the Andean backcountry.
The four hour jeep ride to Los Nevados begins just 20 feet from the door of my hostal. I saddle up and wait for our scheduled 9:00 AM departure. At 9:30 when we still havn't left, I tell the guy I'm going to run to the boys room real quick. At 10 I run to do a little email. At 10:30 it's off for a bite to eat, and by 11:00, the 9:00 jeep is underway.
For the next four hours I witness what can only be described as the most insane display of 4WD driving I have ever witnessed outside of the "rock crawlers" party we crashed in Las Cruces one time. Armed with only a Toyota Land Cruiser and four bald Bridgestones, our driver ventured on one of the curviest, steepest, most dangerous roads I've ever seen. It wasn't just the curves and inclination that made it dangerous, but also the penalty for making a mistake. Two thousand feet down is a long way to go.
We arrive in four hours, and I bed down in a small family posada for the night. The mountain village is comprised to two cobblestone streets lined with white walled buildings with terracotta roofs, and a small church that holds 60 people maximum. Cute is not the word.
At 5:30 the next morning, I'm off to start the 16 km trek to the Loma Redonda where I'll catch the tram. It's only 10 miles, but I've been at sea level for three months; it's 14,000 feet at the highest pass I'll see today.
As I start out, the morning light glows dimly behind the crest of the 4,000 m ridges above me. The crisp morning air bites hard into my rosy cheeks. It tastes fresh, familiar. My head spins with that buzz you only get starting off on a new mountain trail. My eyes are wide and my mind open.
I ascend slowly through the surrounding villages until it's just me, the trail, and the rocky alpine country of the northern Andes. It is different than the lush terrain of the Sangre de Cristos in New Mexico, or even the Rockies of Colorado. It's drier, tougher, harder, at least in the uplands. A thousand meters below it is a moist temperate forest of broad leafy trees, hanging vines, and lush, shaded streams. Up here there are no tall trees to speak of, and no evidence that there once were. Instead, I'm surrounded by low shrubs and grasses. There seems to be not more than 15 species in the whole lot.
The highest peaaks in Venezuela tower above me at 5,000 meters. With four days, ropes and crampons I could climb the highest of them, but this time I take a bye. There will be plenty of opportunity to spend all my money on apline expeditions on Argentina and Chile.
As I crest over the pass just before the tramway station at 4,300 m, I stop to nibble on a granola bar and contemplate the town of Mérida 2,500 m (1.7 miles) below. The craggy spines of the Andes fade off into the distance at my left, and the sharp peaks haloed with misty afternoon clouds ascend to my left.
It's amazing to think one can travel nearly due south from here for 5,000 miles and never descend to 2,500 meters (more or less). The Andres must surely be one of the highest and longest uninterrrupted mountain ranges in the world. I just sit in silent awe of their grandness.
As I make my way down on the tram, I get that jittery butterfly feeling in my stomach thinking of all the treasures this continent will hold over the next year. Although I'm already 4 months into my journey (4 months yesterday) I feel like I've just started anew.
Posted by Sully at April 14, 2003 04:32 PM