Monthly Archives: March 2017

Another Day – Another Death (Life) Wish

A few of you probably remember me posting this rather long, photo dense post about beautiful and breezy riding through the Chilean Patagonia and Carretera Austral. And in the next post complementing the tale of endless waterfalls and lush scenery with pointing out how those scenic shots from cycling paradise didn’t exactly paint the whole picture.

This post is sort of doing the same job. Because yet again, did I leave out a few details when scribbling down my last entry from and about some of the dreamiest mountain weeks I have experienced in my life.

Along Carretera Austral it was rain.

Along this one particular ride up and along the puna in the high Andes – it was some seemingly never ending stretches/days of exceptionally crappy roads.

I won’t dwell on it, as reading about someone pushing a fully loaded bicycle at 5 kph.. 4.. 3.. and at speeds too slow for the odometer to even register any movement at all.. is about as good of a time as actually doing that pushing.

Anyways – every single word in the last post still stands. This is just me adding some (way too) deep gravel to it.


Probably no speed records anytime soon..


If nothing else – soft ground offers super comfy sleeping!

Alright. Confession session of the day – done. Let’s pick up where we left off.

Coming up to a good couple of weeks off the grid, climbing pass after pass and free wheeling along some of the biggest volcanoes on the continent, my spirit was still that of a kid who’d just cashed in her golden ticket to Willy Wonkas chocolate factory. The cries of my protesting body though, was steadily increasing in volume.


Happy! At Laguna Verde.


With legs about as alive and kicking as this guy.

It was about midday.

‘Come on now. You’ll get to be lazy all you want in a little bit..! Just not yet.’

The headwind was a joke. And the panoramic volcano views that otherwise would have been my companions of the day were hidden behind the thick grey storm clouds, seemingly mid mission of suffocating the whole world. I felt the ice crystals crack open my completely dried out lips as I was silently pleading to my numb legs to stop messing around and get a move on. Simply because the weather didn’t leave stopping as an option, I kept peddling up the intensifying hail storm to what was both the highest, and very last mountain pass of my little Andean getaway.

It sucked, but it had to be done as options were few to none. Paso San Fransisco, 4767 meters above sea level.

Early afternoon, I climbed those very last meters and was – DONE.

2 long weeks in some of the most spectacular environments I’ve ever had the privilege to find myself in. Environments who’s inaccessibility make them a rare sight for those lucky few with an adventurous mind and a sturdy high clearance 4WD. Or in my case, an extensive dose of selective ignorance and will to let body pay the price for the enjoyment of the mind.

In any case. This was the end of the road. Or I guess to be more exact – the beginning of it. A 3000+ meter altitude drop on silk smooth tarmac lay ahead, ready to lead me straight back into civilisation and that oh so dreamy variety of ice cream flavours that are only to be found in Argentinian heladerías. Warm showers, soft beds, crystal clear (erhm, not really..) Skype calls back home. It was all waiting, and I could literally feel those familiar butterflies once again coming to life in my belly.

All that was left was (again, not really).. one last pedal stroke, and some steering while letting gravity lead me through those 200 km all the way down to the longed after township of Fiambála.

Done, in every sense of the word.

Though for the 3rd time in this post – not really.

This was my first ever actual sight of Volcán San Fransisco. The 6000 masl piece of earth that I’d set my mind on months earlier, while drooling over Andean maps and altitude charts. The one that I don’t ever how many people along my way north had told me would be another mission impossible to even consider. Summiting was out of question.

Explanations had been ranging from everything between everything from lack of gear, an apparent lack of sanity to the more obvious – lack of oxygen. Though whatever reason of choice the common message was clear – DON’T.

I do hear people out. Everyone, always. I promise.

What I don’t always do though – is listen.

Apart from having their apocalypse visions in common, there was one more important common element to every single one of these oh-so-knowingly advice givers. Not a single one of them had even seen, let alone climbed the mountain they were referring to. Not one.

In other words, not too unlike the in-numerous people who a couple of years ago told me this whole journey in itself was nothing but a well packaged death wish.

I’m quite glad I didn’t listen to them either.

Still hauled over my bike on the top of the pass I was looking up the only so visible volcano reaching up towards the dark sky. I was smiling. Once again repeating some alternative words of advice I this time had chosen to let drown out all other voices from the past months.

‘San Fransisco is your perfect spot for a few first breaths above 6000 meters. A simple and straight forward pile of gravel with spectacular views. Enjoy!’

The message had been simple, and the words rang clear. Partly because they were exactly what I had wanted to hear. But more than anything else because they came straight from no-one else than Janne Corax, one of Sweden’s most experienced mountaineers and the one person I give credit for some of the best months in my life back in China and the Himalayas.

These were from someone I would not only hear out. They were from someone to whom I would listen. And fortunately, they were conveying precisely what I had been hoping for. Spending the previous evening chilling out at Laguna Verde, picking the brains of an acclimatising group of climbers heading for the crown jewel of the area – Volcano Ojos del Salar – had not only provided some truly valuable advice on the volcano itself, but also some new hope that the weather could or might actually open a window of opportunity to head up high.

Food wise I could still afford to stick around for a couple of days, waiting for a clearance. And patience wise, that was probably were I would have draw my limit anyhow. Because funny as it might seem, the call of that ice-cream I mentioned was seemingly just about as strong as the one of the mountain.

Turning my face straight into the roaring winds, I looked up the mountain one more time. The hail was gone. But the whole place still felt about as hospitable as the imaginations of all those people telling me I was better off duck taping myself to closest railway.

‘I’ll give this one day. Then I’m out of here.’

It was still early afternoon when I hauled my bike into the small ‘refugio’ built on top of the pass. A weather change seemed way off, but so was the mere thought of continuing without even trying. I closed the door behind me, crossed my fingers and didn’t as much as peek out the window until the following morning.


Mountain pass refugio. What a DREAM!


Hotel room as good as any.

A good while before sunrise the alarm clock went off. Already wrapped up in most of the clothes I carry with me, I opened my eyes, quickly zipped up my sleeping bag and headed for the door. I opened.

And saw.. STARS. Millions of stars and a cartoon sized moon beaming down, painting big shadows on the ground long before there were supposed to be any.

Jackpot. And go time.

One massive bowl of oatmeal and yet another couple of layers later, I found myself by the very foot of the mountain, hiding Mr. Bike behind a big rock and finding my way to the rather suddle 4WD track leading up the first part of the volcano. From here there was just one thing to do – walk.

Let’s keep it short. An hour or so in I was already on 5 000 + masl, breathing the thinnest air of life. Slowly I was gaining altitude and watching the snow steadily increase, hand in hand with the suddle acceleration of my beating heart.

This is what it looked like.


Homemade Sea to Summit backpack – approved!


Rocky terrain after the end of the 4WD track


First views of the peak

A bunch of hours later. I could feel my heart pounding through three layers of clothing. In a good way. I was actually up high now – and feeling absolutely great. Taking those last steps to the cross marking the very top of the volcano I was already laughing. Not knowing what one really is ‘supposed’ to do on the top of a mountain, I found myself just standing there. Taking in the panorama with every cell of my body.

Gazing out, letting the sun warm my face and breathing big – I smiled. Just like I 24 hours earlier had done in that raging storm, looking up the very peak on which I was now standing. With my sloggy oxygen lacking mind thinking of how Mr. Bike absolutely would have loved to see this too. The dizzy clarity I was experiencing was intoxicating. And I stood there, with a whole new personal definition of Euphoria.

Yet again, the words rang crystal clear – playing in my head like a new favorite tune.

‘San Fransisco is your perfect spot for a few first breaths above 6000 meters. A simple and straight forward pile of gravel with spectacular views. Enjoy!’

Thank you Janne. Enjoy it I did.


Volcán San Fransisco summit, 6018 masl

Until next time,

Fredrika

Mountain Dreamin’

Hey.

Here’s the deal. I have way too many photos from the section of this journey I want to tell you about in this post. Or at least begin to tell you about. So instead of writing too much about it, I’ll let a few of them do most of the talking instead.

If I did write, this would only ever become another one of those chunks of text where I try and find yet a few more synonyms to the not-even-graspable beauty that this planet keeps revealing a little more of for each new country passing under my wheels. A few new attempts at defining the magic that makes me want to keep chasing new horizons in all eternity.

I would try and explain the feeling being so endlessly small. While at the same time fully feeling part of the greatest thing of all.

I would yet again try to put that absolutely deafening mountain silence to words.

How – after days of climbing it – rolling down the other side of a massive mountain pass beats any and every roller coaster in the world.

Or how thin enough air somehow makes me feel like I’m breathing with purpose.

And I would fail miserably with all of the above.

The one thing I do want to say though, is that if you – even for a second – think that something like this could possibly be for you. And that somehow, sometime, you might be able to create an opportunity to make it reality. To give the middle finger to all those ‘impossibles’ that – as if only to make our lives miserable – consistently stand in between us and our dreams. (The secret few people know, is that they’re really only there to make sure we want them bad enough.)

I realise that peddling an old pushbike up and down a bunch of mountains isn’t for everyone. And that the majority of you reading these lines probably have way more sophisticated and purposeful dreams than me. I don’t care though. The same goes for you:

– If you want, you can. And if you can – you must.

Go for it. Whatever that ‘it’ might happen to be for you. Like, really make an attempt. The least you can do for yourself is try. It’s not supposed to be easy. But it’s supposed to be done.

Trust me. Try.

You will thank yourself forever.

Alright. We agreed on letting the photos do the talking in this one, right?

Here it is. Some of what the biggest smack in the face nature has ever given me looked like.

One early morning I left the small but oh so cute township of Villa Union behind, headed up. I had 2 weeks worth of food crammed down my panniers, and – at last – my big Andean two wheeled adventures were about to begin.

The first few days of climbing were, like always seems to be the case for me when I’m charging up high mountains, breezy and filled with absolutely childlike anticipation. Nature changes fast. Everything is new. The dropping temperatures still doesn’t require much more than an extra pair of socks at night. And still there are far too much oxygen in the air for your mind to even give it any thought.


Day 1


Day 2


Day 3

Surprisingly soon though – also this just like in any other high mountains I’ve been – you find yourself up high for real. And though mind and soul is still souring from pure inspiration, your far from acclimatised body is hating you a little more for each pedal stroke and climbed meter. Heart is beating like a drum no matter if you’re cycling, pushing, or simply sitting on a rock eating peanuts.

And it’s awesome.


How can this even be real?!

Eventually, I reached the first pass – Portazelo de Laguna Brava. 4350 masl.


The mandatory I’m UP!-selfie

And I was officially up on the arid, rugged altiplano offering to be my home for as long as I… could handle it.


Some of the host inhospitable landscapes I’ve ever seen


Vicuñas having dinner by Laguna Brava

This is probably what I love the most. Not the climbing part, headed up mountains. Nor the speedy descent down from them. That little something in between – being in them. Your body is well adjusted to the lack of oxygen. Your eyes have accepted that those ridiculous views and your ever-changing wallpapers are actually real. And making sure to keep batteries and water bottles from freezing at night becomes just as a natural part of your day as zipping up the tent in the morning.

We’re all different. But to me – this is the definition of life. And nowhere else do I feel as strongly that I’m absolutely living it.


2nd pass coming up!


Abra Pircas Negras. 4230 masl.


Rewards..!


Can you see my road down there?

I could go on forever.

Though I think I’ll do us all a favor and save the full photo bonanza for another time. Most likely to the couch of my grandmother, when I finally get there. If anyone in the world – she would be the one with the stamina to get through them all.

So for now, let’s just finish off with reminding ourselves.

– If we want, we can. If we can – we must.

I hope you don’t mind me asking. What is your dream?

Until next time,

Fredrika