Quito to Cow Camp

I woke up fizzing. Full of that itchy-feet, stoked-to-the-bone excitement.

Today, me and Thelma were getting the band back together.

Walking through Quito felt louder than before. Honking, yelling, engines rumbling—it all felt jarring after days of snorkelling silence and island stillness.
The Galápagos had spoilt us. Quiet. Calm. No chaos. Just sea lions and sunsets.

But here we were, weaving through the city back to Ger Bikes. And the moment we walked in, we were welcomed like old mates.
Then—there they were, Goldie and Thelma.. Our bikes. Gleaming.

Chains sparkling. Gears slicker than a sleezy guy’s chat up line in a pub. Brakes that actually braked.
They looked sexy. They felt ready. And so were we.

The rest of the day was spent doing the usual pre-launch ritual—shopping for supplies re-strapping bags, balancing excitement with a smidge of apprehension.
Tomorrow, we ride.

Dinner? Nachos. Homemade, full-noise, cheesy perfection. You’ve probably caught on by now that nachos are our go-to celebration feed. No shame in the game.

Final checks were done. Kit ready. Minds calm.

Back on the road tomorrow. New territory, new chaos, same wild hearts.

Back on the bikes this morning and... ouch. Ten days off the saddle and our bodies were quick to remind us.

The combo of altitude, elevation gain, and exhaust fumes from the city traffic slapped us into reality faster than a cold shower on a winter morning.

It didn’t take long for Murray and Laura to show up—you know, those grumpy alter egos that pop in when we’re hangry and miscommunicating our way through urban chaos.

After two hours, a couple of terse words, and about five U-turns, salvation arrived in the form of a tiny empanada café.

For $3.50 each, we got an empanada, two eggs, jugo and a coffee. Murray and Laura vanished. Just like that.

And finally, we were out of the city.

At the fork in the road, we had two options to rejoin the Trans Ecuador bikepacking route:

1. Head straight to Pintag, where the route passes through.

2. Detour to Santa Rosa Reserve, where we could camp up with stunning views of Mt Sincholagua before reconnecting tomorrow.

Of course, we chose Option 2—a little classic H and Maree detour.

But the universe had other plans.

Let’s just say, downhill and decision-making don’t mix.

Three times we missed our turn.

Three times we regrouped, checked the map, made a new plan...

And three times, gravity won.

By the third missed turn, we surrendered to our fate:

All roads lead to Pintag.

And turns out? That wasn’t such a bad thing.

We stumbled upon Hostería La Ponderosa—a hidden gem of a campground that felt like the set of Dirty Dancing, minus Patrick, Jennifer, or the dancing.

But they did have horse riding. And glamping. And cabins. And hot food.

Even better, they tucked us into a quiet wee corner away from the crowds, a godsend during school holidays when the place was buzzing with day-trippers.

The staff were warm and welcoming.

And… puppies. Four of them.

Need I say more?

We ended the day smiling, grateful to be back on track, grateful for a quiet spot to rest, and despite all the detours grateful for wherever the road decides to take us next.

The Pintag curse was broken!

Turns out Ponderosa was just a few k’s short of the town, and better yet, the road we were on led straight to our intended route. Finally, we were back on track.

Today’s theme song? Katy Perry’s ‘Hot n Cold’—on repeat. Literally, emotionally, and meteorologically.

We kicked things off on a gorgeous dirt road, lined with gum trees that smelled like what I imagine Aussie smells like (I’ve never been, but it’s got that Eucalyptus + rural nostalgia vibe). Beyond the trees: lush pastures, cornfields, sleepy horses and cows, and the odd humble house.

Then the sky cracked open.

We hurriedly threw our rain gear on just in time to hit our route proper—a gnarly, cobblestone road. Slippery downhill first.

Then, as if on cue, the rain stopped and the sun returned just as we began the uphill slog. Jackets off, sweat on.

From here, it got real remote. Fewer homes, just the odd tethered horse or lone cow, and thick bush lining the road. The cobblestones stuck around like a bad smell, and became the day’s main activity: pushing, pedalling, and bouncing our way up over uneven rocks like cowgirls on caffeine. At times we could ride, but it felt like taming a bronco made of bricks.

At one point, we found a sunny little driveway with a grassy verge, so we pulled out the cooker and whipped up empanada pizzas and coffee. Glorious, until—of course—the rain came in sideways just as we took the first bite.

Soggy empanadas. Not ideal, but we’re not fussy.

Just when we thought the cobbles were done tormenting us… they gave way to something on par....

Deep, sticky mud.

Yep, ankle-deep peanut butter that sucked at our wheels and stole our will to live.

Not gonna lie—today was hard yacka.

It was the sort of day that drains you slowly, bit by bit, until you’re too tired to be grumpy.

But Ecuador had one last twist for us…

We found it. A sneaky pull-off from the road, hidden from view. A soft patch of grass beside a babbling brook.

And towering above it all: the mighty Cotopaxi, snow-capped and stunning, watching over us like some ancient guardian.

We’d earned this camp. And as the sky cleared, we lay back, muddy, sore, grinning.

I woke up feeling like I’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, and lost every single one.

Despite crawling into bed early last night, my whole body was still pulsing with yesterday’s 8hr full body work out.

Fatigued. Flattened. Flogged.

Maree was only marginally better. The cobbles of doom had left their mark.

The day began with yet another push—our bikes clawing their way up a steep, rocky, rutted 4x4 track. Sweet hell. And Laura sat on my shoulder whispering, how shit it was, how we should just give up, what was the point...

But then… bliss.

We hit a stretch of hard-packed dirt track rolling across farmland. It was smooth, quiet, and momentarily effortless. Our wheels hummed instead of groaned.

Heaven.

Until we dropped down onto a river flat and beach like cycling.

Soft, slidey, sucky terrain. Our wheels kept skating out from under us like goats on an ice rink. With yesterday’s exhaustion still lingering like a hangover, it turned into a full-blown mind-fuck. Progress was painfully slow, and mentally it chewed us up.

At last, we arrived at the entrance to Cotopaxi National Park. We'd done just 10km, but it felt like a hundred.

Time for an emergency morale boost: coffee and more empanada pizzas.

And then, like a surreal bovine dream, a cow came charging towards us.

Followed by its friends.

They skidded to a stop just metres away, and then, dropped their heads to graze and just… hung out.

No drama. No aggression. Just curious cow company while we lunched and lazed about.

Recharged (sort of), we returned to our favourite pastime—bike pushing (sarcasm.).

This time up a hill. In the rain.

At the top, though? Magic.

We crested onto a wide, vast alpine plateau. The rain lightened, and we rolled onto a main 4x4 track, nestled deep inside Cotopaxi National Park.

A road we could actually ride.

It felt like flying.

With the soreness still dragging and the skies not promising anything kind, we made the call: early stop at Tambopaxi lodge.

A price gouging $19 each to camp. Oof.

It included breakfast at least but not showers.

Then came the ultimate expeditioner’s debate:

Shower ($3 each) or beer?

You already know the answer.

Beer wins. Every time.

So here we are—muddy, tired but grinning. Camped up again beneath the watchful gaze of the majestic Cotopaxi, cloaked in mist.

There’s something magic about being the first ones up. The world still quiet. Cotopaxi smiling down on us through the morning mist, majestic and mysterious.

Coffee in hand. Chilly fingers wrapped around the mug. Stillness. That kind of peace that fills your lungs deeper than breath alone.

Then we wandered up to the lodge for our included breakfast. Slight impostor syndrome kicked in. Fancy digs. Other guests still asleep. But hey—we paid $19 each to camp on a patch of dirt damn right we’re eating that breakfast.

By the time we’d finished eating and watching others emerge from their warm beds, Cotopaxi had already pulled the covers back over its head, clouded over and shy again.

The morning kicked off grey and moody, a fine mist cloaking everything. By the time we detoured to check out laguna de Limpiopungo it had turned to an icy drizzle.

And oddly, it suited the vast alpine plateau. Made it feel even more dramatic. otherworldly.

I’d prepped well today—warm leggings, a cosy top, jackets on. Ready.

1000m downhill. Wahoo!

This wasn’t one of those steep ones where I leave Maree eating my dust. Nah! This was the perfect downhill. Cruisy. No heavy braking. Just icey wind and rain in our faces, drifting down easy.

Then… that smell.

I knew it instantly being a Kiwi. Felled pine.

What the hell?

Sure enough, we came round the bend and there it was—acres of felled pine. Chopped. Cleared.

In the middle of a national park???!!

Turns out, it was planted 20 years ago by the Dutch to offset emissions from a thermoelectric plant in the Netherlands.

Carbon credits.

Promises were made.

They didn’t hold up their end of the deal, and now the trees are being cleared.

At the entrance to the park, there was a wee café. We ducked in, chasing warmth.

Maree ordered her signature café leche. I went for a hot choccy. Then there it was...banana cake, staring Maree down. She didn’t even blink.

Next thing I know she’s devouring it. Pour Glute-free Me?

Betrayed!!

The road out led us toward San Antonio, and as we detoured onto a hard-packed dirt road, we hit what felt like mini Australia, again. Gum trees lined both sides.

Maree said half expected a kangaroo to hop out. I kept scanning the branches for koalas.

We rolled into San Antonio a little chilled and soggy and pulled into a Papa Polo for lunch. A plate of hot greasy food and a good ol’ logistical powwow.

We decided to stay put for the night, needing a resupply. Best decision of the day.

Not long after, the heavens opened with a proper icey dumping.

Sure, I’m not made of sugar. I won’t melt.

But if you don’t have to ride in it—why would you?

Afternoon was spent restocking, recharging, and reading.

Later, we perched our bed, giggling and snuffling down the biggest, juiciest pineapple we've ever seen. Cost us 50 cents.

The woman running the hospedaje was like a hummingbird—constantly flitting. Serving meals, disappearing into the kitchen, popping back out, tending to us, darting from one task to the next with a quiet contentment. Hardworking, always moving, but never stressed.

The hospedaje double as a local eatery for the town’s working men—mostly blokes in their twenties and thirties, plus the odd older gent. We’d arrived, yesterday, just as the lunch rush wound down—rows of men shovelling down their menu del día like it was gospel.

Later, when we snuck downstairs for dinner, a few trickled back in for soupa.

And again in the morning, there they were. Some of the same faces, perched at the same tables, eating their workman's breakfast.

That breakfast though—whoa. Chicken, rice, egg, bread rolls, juice, coffee. A full spread. Honestly, it was the first time, in Ecuador, I’ve felt physically challenged by a breakfast. I had to pace myself with the coffee at the end.

Turns out, we needed it. The day ahead was a slow, steady 1000m climb.

We started through farmland—cows mostly, and to our surprise, the odd sheep. Not that they probably thought they were odd, but still.

Mid morning old lady waved us down outside a little tienda, so we stopped for a Coke and pork crackling. I shared mine with a local puppy, because, well, manners.

We climbed on until we reached a town called Yanuarcu Grande and stopped in the square by the church to brew a coffee and whip up some makeshift empanadas.

As we sat there, we became the lunchtime entertainment—first for the stray dogs, then for the stray kids. They’d giggle, run away, tell their mates, then come back in groups to stare and run away again.

Eventually, even we lost our novelty. The kids drifted off, we packed up, and kept on climbing.

The land slowly shifted as we rose—tussocks, alpine shrubs, open air. On one side of the road: high-altitude wilderness. On the other: a tractor ploughing a field. Surreal.

We hit the top of the climb just as the sun finally broke through. We dropped our bikes and lay back in the tussocks, soaking up that golden warmth and the quiet buzz in our tired bodies. Sun on skin. Wind on cheeks. Bloody magic.

And then, as is the rhythm of this trip: what goes up, must rattle down.

We dropped 1000m on a bumpy, potholed dirt road into lush green valleys. More cows. More sheep.

I came around a bend at one point and scared the bejesus out of a donkey—and myself. Not sure who yelped louder.

Eventually rolled into a wee town called Isinlivi, where we found Hostal Taita Cristóbal. No rooms available, they said, though it looked empty. But we were welcome to camp.

Turned out to be a total score. We sweet-talked our way into staying in the empty common area, and it was like having our own mountain cabin—wooden beams, couches, hot showers, a kitchen, even Wi-Fi. Not a soul in sight. Just us and the creak of the wind outside.

Marie cooked up an epic sausage fried rice with a fried egg topper—protein-packed, and bloody delicious.

And then, just like that, the day was done. We curled up in our little haven, warm, full, and quietly buzzing

It’s not exactly motivating when the first thing you do in the morning is push your fully loaded bike uphill. Before your legs have even remembered how to function. No gentle easing into the day—just straight into the grind.

As I leaned into my handlebars, feet slipping slightly on the loose dirt, the thoughts started rolling. I chose this. Could be behind a desk somewhere, sipping instant from the office kitchenette, firing off emails about emails. Nah, fuck that!!

I looked up, and there was Maree ahead of me, also pushing, also sweating. That view, her bent over her bars, head down, just getting on with it—was weirdly motivating. Being in it together changes everything.

The “rolling hills” the map app had promised us? Lies. Straight-up bollocks. These weren’t undulating. They were walls. One after the other. And the descents weren’t much better, too steep, too sketchy, too short-lived to count as a reward.

At one point, we paused and I looked back through the valley behind us. Way off in the distance, like a dream or a memory, I could just make out the spot where we’d sprawled out in the tussocks yesterday. It was so high up, and now here we were, so bloody far below it.

It hit me then, we’ve come a hell of a long way. And we’ve still got a hell of a long way to go.

But there’s a rhythm in the suffering. A weird kind of peace when your legs are burning, the sweat's dripping, and you just keep pushing. No traffic. No noise but the wind and your own breath. Just you, your mate, and the mountains.

And maybe, deep down, that’s why we keep doing this.

The hills on either side of us were steep, real steep. I kept wondering how they grew anything on those slopes without it all tumbling down. And how the cows didn't just roll off.

At one point, I started debating in my head whether it’d be better to live in a village at the top of the hill or the bottom. Either way, if it rained hard enough, someone’s going to end up in someone else's lounge via landslide.

These are the deep thoughts you have when you're pushing a 30kg rig up a vertical sandpit in the middle of nowhere.

“Hey babe,” Maree called out, breathless but curious, “do you think this was all seabed once?”

I stopped to consider it, mostly because I needed a break, but also because it made sense. Most of the day we’d been pushing through loose, gritty sand. Not gravel. Not dirt. Sand. Like the beach, but vertical. I felt like I was pushing a rugby scrum machine up a sand dune for eight hours straight.

By late arvo, we were totally spent. Maree stopped her bike on a bit of flat to rest, and I went to pull up beside her, except my brain forgot to send the 'put foot down' signal, and I just... toppled. Whole bike, whole me, just tipped like a cartoon tree being felled. I crawled out from under it, dragged myself to a lump of dirt, and flopped like a sack of wet washing. Maree, ,picked up my bike and propped it gently against the cliff face.

And then, out of nowhere, salvation came in the form of a puppy.

This little fluffball came bouncing down the road with a bigger dog in tow, and without hesitation, launched itself at me. Just full snuggle mode. Curled into my lap and gave me the kind of cuddles you only get from something that doesn’t know what a shitty day is. I could’ve cried. That pup brought me back to life.

When we rode away, it just sat there in the road, watching us leave. I swear there was a tear in its eye. I wanted to put it in my pocket and carry it all the way to the end of the earth.

For around 2 hours, we looked for somewhere to camp, but no water meant no dice. Then, like a miracle, we heard music. Came round a corner and spotted a construction site. A half-built building up on a rise. A woman waved at us. I looked at Maree and said, “Should we ask?”

I climbed up and asked the woman if we could camp there. She smiled and pointed. On the other side of the road was a flat-ish cow pasture. Yes.

I could’ve hugged her.

We wheeled our bikes into the pasture and set our tent under a big open cow shelter, rustic, sure, but with a water tap and enough flat ground to call it home.

Maree was stoked because we could even have a fire. She cooked us cheesy arapas, greasy, protein-loaded fuel.

By 7pm, we were in our sleeping bagsByAnd I'd say by 7:01, we were snoring like chainsaws in a timber yard.