Cow Camp to Riobamba

We lay in our tent, bodies still buzzing from the brutality of yesterday. Muscles throbbing, brains fogged, we debriefed the week. A real doozy.

There'd been a lot of bike pushing, and I mean a lot. Up steep, gravelly, uneven, rock-strewn terrain that didn’t even have the decency to pretend to be a bike friendly. It hurt. Physically, mentally, emotionally. A “character building” sort of hurt.

We got chatting about the route we’d chosen, the one that had chewed us up, spat us out, and then politely offered to do it all over again.

If we were just doing this for a month and then heading back to the comforts of an office chair and flat white, maybe we’d soldier on. But we’re not. We’ve got nine months to go.

Nine MonthsTo the end of the world. Literally.

It means we need to play the long game. This isn’t giving up. This is being sensible. Strategic. Longevity, not lunacy. We still want to see Ecuador. Really see it. But we also want to make it to Peru, Bolivia, Chile, Argentina — not as broken, grumpy husks of ourselves, but with a bit of spark still left in the tank.

So, we’re pivoting. Tweaking the route. Still off the beaten path, but maybe not off the cliff.

Today’s mission was simple in theory: ride to Quilotoa township, find a hostel, rest the weary bones. Easy, right? Except for the 400m climb. Into a headwind.

But stubbornness runs thick in our veins.

We rolled into the little crater-rim tourist hub and found Hostel Martha. Not flash, not fancy, but perfect. First priority: Food. The kind that sticks to your ribs and makes your arteries sing. I am always hungry on adventures, and rice just doesn’t cut it. We went hunting meat.

Marie found the Holy Grail of hamburgers, thick homemade patty, full of flavour. I scored lamb chops with corn and potatoes. Exactly what the body had been screaming for.

Then it was shower, collapse, unconscious.

Marie found herself zombied out on the couch in a Wi-Fi coma. I don’t remember anything post-lamb chop until I came to in a pile of drool.

Later, we ambled into town again for a chocolate bar, because — more fat. Then wandered over to gaze into the spectacular Quilotoa Crater. A collapsed volcano now filled with shimmering water and steep cliffs that look like something out of a dream… or a nightmare, depending on how your legs feel.

Town was pretty quiet. A few tourists floating around, but hardly a stampede. We grabbed ice cream (cold, but who cares — more fat) and headed back for yet more rest. Our mission was very clear now: recover, reflect, re-route.

Tomorrow we’ll have a cruisy morning, milk that 11am checkout for all it’s worth, then roll down to Zumbahua, find another hostel, restock food, and keep this train rolling — just maybe with a little less bruising.

New route, new energy. Same wild dream.

We fully milked for the 11pm checkout and the "included" breakfast and we finally rolled out.

Today wasn’t about smashing out miles. The plan was simple: drop down the hill to Zumbahua, restock, and keep it chill. Our bodies were still feeling battered after last week’s mammoth bike-pushing saga.

As we rolled into town, the smell hit us before the town square even came into view — fried chicken. Street food stalls lined the square pumping out the goods. We were weak. We caved. And we feasted. A plate of hot fatty goodness topped off with a havavous.

We sorted a resupply for the next leg of the ride, then promptly did as little as possible. Lay low, rested up, and when evening rolled around, there was only one thing on the dinner menu: nachos. Again!

Zumbahua was buzzing — turns out Saturdays are market day, and after packing up the rigs, we wandered down to suss it out.

What we expected to be a small village affair turned out to be a full-blown social event. Stalls stretched out over the village square, selling everything from vibrant fruit and veg to pigs' heads, clothes, and all sorts of random bits and bobs.

It felt less like a market and more like the weekly town reunion — clusters of people laughing, chatting, catching up on the week.

And it wasn’t just for a chinwag — this was the weekly shop. Women, mostly, walked away loaded like packhorses with massive sacks slung over their shoulders .

Feeling festive and full of market energy, we jumped back on the bikes, and boom, straight into a 15-minute bike push up a steep cobbled road. Just a wee flashback to last week's uphill slog, in case we'd forgotten.

The rest of the day rolled along in undulating fashion, with the grand finale saved for a grinding 10km climb. We pushed on through landscapes that looked like a giant had stitched together an agricultural patchwork quilt, deep browns and lush greens dotted the hills.

Livestock were tethered not free range. Cows grazing in perfectly circular patterns, their ropes tied under their horns like 70s hippies with flower-child headbands. No fences here, just a bit of string and a whole lot of grazing etiquette.

By late afternoon, with the climb behind us and legs like jelly, we veered off the main road and down a quiet dirt track. That’s where we found it, tonight’s perfect camp. An old, disused brick building stood watch just off the track, with a flat patch of grass out front practically begging for a tent.

And while I might not be a fan of towns and cities, they do know how to sparkle from a distance. Once night fell, we looked down over the valley below — and it lit up like a horizontal Christmas tree. Twinkling lights, glowing windows, coloured bulbs — all scattered across the valley floor.

We sat there, aching from the day’s ride, and just soaked it in. The beauty, the quiet, the ache in our legs , it all felt like part of the same rhythm.

We woke wrapped in mist, the world around us muffled and still, visibility down to about five metres. Everything felt soft and dreamlike. The kind of morning where you just whisper instead of talk.

We rolled quietly downhill, drifting past a scattering of broken-down buildings. Occasionally a bark echoed from one, which meant someone still called it home.

The terrain was steep and a bit ruggered, but there were still crops pushing through the dirt and the odd tethered animal munching their patch of grass.

Eventually we dropped into the town of Pujili and bang, just like that, the peace was gone. It was market day and the place was humming. Stalls and people packed out a huge space. It looked like the place to stop for lunch, but there was no way we could leave our bikes unattended, and no way we could shove them through that chaos.

So we bailed on that idea and rolled into a small, quiet restaurant just off the town square. There, we tucked into a classic: pollo, arroz, and the ever-welcome huevo.

Post-feed, we picked up a few more supplies and rolled out through rolling farmland and dusty settlements. It was a proper Sunday arvo in Ecuador — kids chasing footballs, dogs chasing the kids, and everyone else cheering from the sidelines.

Then, in the distance, Cotopaxi popped its head above the horizon. We stopped and stared. “Far out, we were over there not that long ago!” It felt surreal. Time’s weird on the road.

Finding a place to crash for the night was tougher than expected. We rode into a town that looked promising but turned out to be straight-up post-apocalyptic. The buildings looked reasonably modern, but everything was shut up tight, like a ghost town.

We pushed on to a main highway hoping for a hotel but were met with a bunch of dodgy-looking motels. Not really the vibe. Then I spotted it — a big, sun-faded sign that read: Yambo Laguna. It had a photo of a tent on it. “Babe, let’s try it.”

Down a steep cobbled road we went and boom — paradise. A lakeside activity park straight out of the 80s, full of families frolicking. The swings looked borderline dangerous, but no one seemed to care. Laughter was the only health and safety.

And yes, we could camp! We pitched up a little away from the crowd, but close enough to be entertained. At 6pm the gates shut, everyone left, and suddenly it was all ours.

We sat by Maree’s fire as the lake went still, chatting about our uncanny knack for stumbling on epic camp spots , the kind of places you never find in a guidebook, but always remember.

Today was a first. Since we started this mad bikepacking adventure, we hadn’t once camped somewhere that was guaranteed to be just us. But here, beside Laguna Yambo, we had the whole place to ourselves, not a soul in sight.

I crawled out of the tent for a bleary-eyed stumble to the baños, and when I got back, Maree had vanished. A quick scan of the campsite revealed her… striding about with full confidence, wearing nothing but Crocs — yes, just two Crocs. collecting firewood for the morning brew. A true bush woman, au naturel.

Back home, we’re both pretty fond of a bit of wilderness freedom. No clothes, just nature, fire, and a cuppa. You’re pretty much guaranteed not to see anyone. And if you do, well, good on them. What a treat.

Travelling through South America, out of respect, we’ve kept the bits covered. Mostly.

So while Maree fussed with kindling and got the billy on, I snuck back into the tent. It was bathing in morning sun, so I did what any cold-blooded creature would do and stretched out like a lizard, soaking in the warmth. Honestly, I could’ve stayed there all day, roasting gently and pretending life wasn’t a series of 10km uphills.

Now, the park didn’t open to the public until 9am, and since the gate was locked, we were, in essence, gloriously trapped.

Part of our $5-a-pop camping fee included a “laKe cruise.” We'd sweet-talked the staff yesterday and negotiated a one-way deal, bikes and all, to the other end of the lake, skipping a brutal hill climb in the process.

Turns out, we were the only ones booked in. So there we were, Maree and I, bikes loaded onto the launch, drifting across a lake with no one but the captain and his helper. It was short, just 15 minutes, but we felt like right royal legends with our own private yacht cruise.

Our private lake cruise came to an end with a gentle bump against the dock. We unloaded the bikes, waved off our captain, and set off, smug as anything. We'd just dodged a hill. A big hill.

But smug doesn't last long in Ecuador.

Why is it — and I swear this is a universal truth of bikepacking, that for every 5km of joy-filled descent, there must be 10km of leg-screaming, sweat-dripping climb? It's never the other way around. There’s no 10km of downhill with a quick sweep up the other side.

And if I haven’t explained how roads work here yet, let me enlighten you: they don’t sidle gently along contours like some civilised terrain might. No, no. They plunge. Straight down into a valley no matter how deep and then punch you square in the thighs on the way back out. That’s the rhythm. Abajo! Arriba! Abajo! Arriba!. Down we go. Up we crawl. Again and again.

But... there is a kind of glory to it.

When you're panting at the top of yet another climb, sweat dripping into your eyeballs, and you glance back at the switchbacks behind you, it hits different. It's a visual CV of effort.

My legs have stopped protesting. They’ve signed the contract. This is their life now.

We rolled into Pujilí around 2:30, stomachs growling like stray dogs. Found a small local place dishing up pork and corn, a welcome shift from the usual pollo y papas. Simple, salty, satisfying.

Possibly the best thing about bikepacking: everything tastes Michelin-star when you've climbed 800m for it.

We figured this was enough for one day. Found Hotel San Luis, a grand old place with fading charm and echoes of former bustle. Tonight, it was all ours. A palace for two stinky, dusty women. Cheap, cheerful, and the kind of shower that makes you contemplate life for a while.

Later that night, Maree turned to me and asked, “Do you reckon we’re getting a taste of the real Ecuador?”

I thought for a moment. Then replied, “I reckon I’m feeling Ecuador.”

And I meant it. Because Ecuador doesn’t give you a tiny snapshot. It got into my muscles. It's burrowed into my soul. It's a feeling of endless uphills and endless surprise, the ache of thighs and the buzz of a day well spent. I feel it in the bruises, in the lungs, in the smiles from strangers, in the corn on my plate, and in the sunset while camped on a remote hill.

The other day, Maree and I had what you might politely call a couple’s disagreement. Others might call it a full-blown argument. Either way, she told me — quite directly — that I don’t always take her route suggestions seriously. That I brush them off. That maybe I should be more open to her being the navigator once in a while.

Fair call!

Today, when Maree said we should take a different route than we’d planned, I said, “OK babe, you be the guide today.”

And I meant it. No sarcasm, no hidden agenda. I was genuinely handing over the reins.

Hats off to her — the first hour or so was bloody brilliant. A slow, cruisy descent, barely a car in sight. It had that dreamy floaty feeling where your legs just spin and the world glides by.

But — and this is a big Ecuadorian “but” — when you're going way down, you’re always going to pay the price later. That's the deal here. This country doesn’t hand you downhills for free.

To add some spice to the ride, it was sleeting lightly. When we stopped, it was just a drizzle of tiny ice pellets. But when you were rolling down hill? It was like being peppered in the face with frozen sand. Into the eyeballs. Stinging and squinting all the way down the hill. Honestly, I loved it. I had a stupid grin plastered across my face, half joy, half frostbite.

Maree mission, to get us to a town called Patate. The final 10–15 minutes into town was a decent grind uphill. Nothing outrageous, but enough to earn your lunch. I got there a little ahead and pulled out the nav map to scope the next move.

And that’s when I laughed.

Because, to continue on, we’d now have to roll back down the hill we’d just ground our way up and then tackle a big accent to get to where we wanted to be.

Now, all day I was adamant that the route we were going to take would’ve been a tidy 600m climb. And this new one? Easily 1000m.

So we debated. Gently, mostly. Sometimes with firm tones. Sometimes just in silence, each chewing over whether we were right or wrong as the altitude stacked up. It became The Great Debate of the day.

But the truth? We won’t really know who was right until we press the InReach at night, check the stats, and do the maths. And even then, will it matter??!!

Because at the end of the day, we’re both still here. Still laughing. Still sleeting. Still pedalling together up another bloody Ecuadorian hill.

BUT yes of course it matters!!!

As we were on a fairly main road most of the day, it got loud. And with loud comes overwhelm. The endless drone of trucks, buses belching smoke, horns blaring, and the ever-present need to be on — scanning every mirror, corner, and wheel rut. The kind of energy that gnaws at you slowly. But all you could do was focus on the grind: up, up, up, up, up, up, up.

In the afternoon, we rejoined our original route, and not long after that we veered off again, this time towards a little town called Quero. Maree had spotted what looked like a camping area on Google probably one of those rustic adventure camps we’ve been loving lately.

The pattern of the day held: steady climbing, no big fanfare, just a slow peel upward. Then Maree pulled up, mid-hill. I thought she was bonking or having a breather. But no — she’d spotted a small, sign: Camping Aquí.

We rolled in.

It was exactly our vibe. Rustic as anything, and run by, Alexis. a single cowboy enthusiast who had poured his soul into the place.

A big rough-hewn wooden common room, cowboy memorabilia nailed to the beams, a woodburner ready to roar, and a friendly “mi casa es su casa” energy.

Bonus prize again we could just sleep in the common room.

Maree got the fire crackling. I rustled up a hearty stew that made our little pot nearly overflow. Then we kicked our feet up and leaned into the warmth. Maree made hot chocolate, and with a cheeky splash of whiskey, we toasted to the day’s effort, "to The Great Debate, to finding magic down a random road, and to choosing each other, even when it’s uphill".

Last night, me and Maree got some pussy!

The same one, in fact.

There was a little white kitten at the cowboy camp we’d holed up at, and he clearly had no intention of sleeping anywhere but with us.

Once again, we’d scored the common room for the night , this time, with a fire roaring next to us. Couldn't ask for better.

The kitten belonged to Alexis and when he retired up to his cabin, the kitten was supposed to follow. But I reckon the fluffball had already made his choice. Who can resist a couple of crusty cycle bikepackers and their down sleeping bags?

He played us both like a fiddle. I drifted off to sleep with him curled up on my chest, only to wake later and find him snuggled in with Maree. This back-and-forth kitten shuffle went on all night. I woke in the morning and somehow, he was inside my sleeping bag, wrapped up in there with me like a tiny, purring hot water bottle. No idea how he got in.

In the morning, Alexis was out teaching a group of vet students how to work with horses — how to approach, lead, and talk to them. It was actually quite cool to watch over our steaming mugs of coffee. But after soaking up the cowboy vibes, it was time to hit the road again.

And boy, were we hitting it hard — another 1000m climb. Two days in a row.

Laura, my unwelcome but familiar little shoulder demon, wasn’t stoked. She hopped on early, whispering her usual negativity into my ear, trying to drag me down as we crawled past Cerro Igualata, a brooding volcano hidden behind low grey clouds.

The sky was a cold slab of grey, and the wind cut through just enough to make the grind feel that much harder.

Somewhere just shy of the summit of the day, we pulled off the road and tucked ourselves out of the wind. Lunch: our now world-famous (in our own minds) bikepacking tour classic, pizza empanadas, cooked hot, washed down with strong coffee.

That seemed to do the trick. Laura shut the hell up. Just like that she was gone!

We had about 200 vertical metres left to climb after lunch, and I swear it felt like nothing. At the top, just as we were about to descend, a Kono ice cream truck passed us. My brain clicked in to late to stop him. I could’ve almost cried.

But our luck turned on the descent. We hooned around a bend and BAM! A glorious random roadside shop appeared like a mirage. Ice-cold fizzy drinks and salty papas. A tiny, crunchy, greasy slice of heaven washed down with fizzy sugar!

Afternoon treats never taste as good as when you’ve earned them with five hours of uphill punishment.

And speaking of the climb, one key bit I haven’t told you yet. The road was actually closed. Not that we let that stop us. We slipped around the barrier and carried on. The best bit? No traffic. No trucks, no buses belching black smoke. Just us, the wind, and a few local farmers in pickup trucks waving as they passed. It was magic — a private road winding through a patchwork quilt of farmland, remote, quiet, and peaceful.

From leaving camp to reaching the top took us near on five hours. The downhill that followed was a ripper, 20km in 45 minutes, all gravity-powered glory.

The rug was swiftly pulled out from under us with a surprise 10km uphill grind into Riobamba.

We found a cute little hostel, Villa Bonita, and checked in for two nights. Rest day needed. We’re both running on empty and smelling like compost heaps. Everything needs a wash, bodies, bikes, and especially clothes. I genuinely feel sorry for the woman who’s about to do our laundry.

But tonight? We’ll rest our weary bones, safe in the knowledge that they don’t have to get up and peddle up another bloody hill tomorrow. Our legs will be shocked. But they’ll get over it.