Arba Pampa to El Carril

This morning felt like a monumental milestone, not just another climb, but the climb. After a steady uphill (thankfully not Ecuador-style), we reached 3,750 metres above sea level.

Now, we’ve hit plenty of high points before, so why the fuss? Because this one marks the last time we’ll reach a high point above 3,000 metres on this journey. From here, it’s all downhill — literally. Over the next few days we’ll drop around 750 metres, sink into thicker air, and maybe even climb stairs without feeling like we’ve got an elephant parked on our backs.

After months of living high, thin and breathless, I’m half expecting to be euphoric, or at least able to string a sentence together without gasping. We’ll see.

We rolled into a sleepy little town called Tres Cruces around lunchtime. It looked like an old railway hub that time had quietly forgotten. The tracks were silent, buildings faded, but it had charm. Even better, it had two tiendas. Luxury.

We parked up in the shade of an old rail building, tucked into a feast of papas fritas, bananas and yoghurt, when a fella wandered over and offered us a place to stay. His name was José. He had kind eyes and the calm of someone who lives close to the land.

We thanked him and said we’d think about it, but curiosity got the better of us. After lunch we popped round the corner to check out his place, a humble home he shared with his partner and young son. Inside hung a world map dotted with pins marking where travellers that had stayed came from. We added ours. Out back he’d built a greenhouse from clay bricks and glass bottles, pure magic. Talking to him felt easy, like we were singing a duet in the same key.

We reluctantly left and pedalled on, descending into a wide canyon carved out over millennia. This is where the afternoon comes alive: the road ribboned along the valley floor, flanked by towering cliffs that looked like a geological layer cake tipped on its side, stacked bands of ochre, rust, chocolate and terracotta. In places the strata curled and folded into surreal sculptures, like someone had taken a Jenga tower and given it a good shove.

Between the cliffs, the valley opened into pockets of scrub and hardy grasses, tufts of tussock, the odd stunted cactus, and the occasional shepherd’s stone hut. Llamas and alpacas grazed in small mobs; sometimes we’d pass a patch of bright green irrigated terraces clinging like stitched-on shelves to the slopes.

A thin river threaded through the bottom of the canyon, silvering in the sun and giving life to the scrappy vegetation. On the road, the surface varied from decent sealed stretches to rough gravel that bounced your fillings out; the wind loved to play here, funnelling between the walls and turning easy pedalling into a teeth-gritted affair.

The light in the afternoon made the colours pop, shadows carved hard lines across the folds of rock, and vultures lazily circled on the thermals above. It felt ancient and theatrical all at once.

Then came the wind. Uninvited. Relentless. Building all afternoon until it felt like we were pedalling through soup.

By late day we found a sneaky camp tucked out of sight, blessedly sheltered from the gale. We ate in silence, the kind of silence that says we’ve had enough and then watched the last light drain from the sky.

I woke sometime after midnight with the hungers. You know that gnawing belly ache that won’t quit? I lay there doing a quiet stocktake of our supplies, grim. Until I remembered the two packets of nuts stashed in my frame bag.

So out I crawled, sat under the full moon and had myself a nut solo party. It felt spiritual, almost primal, just me, the desert silence and the crunch of roasted peanuts echoing into the night.

Apparently, according to Maree, it didn’t sound nearly as peaceful from inside the tent.

“It was like a bloody rodent infestation,” she said in the morning.

Maree redeemed me at sunrise with a fire-side breakfast of api, that thick sweet red corn drink, and fried bananas. It hit the spot perfectly, hot, sticky, comforting, the kind of meal that glues your soul back together after a windy night.

We hit the road toward Humahuaca, chasing warmth and food. Once there, we inhaled plates of carne, papas and salad before raiding the market for fresh fruit and veggies. And, best of all, we scored a pack of fat-laden sausages for dinne, proper cyclist fuel.

As soon as we left town, guess who turned up?

Mr Headwind.

The uninvited bastard.

What should have been a cruisy downhill became a battle royale. The road rolled gently, but the wind was so fierce we had to pedal downhill. Uphill felt like punishment from the gods. Honestly, Ecuador had nothing on this, this was next-level suffering.

After 30 kilometres of pure grind, we were two blithering souls on the brink of tapping out. Then, by some small miracle, we stumbled into a tiny village and found a new hostel, not even on Google yet. The owner took one look at the state of us and offered a pity discount.

Now we’re tucked up by an open fire, safe from the howling wind outside.

The flames crackle, our bodies thaw, and I’m convinced I’ll dream of being chased by a headwind tonight. Apparently, it blows like this every afternoon here.

Good lord. What have we cycled into?

Today our intention was to get on the road straight after our hostal breakie and get a few k’s in before the evil headwind attacked.

Good in theory… but breakie wasn’t till 8:30, and then we ended up chatting to the owner and a few others staying there. You know how it goes.

We got a wriggle on later than planned, but sometimes good yarns trump out-flanking an evil wind.

We managed to squeeze in three solid power hours with a short snack stop in between. We smashed out some decent distance before the wind started flexing again. Not as strong as yesterday arvo, but I could feel it gearing up.

We caught up with another bikepacker , from somewhere in South America, couldn’t quite decipher where, he was heading to Mendoza.

The three of us started playing the drafting game: one up front cops the full brunt of the wind while the others cruise a bit behind. We took turns sacrificing ourselves to the wind gods.

After nearly another hour, Maree spotted a “Baño” sign and signalled she wanted to investigate. We said chow to our mate and pulled over at the train station loos. Turned out Tambaya’s got this wee tourist attraction a solar train.

There was a small café there, so we stopped for a jugo and tamales. Big mistake. Got totally stitched. Not usually eating at tourist joints, we weren’t expecting to get charged an arm and a leg for a snack. I was ropeable!

Back on the bikes, just the two of us again, still battling the headwind. Then finally, it happened, a downhill steeper than the wind. Relief! Happiness! Yeeee fucken ha!

We rolled into a little village called León and had a nosy around. Behind the town was a football field, basketball court, and a picnic area with BBQs. I asked a local whose property bordered it if we could camp there and if it was safe, they said yes.

So now I’m parked up waiting for our dehydrated llama to rehydrate in the cerveza we grabbed from the shop up the road. We’re hydrating with the same beer too, naturally.

Maree’s off collecting firewood — she’s determined to have a fire-cooked dinner. I’m sitting here entertaining the local dogs, soaking up the quiet and the surrounding hills blanketed in bush.

The sports field doubles as a grazing field. There are about seven horses tethered around, a handful of cows, and a woman just brought down a big herd of goats with a few sheep mixed in. The place is a hive of activity, kids, dogs, people, animals — it’s like live TV, bikepacking style.

We actually set our alarm this morning, determined to have breakie and hit the road early l, get some k’s in before the headwinds kicked off.

The bird song and bush around us this morning were something else. After months surrounded by alpine landscapes, being back in lush greenery feels almost surreal, like stepping into another world.

We ended up having such an enjoyable morning watching the horses and mucking around making breakfast that we didn’t leave any earlier than usual. Classic.

We even had a mate join us for breakie, an older local bloke wandered over just as we were tucking in. Friendly as, chatting away even though we couldn’t understand much of what he was saying. We offered him some of our mashed papa and llama with a cup of Api, and he happily joined us. After eating, he motioned for a bit of cash, we politely declined, and he wasn’t too fussed. He shook our hands, smiled, and wandered off down the road.

We rode steadily until we reached Jujuy, where we stopped for morning tea among its bustling markets. The road in was busy as, and in true Argentinian fashion, there’s no shoulder to speak of. You’re basically riding the white line and hoping everyone’s had their morning coffee.

As the day went on, the heat ramped up, hotter than anything we’ve felt since Colombia. We rolled past this massive lake, both of us grinning like kids. “Yeees, swim time!” But nope. Big fat sign: No swimming. There is no God.

So we kept pushing up through the jungle-like surrounds. The road quietened, thank God, because it got narrower too. Hot, sweaty, and a bit delirious, we finally reached the top where there was a picnic spot with BBQs — perfect, since we’d grabbed sausages at the market earlier.

Then I looked at Maree and said, “Hey babe, it’s only 40k, all downhill. We could make it to Frank’s tonight and have two days off.”

Bit of context: we’d read about this place called Frank’s when researching camping spots near Salta. It sounded ideal for a rest day, and after Bolivia’s burnout, we’d promised ourselves a proper break.

So, in true idiotic adventurer fashion, at 4pm we decided to go for it.

We were stitched up... because in Argentina, “downhill” doesn’t mean what you think it does. You actually have to pedal. The first 10k I was fuming: “WT, this is not in the brochure!” Then it finally started to slope properly, gentle but cruisy, with a few punchy ups that kept us honest.

With 7k to go, we both hit the wall. Legs like lead. And of course, that final stretch was slightly uphill. Because of course it was.

But we made it to Frank’s. What a welcome. A friendly Dutch guy greeted us, followed by Frank’s adult daughter.

“Got any beer?” I asked.

She laughed, “Kiwis, right? Only Kiwis would want a beer before anything else after a big day!” She handed us a cold one and left us to inhale it.

A few minutes later, Frank rolled in with Rob, an American bloke, both fresh from cruising around in Rob’s overland rig. Frank, a German who’s been living here for over 20 years, was stoked to meet us. He offered us a deal: stay in his new Unimog tiny house for the same price as camping. He wanted someone to test it out. Didn’t have to ask us twice.

That night we tucked into a feed Frank had cooked, sipped wine Rob shared, and swapped stories with the crew. That spontaneous decision to push on turned out to be one of the best we’ve made.

OMG, I reckon we’ve hit the jackpot here. We’re tucked up in this awesome overlander, waking in our own little private world, coffee in hand, sun just peeking through the trees. Pure bliss.

We decided to treat ourselves today, café breakfast, no local market hustle. The only thing on the menu I could eat at San Lorenzo Café was a meat and cheese platter. No complaints here. It came as a two-person deal. Maree had to jump on board, not that she minded with all that fresh bread to herself. I was stoked with a mountain of olives, meat, and cheese.

After a lazy feed, we loaded up for a few days of rest, fresh veg, fruit, beer, and wine. You know, the essentials.

The pedal back to camp was slow going; our full bellies weren’t keen on the idea. But once we rolled in, it was straight into chill mode.

Tonight Frank had suggested a camp-wide BBQ. I’d been hanging out for a potato salad, so I whipped one up with a bit of Kiwi flair. Dinner was meant to start at 7pm, but by 6 the BBQ still hadn’t even been lit. Move aside, the Kiwi chicks were staging a takeover.

Now, Argentinians have this method where they make a fire beside the barbie, then once it’s glowing with coals, they shovel them underneath. I went full Kiwi mode, straight fire in the barbie. Problem was, flames shot up the chimney and nearly turned the wooden porch into a bonfire. Bit touch and go there for a while.

Once things were under control, the fire took its sweet time turning to coals. Everyone was drinking and chatting, spirits high but stomachs starting to grumble. Rob, the resident obnoxious Yank, started throwing around what he must’ve thought were funny comments. I bit my tongue, tending to the meat like a patient saint (a rare moment, I know). No one else offered to help… not even you, Rob!

Finally, just after nine, everything was cooked. Then it was chaos — a total free-for-all. People who hadn’t lifted a finger were piling plates high. No one thought to save a bit for Frank, the cook — that’s me — or Maree, who was up to her elbows doing dishes. I got my elbows out too and stacked three plates for the A-Team before the vultures cleared the lot.

It’s funny, when you’re used to a culture where everyone makes sure the group’s sorted, it’s a bit of a shock seeing people just fend for themselves. Still, everyone was fed, the chatter rolled on, and laughter echoed around camp long into the night.

I snuck off later, belly full, heart content, fire still crackling somewhere behind me. Happy as.

What a relaxing day. My legs and body bloody loved it — though mentally, it’s hard not being on the road, tyres spinning, scenery shifting. I’ve gotten so used to the rhythm of ride–eat–sleep–repeat that sitting still feels weirdly foreign.

Maree and I went full buffet for breakie — I was chef today. Sausages, veggie patties, eggs, bacon… basically everything that wasn’t nailed down. Our bodies are just inhaling whatever we throw at them these days and asking for seconds.

Casper, this Dutch dude overlanding with his partner and their four-year-old, dropped me a hot tip on how to sort money here. You know how we can only get 100,000 pesos at a time from the ATM — about half a week’s budget — plus the bloody fee? Not ideal. Anyway, turns out the move is Western Union. You transfer a chunk online, rock up with your passport, and pick up a wad of cash. Boom. No bank drama. So that’s the plan for tomorrow before we roll out of Salta.

Frank’s got a pool here, and we actually used it for something useful — finding the slow leaks in both our sleeping mats. We’ve been waking up for over a month feeling deflated in more ways than one. Watching the little air bubbles sneak out underwater felt weirdly satisfying. Like, yeah mate, caught ya.

And that was our day — doing nothing but doing something. Recharging. Feet up, bellies full, no headwind, no dust, no drama. Just the simple luxury of not moving.

The idea today was to get up pack the bikes and hit Salta for breakie.

Great idea except....everyone wanted picies with us...we felt like celebs!

Finally we rolled out of Franks, Laura was threatening to come out as she was hangry. We cycled the 15k into saltas outskirts and found a supermarket connected to a Western Union. We secured our large wod of pesos easily, thanks Casper.

Now we couldn't go food shopping as we were both at breaking point. After chucking a lap around the block and not finding any café, food cart or the likes to sort us we opted to find something in the Supermarket.

First thing this was a proper Supermarket similar to a Woolworths back home. A bit overwhelming from the markets we were now use to. But we walked in and saw it....it was a spectacle to behold...a hot chic. There she was on full display. We grabbed her, paid for her and as casual as we could due to our excitement walked outside. We sat outside the Supermarket and Savagely ripped into our hot chicken. It was like we hadn't eaten in months, the chick was anigalated in less than 15 minutes.

Back I to the supermarket we strolled, now full composed, but like kids in a candy store. We found goodies that set our soul on fire, gf pasta, dehydrated spuds and veg and more...we will be resupplied the best we have been for a long while, including snacks.

We peddled our way out of Salta North on the 68, cruising really.

This afternoon we hit El Carril and Casona Campo Güemes. We are the only ones here, another resort holiday for us. We soaked in the pool while supping a cerveza.

Not a bad start to our legs that will take us to Mendoza