Laguna Sausacocha to Hauraz

I woke up squashed between Maree and a hot, furry body. And no, it wasn’t Maree doing weird things in her sleep. Her new best mate, the scruffy little dog from last night, had somehow crawled halfway into the tent and was snuggled up like it’d been part of our crew for years. Its nose was shoved into my sleeping bag, its body wedged comfortably between ours, snoozing like a pro.

We both just stared at it and laughed. I guess when you don’t often get warmth, safety, or love, you hold on tight when it finally shows up.

Breakfast was another episode of MKR: Mountain Kitchen Rules, the lads all busting out their best campsite concoctions while we threw together something banana pancakes.

Energy for the road. Vibes were high. We packed up first, gave hugs, Maree patted her tent buddy goodbye, and off we went. I half expected the dog to follow us like a shadow down the road, but nah.

We rolled into Huamachuco for the essentials: water, snacks, and, you guessed it, chicharrón con mote. Honestly, I think I might be 20% chicharrón at this point. It's greasy, salty, crunchy magic that powers my legs all day.

Today, we took a punt on a shortcut. Left the 3N behind and veered off near a place called Arra. While we were squinting at the map, a fella rolled in on his bike. with a chunky dog plonked on his crossbar like it was just another pannier. Classic. He was from Huaraz, biking north to Colombia with his canine co-pilot. Mad respect. The dog jumped off to stretch its legs, gave us a once-over like we were the weird ones, and then chilled in the dust.

The shortcut took us around a mine. one of those sprawling, open wounds on the earth. Honestly, it was grim. Giant gashes in the hills, machinery rusting where it was dropped, workers’ houses abandoned and falling apart. The energy shifts in places like that. There’s a silence that doesn’t feel peaceful, just... used.

The valley itself was dry and dusty, flanked by alpine peaks that seemed to float above it all like nothing had happened. Farmland dotted the road, some active, some forgotten. Big man-made dams appeared out of nowhere. We guessed the land had been bought up by some faceless company planning to squeeze every drop of profit from it. It had that vibe.

The afternoon climb was steady, legs ticking over in rhythm with our thoughts. We passed another mine, this one long dead. Left to rot like a failed dream. Metal skeletons. Broken windows. Hillsides ripped apart and never healed. Fark, don’t get me started.

But then, out of the wreckage, life re-emerged. Houses with smoke curling from chimneys. Goats sunbathing. People waving as we rode by. It reminded me that Peru is never just one story, it’s beauty and brutality, side by side.

We found a sneaky wee campsite just off the road. Looked like it might’ve been part of the old road network once upon a time. Now it was ours for the night. Tucked in among the trees, with jagged rock outcrops standing guard. Felt like we’d stumbled into the Wild West, only with less gunfights and more sunblock.

We’re both sleeping early and deep these days. Must be the combo of back-to-back climbs and relentless sunshine. 10 hours of sleep last night and I’m still ready for more. Not complaining. The land, the sun, the silence—it’s all doing its work!

There’s something damn magical about feeling the sun hit your skin first thing in the morning, especially when it’s warming up a body that’s been tucked in thermals all night.

I was halfway through changing into my bike kit when I stopped. The wind had dropped, the sun was pumping in, and we were hidden from the road. So bugger it, naked breakfast and pack-up it was. A proper solar-powered start to the day.

Rolling out, the morning gifted us a fast and flowy downhill into Cochacadin. Sadly, the town itself was having a rest day, we couldn’t even sniff out a decent bite to eat. Maree tried. I tried. But the most action we saw was a woman stirring a pot that smelled like socks and regret.

So we climbed.

The good news? Peruvian climbs don’t seem to take the same pleasure in breaking your spirit like Ecuadorian ones do. They’re still long, still up, but they roll a bit more, let you find a rhythm. We ticked along quietly, soaking in the jagged ridgelines and the feeling of being exactly where we’re meant to be.

At the top of the hill, we found a tiny shop and decided it was cause for a Coronna celebration. Couldn’t help ourselves. It tasted like dusty liquid gold.

And just like that, 10km of tight switchback downhill lay before us. Bloody awesome. One of those descents where you don’t say much ‘cause you’re too busy grinning like a lunatic, brakes squealing, corners hugging, hair whipping under your helmet.

Eventually, we rolled into a small town and found Villa Azul. At first glance, it looked like a forgotten place overgrown, half-collapsed buildings, that eerie hum of stillness. But turns out our room was clean, the bed cosy, and there’s nothing better than knowing you’ve got a soft place to land at the end of a big day.

We scoffed our scrambled eggs in bed this morning, legs still tucked up, eyes glued to the massive rock outside our door, like Iron Hill in Wānaka had dropped itself right here in Peru.

Bloody beautiful way to start the day, door wide open, morning air drifting in, coffee in hand. Doesn’t get much better.

The ride kicked off with a 400-metre climb, and honestly, we hardly flinched. Peru’s hills might be long, but they’re not Ecuador steep, so we just click into cruise mode and chip away. The dusty dirt road curled up through the hills. Nah! Stuff that, let’s call them mountains, framed by scenery that just keeps punching us in the eyeballs with its beauty.

We pushed the bikes a bit, no worries, that’s just part of the job now. Our biggest concern, if you can call it that, was whether we had enough supplies to last us the next 3–5 days. The villages out here are a lucky dip. You might roll into one and find it’s a ghost town straight outta a spaghetti western, or you might strike gold.

Like Santa Clara de Talpo. Dead quiet but, hallelujah!, a restaurant was serving arroz con pollo. And not just any arroz, we’re talking a mountainous plate of rice with a lonely hunk of chicken riding the top like a proud rooster.

Carb coma hit hard after that one. I near had to drag myself up the last 2km.

Next town, Mollebamba, greeted us with a loudspeaker blasting party beats across the valley and a bustling wee market. There was even a cono (ice cream) man. Hero.

Then came the descent, 25km of dirt-track gut-dusting downhill. My inner hoon was fizzing. The road flicked between new seal and landslip-riddled goat track. Epic views of river valleys far below and jagged peaks across the canyon. Pure visual magic.

The showstopper? A runaway pig chased us down the hill. No joke. Pig off the chain, full speed ahead. When we stopped to check our nav, Maree scooped it up for a cuddle like it was some kind of porky puppy. Then gently told it to "go home now," and bugger me, it did! Trotted right back up the hill.

We found camp on a disused bit of old road with million-dollar views and not a soul in sight. Watching the sun drop with a cuppa in hand, the only thing louder than the silence was the sound of gratitude.

Our joke was thst there would be a cono man at the bottom of the hill by the river. Now I will make a clarification here I say cono man all the time not because of any sexist preconceived notions, it's because I'm yet to see a cono woman on this trip. So it's kinda a given.

When we reached the bottom early this morning, no cono, that would of been surreal. But there was a building with 3 guys outside. It turned into one of those brain riddles, 3 guys one says nothing, one says rio impassa, the third says Rio passa. What do you choose???

Up a pinch gut 500m climb or rio??? Rio it is.
The goat like track of a road was cut into the rocky cliff face high above the river. The view was, yes again, breath taking. The river below, I'm guessing, was braided, not as wide as NZ ones but had a few channels and lots twists and turns. The mountains thst rose from it were steep and rocky. The way the morning shadows highlighted them they look like a painting.

A long the way we came across deserted shanties. It looked like there had been some mining action along this road at some point, not large scale just small crews.

At around 10km we found the inpassa!! A rock fall that blocked the way. We scouted it out and deemed it OK to bike carry over it. We unloaded our rigs, took our bags over first then one at a time helped eachother with our bikes. What a team

Today was the remotest we had been it felt amazing and then.....

Psst! Maree got a puncture. What are the odds??? And this one was a ripper, literally, she managed to tear the side wall of her back tyre. Shit balls!!!

Luckily we each carry a tube so I stuck a patch on the inside of the tyre to protect the tube then inserted said tube. Pump it up, and we decided that returning back to the road was the best move.

Down the ways back a bit we stopped for a breather.
"Shit!' Maree exclaimed.
I looked over to her and saw....her back tyre was flat.
Pssst!!
Pssst!
Her front tyre was in on the game.
I looked at her tyres they were covered in wee prickles.
" How babe do you manage to ride through shit???!! " I exclaimed.

We stuck 2 plugs in the front tyre punctures but the back tyre???? Soz babe your pushing!
I got to ride, then nanna nap while I waited, repeat process.

Tonight we are camped up beside an old shanty, great river views and the mountains to look over us.

Tomorrow's another adventure as once we reach the road we need to hitch a lift up the steep winding hill 500m or so, at least to the nearest town but really if we can get to Caraz or by chance Haraz to find a bike shop that would be gold.

But that's Tomorrow, tonight my naked girlfriend is cooking up fried rice. When all else fails whip ya clothes off....isn't that the saying???

When you look more closely at the plants that are growing on the sides of the road they all seem to have thorns, spikes or prickles.Seen 80% of the road side flora here down the Rio is dried up and laying down it wasn't that noticeable.l yesterday.

Today as I was rolling slowly out the way came in so to not get too far ahead of Maree I could clearly see the tyre puncturing dangers everywhere.

I can honestly say I had a pleasant morning in slow mo taking in the river and it surrounds.

Back at the main road, I say this term loosely, and reunited we went to the building the 3 amigos were at yesterday. Today there was an.old lady, I think she lives there, a moto bike dude and a mama and child.

All four were pretty friendly l, with the help of translator app we explained our prediciment. Then sat back to wait for a vehicle to appear.

Within 20 minute a ute fully loaded with passengers came into site.

The old lady explain what we needed and negotiated for as. Next minute we we throwing our bikes and ourselves on the back and skidding off up the hill to Pallasca.

These steep roads are hairy, at one stage to get around a corner we had to do a 3 point turn at another a ute coming the other way had to back up the precarious precipise of a road to let us through.

The ute pulled up at the town centre, we were unceremoniously booted off,, 20 sol handed over and thst was that.

Then the queso lady put her magic to action. She was an absolute superstar. Next minute Maree and her bike we swished away by a young man. Not to reappear again for over an hour. I sat with the queso stall lady, she shared some fruit, we chatted the best we could.

Maree returned.

'I got taken to an old dude at a moto bike repair garage. He slapped some vulcanising cement on the the tyre and a bit of inner tube as a patch'

As we had to wait for the cement to cure we would have to stay.

The queso lady swang her magic again. The only hotel in town, she negotiated for us. With big warm hugs we thanked her for being our superstar.

You know it's been a good adventure when you look down at your feet in the shower and brown water is cascading over them. It had been a dusty few days.

Next we hit up the only restaurant in town with a large menu but only serving one thing. We'll take it!

Peru is definitely proving to be upping the adventure game. Bring it!

“Babe, your tyre’s flat.”

And that’s how today’s adventure began.

No riding today, folks, we had a tyre that had turned traitor, and it was time for action stations.

I stepped outside our little hotel, smack bang in the town square, to suss out the bus situation, and who should I see already set up and ready to conquer the day? Grandma Queso, Peru’s hardest working cheese-slinger and now my adopted abuela.

She lit up when she saw me and waddled over, full of nosy-but-loving energy. With the help of our trusty translator app (she’s getting the hang of it now), I explained the tyre situation and the bus hunt. That’s all she needed, off she marched to sort it. Five seconds later, she’s talking to a shop owner who tells us the bus is due at 8am (Peru time, of course, so really, who knows).

We packed up our gear and bikes and plonked ourselves in the square to wait. The bus rocked up at 9. Already packed to the gunnels and not a spare arse-width of room for us. But Grandma Queso wasn’t phased. “Otro viene pronto,” she promised. Whatever "pronto" meant...

To kill time, we made a coffee on the camp cooker. This stirred up the locals more than if we’d done a fire dance in the square. But sure enough, another bus rolled in eventually, and Grandma Queso was first on the scene, negotiating with the driver and his sidekick like the absolute legend she is.

These boys were slick, ladder out, ropes down, bikes hoisted and strapped to the roof like it was nothing.

Just as we were about to board, I bolted across the square for one last big, warm hug from Grandma Queso. She squeezed me like a gran who’s raised ten grandkids and one goat. You could feel the mana in it. What a soul.

Then came the descent. Holy sht.*

Over 2,000 metres straight down on a single-lane gravel road, potholes, slips, and a casual 300-metre drop off to our left. No guardrails, obviously. Every time a truck came the other way, I prepared to meet my ancestors.

Halfway down, the bus ground to a halt. Out jump the driver and his mate, scratching heads under the chassis. A few minutes later—bang bang bang with a hammer—and off we went again.

A bit further on, we pulled into a village, and the blokes dragged out a suspiciously large chunk of metal from under the bus. Looked like part of the suspension. No worries! Into the back it went, and off we rolled. Who needs suspension anyway?

We eventually rattled into a half-crushed, landslide-ravaged tumbleweed town called Chiquicara. We we unceremoniously dumped on the side of the road to wait for the bus to Huataz.

We fot ourselves some food from a hole-in-the-wall eatery that charged city prices, but beggars can’t be choosers. No bus in sight.

Then—boom! A dusty old rocket with “Huaraz” painted on the side pulls in. The driver looked about twelve, and the conductor had three teeth and zero interest in helping us with our gear. So we loaded it ourselves, squeezed into what little space was left, and off we went—again.

Another session of more death-defying honking, pothole-dodging madness. The views continued to serve up jaw-dropping magic, which helped distract from the fact that the minibus felt one sharp turn away from airborne.

Then, plot twist: the bus stopped an hour and a half short of Huaraz. Everyone off. The driver disappeared. We stood there, confused and dusty, apparently this was the end of the ride.

A lovely lady ushered us into a tuk-tuk, bikes strapped on like a Peruvian version of Wacky Races.

Did it take us to Huaraz? Nah. Just around the block to another mystery bus depot. But luck was on our side, next thing we knew, we were jammed into a minivan headed to Huaraz, bikes somehow wedged in among passengers, bags, and one guy’s sack of potatoes.

Miraculously, we arrived. We sniffed a hostel, and collapsed into a room that had hot water and no hills. Bliss. We dumped our gear, hit the streets, and hunted down a pollo con papas and a cerveza.

Four rides, 300km, one rogue tyre, one dodgy suspension, and one unforgettable hug from Grandma Queso. Beat?HWhat a day!!

It’s not a rest day for the wicked. And today, wicked we were.

The mission: sort Maree’s bald-as-a-badger back tyre and hunt down something—anything—that might help my dodgy arm. My left shoulder's been giving me hell lately—feels like a muscle cramp that’s got itself into a real huff. We weren’t gonna relax until we got both us girls back in working order.

First stop: the magical land of Google Maps, which reckoned there were three bike shops in town. Off we trotted, pushing Maree’s bike along like it was a stubborn goat.

The first shop looked the part—on Maps anyway. In real life, it was more of a tyre and hardware hybrid, but hallelujah, it had tyres! Not the exact brand we had, but close enough: chunky, off-road Vortex ones, a bit beefier and honestly probably better for the kind of backcountry chaos we seem to attract. Even better—they were on special. Winning.

Unfortunately, they were fresh outta inner tubes, plugs, and the other bits we were after, so onto shop number two we went. Backyard-style setup. A wiry old legend was running the place. Barely any English, us with our usual Spanglish circus act, but bloody hell—he was helpful. Managed to rustle up a tube or two and patch gear, then when it came to paying, he didn’t even have change. Instead of making us come back, he just smiled and said, “Take it. Pay me later.” What a solid human.

Now, onto the shoulder drama. I’d managed to tee up a physio who could squeeze me in that arvo. And she was mint. Little clinic tucked down a laneway, fully kitted out with machines that zapped and buzzed and wobbled my muscle back to life. Ultrasound, a heat pad, a cheeky massage—honestly, it felt like my arm had checked into a health spa.

Booked in for a second session tomorrow because, let’s be honest, we don’t bounce back like we used to.

In between all the fixing and fiddling, we found a bank, restocked our dwindling cash stash, and hit up a supermarket to replenish the snack cupboard. (Yes, I’m still hoarding oatmeal and chocolate like we’re prepping for winter.)

Lunch? Street market, of course. Bowls of rice and mystery meat—cheap, cheerful, and full of charm. Then it was back to the hostel for a well-earned horizontal session.

We also yarned away with a classic Kiwi/Scottish duo we met—turns out they crossed paths at a ski field in Canada and are now adventuring across South America together. Good sorts, and nice to natter with someone who gets the accent without needing subtitles.

Not the most glamorous day on the trail, but bloody necessary. Gears are turning. Bodies are healing.