Bikepacking volcanos in Ecuador
Storms, Cobblestones, and Wild Horses
Late one afternoon, as was becoming a bit of a routine, a thunderstorm began to rumble across the Andean highlands. I was somewhere around 40 kilometers south of Quito, riding through the rolling farmland that threads its way toward Cotopaxi. With rain setting in and daylight fading, I started scanning the landscape for cover. It didn’t take long to find an abandoned farmhouse tucked beside a dirt road—dark windows, no lights, and a roof intact enough to offer a dry night's sleep. I wheeled my bike inside and settled in quietly, grateful to have dodged another high-altitude soak.
The next morning, keen to move on before anyone noticed my improvised accommodations, I rolled out early and found myself in a small, friendly village further up the road. In the middle of town stood a roofless house where I paused to make breakfast. I fired up my little camping stove to boil water for a dehydrated breakfast skillet. As I waited, the village began to stir. Locals passed by on foot, headed to roadside pickup spots for work, most carrying hand ploughs or pickaxes. A few wandered over, curious about my setup—checking out the tires, asking about the cost of my bike, and impressed by the push-button stove.
Then, like clockwork, a truck rolled up, honked, and everyone cheerfully piled into the back. As they headed off to work the fields, they called out "¡Buen provecho!"—a cheerful send-off that stuck with me. Just after they disappeared down the road, a group of horses wandered by, inspecting the grass near where I sat. One grey horse stuck around long enough for me to attempt a self-timed photo... but naturally, it lost interest and walked out of frame just as the shutter clicked. So now I have a photo of me, looking wistfully after a non-existent horse.
Back on the bike, I pedaled out of town and onto a stretch of steep, cobblestoned road—a rough ride that rattled through my whole body for the next couple of hours. As I climbed higher into remote farmland, the cobbles eventually gave way to dirt and gravel. The landscape opened up into vast green fields, dotted with cattle and distant figures working the land. Occasionally, I passed a small homestead where I’d wave or call out a greeting, and locals would wave me on, smiling.
Eventually, I reached a locked metal gate barring the way. It was too tall to hoist the bike over and too low to crawl under. Not wanting to turn around, I left the bike, hopped the fence, and walked a little further to see if I could find someone. Before long, I came across two women milking cows in a nearby pasture. I did my best to explain my situation in Spanish. They conferred quietly for what felt like a long time, and then, with warm smiles, simply said, “Tres dólares.” A fair toll, I figured. I handed over the cash, they opened the gate, and I was on my way again.
The climb that followed was brutal—steady, steep, and seemingly endless. As the altitude increased, the skies turned moody, and I felt a headache setting in. I had hoped to reach the slopes of Cotopaxi by evening, but the combination of elevation, exhaustion, and thickening storm clouds was making that unlikely. Thunder cracked in the distance as fat raindrops began to fall. I pressed on for a while until the storm forced my hand.
Desperate for shelter, I spotted a stream below the road and jumped a rock wall to reach it. The banks were steep but passable, and the water looked clean—a crucial detail since I’d run out earlier in the day. I quickly pitched my ultralight tarp shelter, which, as always, lacked a floor. Soon, the rain turned to sleet, then hail, and the gentle stream beside me began to swell.
The storm that followed was one of the most intense I’ve ever experienced. Deafening thunder cracked overhead with violent frequency, and lightning flickered constantly in the heavy grey sky. Hail pelted the shelter and built up in piles around the edges of the floorless tent. I crouched low, holding down the sides to stop it from blowing away, my steel-framed bike half under the tarp with me—a less-than-ideal situation during an electrical storm. My migraine had grown so intense I could barely think, let alone make good decisions. It was all I could do to sit tight and hope it would pass.
After five relentless hours of rain, sleet, hail, thunder, and lightning, darkness fell. I crawled out to check the stream. The peaceful trickle from earlier was now a reddish-brown torrent, swollen with runoff and threatening to breach its banks. I realized the rock wall I’d jumped was actually a retaining wall built to protect the road from exactly this scenario. Too drained to care much, I filtered what water I could, cooked a simple meal, and crawled into my sleeping bag. As the storm raged on, I had a good chuckle at the absurdity of it all—camping at 4,200 meters with a migraine, a steel bike in a lightning storm, and a growing flood at my feet. Somewhere between the jokes and the rumbling thunder, I passed out from sheer exhaustion.
By morning, the worst of it had passed. The stream was still muddy but no longer raging, and the sky hinted at blue. For the first time on this stretch, I finally saw Cotopaxi—its snowy cone briefly revealed before another round of clouds rolled in. I rode on through the high alpine plains, herded for a while by a group of wild horses, before the volcano once again vanished into mist.