adventurelog Traversing the Andes
By Shawn Thomas #91122 BUZZ
BUZZ
BUUUUUUUUZ! The alarm prod-
ded mercilessly. I jolted awake, grop- ing for my phone and the oversize snooze button. It
took several groggy moments to real- ize it wasn't my device making the racket. MY alarm tone had a soft, “tiptoe-through-the-tulips” manner, not this menacing affront to the senses. Two beds down, someone silenced their device and flopped back to bed. But I was up, and probably for the best. I checked my watch: 4 a.m. I slid from the bunk and staggered toward the smell of coffee. The sun was far from up, and
already the sticky Argentine heat was upon us. I cringed at my heaps of rid- ing gear, layers upon layers of warmth and protection draped atop a nearby
chair. It was going to be a damned uncom- fortable set of garments to bear in this heat, but it had to be done. I started with the thermal liners and socks, then added a heated vest and down jacket. Then came the riding suit, followed by a two-piece windbreaker over the mess. Quickly the heat inside exceeded comfort, sweat bead- ing on every bit of flesh. I stepped outside, and riders in my group gawked. I looked like the Michelin Man. "I know it's hot now, but in an hour we’ll be frozen to the core." I reminded them. "Probably good to layer up." Soon we were on the move, enjoying
what little airflow made it through our gear. The dirt roads of the village behind us, we found a strikingly clean swath of asphalt leading west. Ahead, the Andes Mountains loomed in spectacular form, brilliant shades of purple, red and green dotting the rocky landscape. I throttled up, leading the group along twisty backroads toward the summit.
An hour into the ride, the weather began
to assert its will. We had climbed to 10,000 feet, the cold leaching its way into unpro- tected flashes of skin. We stopped for a roadside break, riders blowing on their hands and hastily grabbing for more layers. We continued up, passing the tree line at 14,000 feet, tucking in tight behind wind- screens for protection. The BMW F 800 GS and R 1200 GS motorcycles struggled ahead, fighting against a growing lack of oxygen. The little snowflake glared on my display, warning of freezing temperatures. I checked the readouts and cursed the declin- ing temperature, 29 degrees, 28, 27. My joints ached, my face screamed against the cold. We could not take much more of this. We reached the summit, marked by a
ragged sign indicating our altitude, just a tad over 15,000 feet. Ahead, a long, flat landscape marked the high, lifeless desert. The road led dead straight to a sprawling single story building, cracked and peeling. Men in uniform stood abreast at a hand
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BMW OWNERS NEWS February 2017
discovery
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