Alumni Trip Report: Bikepacking Ecuador
Contours of Ecuador
A Solo Expedition into the Heart of the Andes
We love hearing about all the incredible places our students go. With the hopes that our programs help build your confidence to explore further, and provide the resources to address any emergencies that do arise, we always appreciate a good trip report. Will Thompson took a Mountain Bike WFA a few years ago and has since logged an impressive number of international bikepacking trips across the globe—thankfully, he’s only had to utilize his wilderness medicine knowledge for minor incidents. Not long after sending this recap of his Ecuadorian adventure over, he hopped on a plane to Africa, where he’s currently riding the Kenya Bike Odyssey. You can follow his adventures on Instagram at @willflowthompson.
Words by Will Thompson
Trip Planning—But Not Too Much
Mountaineer Jim Morrison once said, “Know enough to go.” I like this motto. There is a balance point somewhere between being underprepared and not leaving any room for improvisation. Personally, I try not to rely too heavily on others’ accounts before traveling to a new place, not wanting to arrive with a skewed perspective based on another’s experience. Instead, I employ reliable sources which help instill confidence for the ever present chance of adventure going awry.
When I emailed Michael Dammer, the creator of the Trans Ecuador Mountain Bike Route (TEMBR), with a few questions about the trip, he replied, “Get those legs and heart strong for the Andean terrain,” and highlighted some precautions about the unpredictability of the weather and unreliability of forecasts. I knew I was in for a serious challenge, but to what extent remained unknown. Additionally, I typically check the Department of State travel advisories, reviewing WHO and CDC recommendations and ensuring my vaccine requirements are up to date. Bikepacking.com has become my go-to site for adventures like these, thanks to their invaluable information and extensive resources.
Poring over digital maps of the TEMBR, I would zoom in on the GPX track to calculate the distance between resupplies and services, estimating how long I might be off grid. Since my plan was to travel stove-less, I would have to rely on these resources for food, lacking the ability to prepare a real meal in the wild. Based on my experience from previous tours in Latin America, I anticipated there would be small tiendas or eateries littered throughout the countryside.
After my initial research, I adjusted my first aid kit to properly reflect the necessities of an international bikepacking tour. I buffed it up with extra Benadryl, ibuprofen, isopropyl alcohol wipes, bandages, medical tape, and gauze pads. Having a backup GPS device is always a good idea, as is adequate trip and evacuation insurance, depending on how deep you’re going. Just like anything else in life, there are inherent risks we take when embarking on expeditions, and although you can never mitigate every potential scenario, you can be prepared for the unexpected.
Pedaling to New Heights
Thick clouds shrouded my view as the plane descended into Quito, Ecuador. At over 9,300 feet, Quito is the world’s second highest capital city, only behind La Paz, Bolivia. On the wild taxi ride from the airport to Quito proper, we descended into huge valleys, past loaded trucks, and gained altitude once again as we climbed out of the river valley. If the hills were this big in the capital city, I thought, what are they going to be like deep in the mountains? And how will my legs feel pedaling up them?
After a night in Quito, I rode six miles through the busy streets of the city to the bus terminal, receiving constant honks and feeling the breeze of cars passing way too close for comfort. Whiffs of diesel exhaust smacked me in the face, only to be followed by the rich odor of roadside meats and pandelerias cooking fresh bread. A seven-hour bus ride got me to Tulcan, near the border with Colombia, and—finally—the start of the Trans Ecuador MTB route.
Once the pedaling began in earnest, I was surrounded by an exotic landscape filled with páramos, a Dr. Seuss-looking shrub, commonly referred to as frailejones. The crown of the tree has whitish leaves with a smooth, velvety texture, their trunks thick and short. Unique to Colombia, Venezuela, and northern Ecuador, this species is a vital component of the ecosystem, regulating the water cycle, storing water, and releasing it through its root systems during droughts.
The rocky, dirt road would turn to a path of mud, my shoes becoming wet as I pushed my bike through unrideable sections, before turning into a steep pedal-wide trench, and then back again, over and over. Ten to twenty mile climbs would become standard on this route, and the gradient was most often unrelenting. These mountains were steep. I spent hours in my lowest gear, stopping often. Sometimes I would cycle for two or three minutes before having to stop again to catch my breath and give my legs a rest. And at many times, it was simply too steep to ride, or not worth the effort to keep spinning my legs at that level of exertion.
With many climbs topping out at over 12,000 feet, the constant mental and physical exhaustion was unparalleled. I quickly learned big-mile days were not possible here. In this way, Ecuador forced me to slow down and listen to my body. Immediately, I began to recognize the telltale signs of altitude sickness that were emerging—weakness, nausea, and headaches. This was my first trip at high elevation, which added a whole new variable to my experience. With the incredible physical exertion of pedaling and decreased level of oxygen in the air, my body could not keep up with my expectations.
I ended up having an extended stay in El Angel, only two days into my trip, to acclimate. I rested in bed, hydrated, and only left for meals, coffee or pastries in the small village center. As hard as it was to post up and stay inside, I knew there was no way I could physically pedal any significant distance without further jeopardizing my body and the whole trip. Every night, Olivia, the hostel owner, would deliver hot tea to my room, a splendid and unexpected treat. I would soon come to learn of the kindness and hospitality of the Ecuadorian people. Their warmth, in this moment among many others, was what made my trip possible and kept me moving.
When Things (and Fingers) Go Sideways
In the weeks that followed, I found a rhythm. My legs and lungs worked well as I cruised through the Andes under my own steam. Each day was filled with joyous discovery as I pedaled through the wonders of this Ecuadorian tapestry. Highlights included hiking through a water channel, where the rawness of South America was on full display, the majestic sight of Volcan Cotopaxi flanked by a double rainbow, and the ancient Incan cobblestone paths, worn smooth from centuries of travel.
While enjoying a well-deserved descent, I missed a turn-off from the highway to a dirt path, and my Wahoo GPS bike computer started angrily beeping. I turned around, looked down over the guard rail, and quickly decided it wasn’t worth backtracking. Then, I saw a chute that cut off a long switchback of the paved road. Without pause, I took a quick glance at the steep rut ahead of me and turned my wheel toward the chute. As soon as I was beyond the point of no return, I came to the realization that this was a poor decision and had to bail.
I grabbed all the rear brake that existed as I turned the wheel left toward the wall of the rut. The bike went vertical before it fell back on top of me. It all happened in a second or two. I got up in a heap of dust, looking like Pig Pen, with half my body covered in dirt. I picked my bike up and walked down the rest of the chute, back to the road—the road I should have stayed on to avoid the mishap. As I caught my breath and mounted my bike, I noticed my left pinky finger was perpendicular to everything else on my hand. It was bent 90 degrees at the knuckle, pointing due west.
Despite the trauma, I was not frazzled or panicked. I knew I had to remain calm in this situation. Freaking out wasn’t going to help me at all, and immediately I began thinking about my wilderness medicine training. I took a deep breath and assessed the scene and the situation: the scene around me was safe, I wasn’t bleeding at all, my pinky finger appeared dislocated or fractured, but I was able to ride out by myself. Fortunately, I was just outside of the sizable town of Guamote. After I held up my hand with its shockingly obvious deformity to two locals walking down the road, I was able to confirm there were nearby medical services, which I promptly pedaled toward.
When I finally found a doctor’s office, my knock was met with silence. No answer. A friendly gentleman noticed my predicament and graciously escorted me a few blocks to the hospital. I thanked him profusely and called him an angel, but he waved it off, just another kind gesture exemplifying how the Ecuadorian people look out for one another. The folks at the Emergency Department got me in immediately, cut off my cycling glove and, with the help of lidocaine, reset my finger.
Throughout the process, we used Google Translate to communicate. A nurse snapped my photo (it sure didn’t seem like anyone was worried about HIPPA down there) and we all had some laughs at the expense of my ego. During the paperwork and after the procedure, they asked me a few times where I lived. Their faces were riddled with confusion as I tried to explain I was by myself and cycling the length of their country, not an expat or out for a day ride. At that moment, I was reminded that the notion of traveling by bicycle and living on the road is in fact a true privilege.
Having completed multiple long distance bicycle tours, the consistency of the elevation in the Andes, day-in and day-out, made this trip taxing in ways that I had not been previously tested. But the attitudes of the local people were always uplifting. A wave, thumbs-up, honk of support, or smile always encouraged me and filled up my tank when it was low. It was an immense honor to be able to travel through this beautiful and magnificent country, traversing the mountainous landscape with my own two legs.
As Ernest Hemingway wrote, “It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them.” Ecuador is etched in me—physically, emotionally and spiritually. It is a part of my psyche, lived experiences ingrained in me, providing the wisdom and knowledge needed to continue moving forward, ideally with all my fingers pointed in the same direction.