Day 144-145: Sierra Gorda, or, Fat Mountain

The night in San Miguel de Allende was my last night with the Philtrons. We are two different bicycle tours and the time was right for us to part. They will be going at their pace on their route, and I will be going on mine. I didn't stop to think about it until Daisy pointed it out that we rode together for 6 weeks.

That's a really long time.

So thanks to Daisy and Jason for rolling with me, or me with them! And best of luck to them on their journey.

A lot happened in the Sierra Gorda. The first night I stayed at a police station because I thought it was the firefighter's station, and fire stations are common sites for cyclotourists to camp at. To compare getting permission to camp at fire station to camping at the police station, I would have to say that the police station is more intense. I had to talk to the police commander myself and explain to him who I was and what I was doing, and he didn't seem very excited about it. I also had to give my name and apparently they put it in their records that I camped there.

Of course it was all just a chest-thumping-power-trip-show because I got permission and they offered their showers and several of the subordinates were very curious and excited about hearing my story. But next time I will look more closely for the firefighters before talking to the commander.

The next day I really entered the Sierra Gordas. They are high enough, but to make me work even harder, I had to drop down what must have been at least a thousand feet in elevation before beginning the climb. In the photo below you can see the Sierra Gorda in the background, and right in front of me is a huge descent that just means more climbing later on. Urrrrg!



After "todo derecho," for "all straight," I think that "puro subido" is my next favorite expression used when giving directions. It translates to "Pure uphill." For me, the adjective "pure," when used to describe ascents, is absolutely terrifying.

When the puro subido begain, it really was pure uphill. And steep. I had been at it for an hour or so when a truck pulled over in front of me. More accurately, it stopped in front of me. Two men got out. The driver spoke in a voice that was deep and gravely with a thick spanish accent. If you were casting a movie and it called for "sleazy Mexican who speaks English with 95% grammatical accuracy and is a little scary," this was your guy.

"Where you goin, man? Get in the truck. I take you up the mountain."

"I'll be embarrassed if I don't do it myself..."

"Who cares about embarrassment's a long ways up. Get in the truck. We give you a ride."

Between his charm and the "puro subido" I was up against, I was easily convinced. And so I accepted, for the first time, a ride in a truck. He took me to a small city and turned off the highway. I realized that this was the moment of truth: either he would come to a complete stop and let me out, or he would take me up the dirt road, kill me, and feed me to the buzzards. I prepared to jump out the back.

Don't get too close to the edge.

The scary man let me out and I was off on my way. I climbed and climbed and climbed. The trees became more green, and the views crazier.

Eventually there was a passage that marked the top of the pass. On one side was sparse trees and shrubs, like the above picture, and on the other side was dense rain forest. Below you can see the road as it goes into the rain forest. This pass is called something like Passage to Heaven.

I enjoyed the downhill on the other side, but it was getting dark and so I sought shelter. I asked a man working at a store if her knew a place I could camp, and he offered a grassy patch of land by his store. Three children who were playing by his store helped me set up my tent, and I practiced giving directions in Spanish. I then realized that my grammar is about the level of a 6 year old.

I ended up being a celebrity amongst the youngsters there as the three children spread word throughout the village.

As I was about to turn in for the night and sleep, a group of guys slightly younger than me asked if I wanted to play soccer with them at the fustal court beside the store. I scored several times in the process of getting my clothing completely soaked with no chance of getting it dry overnight.

I did not understand a single non-cuss-word they said, but words weren't necessary. We spoke the universal language of soccer.