And then the day came that we mounted our metal steeds, our sturdy saddles, and road up into the sun to conquer the great mountain of sand. Atop the great mountain of sand was a cloud forest, a refuge saught by many in these dessert days sauden with heat, but reveled in by few, maybe no one ever, on a fully loaded touring bicycle.
At the top we danced a dance. A dance of glory for the sight of the small stand of trees which stood soaked in clouds. We also walked a walk. A walk of glory for the 1 km of splendor that lay atop the entires day ride in sand that had absorbed the tread of our gallant tires, on our gallant bicycles, more often than not leaving us lying face down in the dirt. The pace set by this only road to the heavens, coated with a foot of loose desert dirt, easily surpassed by crawling on hand and knee, had brought us here above the cumulus.
How we got back down is another story.
And though, the proportions of all moments surrounding the monumentous mount of the mountain are less epic, they are another story and another story. These have been moments equally close to our hearts, and that have left us with less sand in our mouths.
So, here is a numeric list of those things pleasurable in resant portions, intermingled with the nurses thus far list of ailments, because every item on the list is a story and it is still early there, but it is getting late here.
1 case of insect in ear, one third degree sunburn, one case of travelers bowls.
2 sets of unidentified spots covering faces, tendanitis in two ankles, and two wrecks(both Cat running in to the back of Kate).
3 different goat carcass encounters.
4 new prospects for summer dresses, four fups documented on four mutts, four mattresses slept on in a school room last night.
5 grocery items run over in the street by a car today and much more than five mountain passes climbed on route five.
6 bad knees.
7 waves caught on the beach,never more than seven dollars for a meal and dessert (a lot of helado, huevos, and cafe´), and seven different skin tones head to toe on each body.
8 kisses, two on each of our cheeks.
9 reroutes, nine hour days, conversations with curious nine year old children.
10 discussions with locals on their opinions of how we will die, including the light hearted women at the market today who after asking where we were headed laughed and said you are going to die.
MANY MANY dances with Chileans from La Cebada on the 37th birthday party of their town, on the night we happened to arrive in the middle of nowhere.
