Thin Air

It may have been the two weeks of rest have softened me, or it simply was the air pollution in combination with altitude that made me huff and puff like an old steam train when through busy city traffic I worked my way up from the bowl in which Morelia lay. A last view back from a ridge showed a hazy sea of houses with a light-black cloud of smog hovering above it under an already burning late morning sun.
At first, I rolled modestly up and down over ridges from one wide valley to the next; with satellite towns in them and later in mostly agricultural use. My map promised little other then ever higher mountains on the way east and soon the road began its determined climb into the first Sierra. Fields faded into meadows on which grew mostly oak-like trees that soon formed woods. Those later were complemented and then replaced by pine forest and with increasing altitude more and more cedars, spruce and firs appeared until finally taking over completely. These were pleasant, light-filled dry forests, very similar to those I had seen in California, and I enjoyed them. Yet the road was challenging, the only way seemed to be up. I stopped frequently to catch my breath and to let my heart rate come down, as the altitude approached or even surpassed 2500 metres (7500 feet). As there was no end of climb in sight, I took to walking soon. There was next to no traffic on this narrow mountain road and so it was very enjoyable to slowly pass through those sunlit forests, stopping for a great vista over blue silhouettes of distant mountain ranges here and there. In the evening after some 40 kilometres of tiring uphill work I camped at some ruins, on — what I found out the next day — the highest point of this road through the Cerro de Carnica National Park.

The reward for yesterdays struggle was to begin the new day with 30 kilometres of coasting down the pass road on a gorgeous morning with fresh air and a bright sky, and I almost had the mountains and the forest entirely to myself. The road then rolled out into a flat valley where cattle greeted from silver-golden meadows as first farms and houses reappeared. It wasn't before Ciudad Hidalgo, which I kindly passed by on its peripheral road, when cycling became more strenuous again. The sun was glaring as I had to push the bike up a steep road through suburbs, slightly annoyed by frequent traffic, thus I bribed myself with cold beer from a roadside shop to make it bearable.

Later the uphill trend continued but modestly so, as I followed a pretty highland valley to Angangueo. The altitude still made itself felt, when even modest hills would see me out of breath, my skin was dry and slightly burned, my lips crusted and cracked and my nose felt irritated at times.
Angangueo turned out to save the toughest part of the day's challenge for the very last hours. The town sits squeezed into a narrow valley through which an insanely steep road leads up into the mountains. I gave up cycling soon and at times even struggled pushing the heavy loaded bike further, pausing every 200-300 metres, gasping for air to a racing heartbeat. In the centre a taxi driver provided me with the good news of there being just 10 kilometres more of 'THIS'. There was nothing to do put to press on and so I did, being a fairly entertaining sight to the folks who lived along the road and of whom some kindly encouraged or cheered me on. 5 kilometres later I'd finally reached the end of Angangueo, and at dusk I set camp behind some bushes, just where the road turned into the forest.

After a cold full moon night I warmed up with a rather pleasant two hour walk up the pass. I paced myself, rested frequently and thus was able to enjoy the tranquil mountain forest.
On top I found a slowly descending plateau, I passed a sanctuary for Monarch butterflies and crossed the border between the states of Michoacán and México. Later the land stretched out further and the forest eventually faded into golden-brown highland landscape.

At San Felipe de Progreso I had planned to enter the toll highway but instead drifted onto a parallel road which soon turned out to be as good as any washboard desert track: true bitumen patchwork art.

This nuisance was joined by some others like dense traffic mixing its pollution and noise with dust and smoke and the cocktail then was fanned on me by a consistent headwind. My eyes didn't find any merry in what they saw either: a vast brown highland valley filled up with huts and houses in between little fields right to the horizon; a seemingly overpopulated rural super cluster with shops, restaurants and workshops lining the road and one town fading into the next indistinguishably. Though it might look lovely in the green season and be called home by its inhabitants, I couldn't help but find this land depressing.
For lack of any better options I stopped for the night at the ruins of what I supposed was once a monastery. Some boys playing football told me the name of the town was Dolores. The ruins turned out to be the perfect place to spent another silky full moon night.
100 long kilometres more of what I had disliked the afternoon before — so the short summary of the 18. February 2011. Travelling through a crowded dust bowl in partly dense traffic, passing Toluca on the ring highway through suburbs and polluted landscapes, trash and stinking rivers, feeling nothing but appalled by what I see, all I want is to get through and away. And so I just push on stubbornly but it isn't before evening when the human mess turns into distinguishable villages nested within a more appealing, natural environment again. At nightfall, tired of those last, forcedly over-long cycling days, I pitch the tent in a pine forest, next to a trash heap.

When I woke the next morning, there was ice floating in my water bottles.
The last day consoles by bringing back beauty: Around Chalma the traveler beholds green woods and fields, blue agaves and pink blossom trees, all in front of the impressive silhouette of the 4690 metres high Volcan Nevado de Toluca. Then the deserted road does a few last little climbs into a Sierra of forests, through which it winds on now consistently dropping and thus effortless to travel, all resources freed to take in the peaceful and tranquil scenery. Somewhere, unnoticed the border to Morelos is crossed. Vegetation turns more tropical, the pines get fewer, then the first houses appear. Through a pretty and green suburb a nearly straight road dives at a crazy angle for the centre of Cuernavaca. Hard on the brakes, I'm awfully glad I don't have to go the opposite direction.

You know, I don't like mountains...