Oregon Cycling Magazine

by Peter Marsh

It’s been ten years since I faced up to the reality of turning 50, and dreamed up the idea of climbing Mount Hood from sea level! Though I had no thought at the time that this would go any further, it led to “bikes and hikes” of many of the major peaks in Washington, Oregon and California from sea level. In 2002, I wrote here about the most extreme route—Death Valley (-220’) to Mount Whitney (+14,400’), starting in Las Vegas. The second benefit was that when the rainy season descended on the northwest, I was miraculously inspired to drag myself to the airport for a series of memorable bicycle journeys and hikes in Hawaii and Latin America.

With my 60th birthday just around the corner, I was hoping to revive my passion for travel with another new idea. I found it late in 2006, while editing a boating story that mentioned Beacon Rock, 40 miles up the Columbia River from Portland. The writer was hoping to pass on the local myth that this is the second or third biggest monolith in the world—a blatantly ridiculous notion. A quick dive into the web took me to the relevant Wikipedia page, where I discovered a list of monoliths around the world. The author appeared to have done his homework, and I found, to my surprise that #2 was Stone Mountain, Georgia and #3 Pena de Bernal, Queretaro, Mexico. (#1 is Mount Augustus in Australia.)

Since I had been corresponding with a German traveler I met in the Yucatan in 2003 who was living in the city of Queretaro while attending art school, I decided to return to Mexico in February 2007 with my faithful traveling companion from Eugene—my folding Bike Friday—and climb the Pena (cliff) from sea level. This would require me to take a bus from the historic town of Queretaro—200 miles north of Mexico City—south to Toluca and the point where my 2002 bike ride from Acapulco ended with the ascent of the 14,600’ Nevado de Toluca.

Since the bus station is on the SE edge of town and my friend’s house is on the NW side, I had to ride across Queretaro for about an hour in the always-busy traffic, crossing the narrow streets and plazas of the old city and then the wide avenues past new developments like the concert hall and the soccer stadium. I folded the bike to make sure it would fit in the hold under the floor of the bus, and settled down to a three-hour trip. Pushing the bike through the bus station in Toluca, I remembered I had been there five years before, when I took a short side-trip to see the monarch butterfly sanctuary in the neighboring state of Michoacan.

I thought about finding a hotel room, but the prices were high and the prospect of a quiet night seemed remote, so around 4 PM I absent-mindedly rode north onto the main highway until I reached a line of toll booths. I was able to take a parallel local road that wound its way through the countryside, which was very pleasant, but wasn’t getting me very far in the right direction! Indeed, when the sun set I was still plugging up and down the rolling back roads, while below me in the valley the cars on the toll road were heading straight back to Queretaro.

With darkness falling at 7PM, I finally arrived at a crossroads with a motel nearby—but never actually saw the town of Xtlahuaca. The only room without a garage cost 200 pesos—less than $20—which suited me fine. The next day, the journey continued back and forth across the valley until I reached Atlacomulco, where I had my usual vegetarian version of the standard Mexican lunch in the market. It may sound monotonous, but every cook prepares rice, beans, tortillas in a different way and will happily add eggs, cheese, or avocados if she has them.

Finally, I branched off the main route, only to have another tussle with another toll road going east-west that had blocked off all the local roads. After along steep climb, I found a footbridge over one lane and a tunnel under the other. The temperature peaked at around 80 degrees, and I was grateful for long downhill to Temascalcingo, the biggest town in the area. I stayed in the cheaper of the two hotels close to the plaza, which only cost 130 pesos, although I had to carry the bike and the luggage up two narrow flights of stairs.

The third day, Sunday, the elevation went from 5,000’ in the valleys to about 7,000’ on the passes, making the riding challenging. I passed through occasional small farming villages until the next town, Amealco, which had a magnificent plaza and colonial architecture. The town was full of people because this was the national Day of the Family and that is the foundation of Mexican life. Unfortunately, the hotel owner was also out with his kids, and the sign said he wouldn’t be back until 7PM.

So this turned into a longer day, and when I found there was no hotel at all in Huimilpan I rode until I reached the overlook high above Queretaro, and stopped for a final snack before the long descent past the bus station and into the city. The world’s third largest monolith is actually just one day’s ride, so I took a few days off and the next Friday rode a bus back to the concert hall to hear the city’s marvelous Queretaro Symphony Orchestra play.

The second leg again had me riding across town, passing the marvelous 1-km long 18th century aqueduct then taking a winding road cut into a steep-sided valley with a railroad track on the far side. Along the way, roadside workshops sold sculptures carved from the local stone by artisans who expertly ground out miniature Grecian columns and saints with electric tools. I detoured east around the state for the next week, visiting the spa town of Tequiquiapan, a hot springs resort, and passing the typical cornfields and surprisingly, vineyards.

I remember that I turned west after the Cavas Freixenet winery, and there was the monolith, coming into view above the fields and slowly coming to dominate the skyline. By the time I reached the small town of Bernal, the towering 1,000’ rock dominated the scene, and loomed over the quiet streets and plaza. I inquired at the official information center about climbing the rock and was told that there was a good trail that people of all ages followed. (My Spanish is definitely good enough for obtaining this kind of information…)

That afternoon I saw a group walking up the steep cobble-stoned hill to the trailhead and realized this was actually a popular pilgrimage—so “no problema.” I spent the afternoon pushing my fully-loaded bike around the little community near the trailhead until I was sure there really were no camp sites. But the idea of camping there appealed to me, so I decided to find a suitable spot. I walked past a half dozen crowded backyards until I found one that had dug enough space out of the steep hillside to accommodate a tent without looking too ridiculous. I offered the owner $5 a night and he cheerfully agreed, though he must have considered me a “crazy gringo.”

The next day at 8AM I set off up the trail and in 45 minutes had reached the end of the line and a miniature chapel not big enough to stand in. From there, I could see it would be a scramble to the top. I moved carefully across a sloping ramp of rock until I could see the last stretch of the trail to the summit. It was not far from vertical! The route was unmistakable, since it was marked by a series of iron rungs set into holes drilled into the rock face… something the city official had omitted to mention!

I had imagined I would be the first person of the day on top, but was relieved to see someone on the way down, working his was cautiously between the rungs and natural hand and footholds… he was moving very carefully! He turned out to be a German traveler, and agreed that this last part of the climb was not for the faint of heart. So there I was, 50 meters from the completion of this sea-to-summit, faced with a dilemma. Ironically, I had begun doing sea-to-summits to avoid exactly this excessive type of risk-taking.

Predictably, I took the bait and started climbing. I soon learned that these rungs, set about 4-6’ apart, in no way constituted a “ladder” to the summit. Whoever placed them clearly intended to force the unwary hiker to use the rock’s natural holds whenever they were adequate. So a rung or two would be followed by several “sporting” moves on the rock, which was disconcerting! Nonetheless, the summit arrived quickly, because climbing upwards is relatively easy. The few minutes I spent on top were overshadowed by the hard part—the descent.

This began with an intimidating “over-the-edge” move to reach the uppermost rung. I recall stopping in a gully to slow my pounding heartbeat. I reminded myself not to grip the rungs too tight and focus on my foot placement: rock-climbing lessons that I hadn’t applied in a decade. I rested again at another ledge, and reached level ground without feeling I had been too close to my psychological limit for un-roped climbing…

I spent the rest of the day relaxing in Bernal, reading and looking up to the rock every few minutes to ponder my adventure just a few hours before. (I have since searched the web and found many stories about the pilgrim’s route, but no reference at all to the summit pitch!) The next day I realized there was just as much risk on the busy two-lane road with about 6” of tarmac beyond the white line. Several times I looked ahead to see a car coming at me in my lane while overtaking a half dozen trucks—it’s strange how slowly one reacts to this—I think it’s simply something that we northerners aren’t trained to recognize quickly enough! I won’t deny that’s one good reason to avoid touring in Mexico and the Third World in general. Next stop, Stone Mountain.

Possibly Related

• August 2008: Bend's Big Fat Tour
• November 2006: The Ditty Bops know how to tour
• November 2007: Cafécletos: Bike activism south of the border
• April 2008: Patagonian adventure
• October 2007: Waiting for Kenny Chesney