Hammockeering Around: The last of Ecuador

I don't believe my words can accurately express the feeling of biking through the Ecuador mountains. A typical day found me sleeping high on a ridge, 10,000 feet or more above sea level. In cool thin air I would awake between lovely trees with a view of the world. When the effervescent mist flowing around and below cleared away on the dawn light I would pack up and start biking. Sleeping on the ridge always let me start the day on a downhill. It was never long before the next valley to cross would come into full view. The river, far out of earshot, could be seen small and glittering nearly a mile below. I would leave the ridge and for an hour I rolled and weaved without pedaling, stopping only occasionally to admire the view that was amazing at every turn. When I reached the river the air was warmer, thicker in my lungs and dense enough to have crushed my water jug. I would cross the river, pausing to admire it from the bridge, then for the next four hours of biking I would climb. The air would thin out and cool, the sun crossed the sky lighting the valley from the opposite direction, clouds would come and go. Usually I stopped for lunch, somewhere with a view or a small restaurant that always served chicken and rice. As late afternoon turned to early evening I would crest the next ridge with strength and resolve to spare. Pausing there I always turned to admire chasm I just crossed. I could trace the road, a white scar cutting the green mountain, down to the river and back up right to the place I camped the night before. Feeling accomplished, high on endorphins, happy as could be, I would finish the day. In cool thin air I would find lovely trees with a view to hang my hammock.