I think it's puma poo," says Christian Levy, our Chilean guide, when we show him the pile in front of our tent. But it gets worse: "There's a lot of it in this forest." Unfortunately, Christian is referring to the pumas, not their poo - although of course one causes the other. I think wild animals are great in principle, but how am I supposed to go outside my tent at night to pee? The idea of being mauled by a 100-kilo cat immediately tops my list of Chile nightmares - just ahead of "burning alive in a flood of molten lava". You have to know this: The last volcanic eruption in this area was just two years ago... I'm beginning to wonder what kind of hell we've actually ended up in here?
Our tour is part adventure trip, part record hunt: a 100-kilometre trail that no one has ever ridden on a mountain bike before - at least not from one end to the other. It starts at the lava fields of the Lanin volcano on the Chilean-Argentinean border and ends three days later at the foothills of the extremely active Villarrica volcano near the city of Pucon. In between, it touches the Quetrupillan volcano, hops over colourful lava fields and meanders through dense bamboo and chile fir forests. The route is well marked and its 100 kilometres are anything but an extreme challenge, but the fact that it is completely unknown among mountain bikers adds to its appeal - at least for me. And so that I don't have to stew alone in a glowing lava hell in an emergency, I have a few friends with me: the freeride pros Matt Hunter and René Wildhaber, the Chilean cross-country champ Ernesto Aránguiz, the filmmaker Matty Miles and finally Euan Wilson from the tour operator H+I Adventures.
A trail lies ahead of us that is so remote and wild that there are only two alternatives between morning and evening: stick it out to the end or turn round and head back to the starting point. A forest road only crosses the trail twice on the way, dividing our trip into three long stages. We want to meet Christian there, who is bringing tents and food by jeep. The entire route is cut off from the mobile phone network. We have a VHF radio with us for real emergencies (such as attacking pumas or spraying lava). The very first day seems to drag on, because it has started to rain ...
The wind blows soaking curtains of rain across the vast expanse of black volcanic sand that lies before us. To our left looms the 3747 metre high Lanin. Its snow-covered summit is now completely shrouded in cloud. Somewhere halfway up, in the misty void, lies the highest point of today's 30-kilometre stage. Drenched in sweat from the 500 metres of altitude already behind us, we quickly wrap ourselves in our jackets, start pedalling and set off into this cold, wet desert. Lime-green moss clings stubbornly to rugged black rock: nature's first attempts to reclaim this extreme landscape. We ride what is rideable and shoulder the bikes as we climb through a dozen bizarre rock gardens. Cold and wet, our shorts stick to our thighs, while our tyres and teeth grind almost as loudly - sand and stones are everywhere.
So far, none of this has affected us: The euphoria of setting off ("Yeehaa, finally on the road!") carries us through almost three hours of adversity. But after the break at the highest point of the stage, we realise all the more how cold and uncomfortable it has been the whole time. During the long, flowing descent, we hardly feel like marvelling at the mysterious forest interwoven with rustic lichen. Rather, we are dreading what awaits us at the end of this downhill: cold, wet tents. But no more thoughts of shivering! Instead, we enjoy the trail, weave our way between mossy trees, slide into loamy turns and smash through the streams because our shoes are already soaked through anyway. When we finally reach camp, mud-splattered but happy, a hot soup awaits us. José, the cook, knows what tired trail cowboys need!
Towards midnight, the hypnotic beating of raindrops on the tent roof finally subsides. In the first light of dawn, the wafts of mist disperse and reveal a view of Mount Lanin towering above us with its flanks whitened by fresh snow. We warm ourselves with our coffee cups and wait for the first rays of sunshine to ignite our anticipation for the mammoth 50-kilometre stage ahead of us. We marvel in awe at the perfect cone shape of the mountain: this is exactly how a child would draw a volcano. Parakeets are noisy in the old Chilean firs as we finally enter a tunnel of dense bamboo. This is the start of the first of several long climbs today - but we are rewarded with dozens of perfect downhills.
A little later, birch trees line the narrow trail. Their bushy branches snap at our bikes as if they want to rob us of all the fun of cycling. We push on, grumbling and swearing. Condors circle far above us. They're probably laughing their heads off: a bit of thermalling and they can complete our day's stage with three beats of their massive wings. Down here, other flying artists attack us: brakes bite into our calves and seem to know that we have our hands on the handlebars. Finally, we leave the forest behind us and reach a long ridge of red lava rock. From here, the view sweeps over vast grasslands. A traverse around the Quetrupillan volcano begins on a singletrack trail through black ash. Here, too, the climbs are brutally steep - and the hard-earned descents are all the more carefree and faster.
Wildly jumbled dark rocks and bands of multi-coloured sand stretch as far as we can see. I suddenly realise that we are literally in the middle of nowhere. In the entire three days, we only meet one person, a lone hiker, who seems just as surprised to see us as we are to see him. Hour after hour, we steer our bikes through this Martian landscape. With each new climb, we have to dig deeper into our energy reserves. Then finally the last downhill of the day spits us out 10 metres from the tents. And less than 10 minutes later, night falls. Christian hands everyone a beer and admits that he was starting to worry about us.
Now that we are safe and sound on the dusty ground between the tents, we laugh about the day's exertions. Matt Hunter rinses the sand out of his mouth with beer and swallows the mixture with relish. He has already listed the route as one of the best backcountry trails he has ever ridden - and that's saying something: the bloke has been everywhere! I, on the other hand, will never forget how completely wrong I was when I said after the first 400 metres of altitude: "We're almost there!"
In the end, it was 2400 metres uphill - and out of 13 hours of daylight, we spent a full 11 on climbs. But what the heck: misjudgements are the price you pay for pioneering deeds. No matter how much you arm yourself with geodata from the internet, there are always a lot of variables on first ascents. Another 35 kilometres await us tomorrow - and I have no idea how many of them will be uphill or downhill. Best to have a beer after that!
When I wake up the next morning, my eyes are literally covered in dust from yesterday's descent. Perhaps I should have dipped not only my bum but also my face in the ice-cold river flowing close to the camp that evening. But even on the third and final day, the effects of our efforts can no longer be overlooked: chafed feet, sunburnt skin, smelly clothes, patched tyres. Nevertheless, nobody would want to miss these experiences. We hoist ourselves back onto our bikes and set off on the final stage. "See you on the other side of the volcano," says Christian as we say goodbye. Another sentence that you certainly don't hear often in life. Two hours later, we are completely lost.
The last eruption of Villarrica covered the trail so thoroughly in 2015 that we lost all trace of it. Now we sit helplessly on a ridge and look out over vast fields of red and black ash. Then we take it in turns to search the area on foot, sometimes heading west, sometimes south. Our soles crunch loudly in the volcanic sand. As if someone was chewing cornflakes particularly noisily. At some point, we discover the trail in the distance: it winds its way barely visible between two rugged lava bands. Let's get going! We want to catch up with it in a wild freeride ride through the middle of the terrain. I watch Matt Hunter and René Wildhaber glide effortlessly down the loose slope. 30 seconds later, I'm lying on my face. "Release the front brake!" I curse myself. I don't want to have to test whether the radio actually works in this godforsaken area.
A plume of smoke rises from the crater of the volcano. The black rock radiates the heat of the Chilean summer sun. An oven! It's hard to believe that two days ago we were spooning our breakfast out of frost-covered bowls. We take the first opportunity to fill up our Camelbaks at a stream. We follow its course with our eyes up to the ice from which it springs. The trail leads us around the broad shoulders of the volcano. Sometimes we wind our way between shiny glassy obsidian columns, then we wear out our tyres on natural pump tracks. Countless small gorges cut deep cracks into the flank of the volcano, but the initial temptation to drop into them is limited once you realise that you have to scramble out again on the other side.
The end of the tour draws inexorably closer. Sometimes we see our destination within reach, then it disappears again behind the ridge. We still have a few kilometres of unknown land to conquer. But the light is fading fast. When we finally give each other dusty high-fives, grinning between our sandy teeth, the sun is just disappearing behind the ridges. I try to soak up the moment. But it doesn't work: I'm simply too exhausted - and damn glad that neither the pumas nor the glowing lava have turned this heavenly trip into hell.
INFO
The Lanin-Villarrica traverse described above is not (yet) offered as a guided tour. Epic singletrail rides in the same volcanic landscape, however, are, without camping, but with the same support team from H + I Adventures. mountainbikeworldwide.com
