From Andes Summits to Bolivia’s Most Dangerous Ride
None of us were prepared for 11 degree temperatures in the middle of June. Then again some of my team wasn’t ready to be at almost 20,000 feet either. But here four of us found ourselves, roped up with ice axes and crampons, freezing our asses off down in South America in the heart of the Bolivian Andes.
It only took us two weeks—for me, about two years—to make it to this point. Huayna Potosi had stuck her boot clear up our back side in 2023 as my team struggled up to high camp at 17,000 feet that year.
Through knee deep snow this go around we post holed in near blizzard conditions, accumulating to several feet through the night. We tossed and turned at our high hut, as a deafening wind beat against our plywood shelter.
My clients were so naively hopeful during that storm. I didn’t want to burst their balloons but these were avalanche slopes. And my guides knew damn well we weren’t going up at midnight. In fact, we had quite a time getting back down to base camp that next morning as the snow kept falling.
This mountain would have to wait.
But this night, in June of 2025, the stars had aligned. A cold front blew through giving us all the heavenly illumination we needed. And by 12:30 a.m. we were on the glacier. Three of my team had never been higher than 12,000 feet until this trip. We had already bagged two beautiful 16,000-foot peaks in preparation and even climbed up another hill in Bogota, Colombia in transit. These folks were motivated, a real team that looked out for one another. I knew they were going to be successful.
And when four out of the seven of us topped out at 19,974 feet, I was more proud than the father of a newborn first son. Maryvillians Joe Everett and Richard Hatten are North of 60 years and are what I call “Smokies tough.” Neither let a little bit of cold or nausea turn them around. They were on my rope as we high-fived Curtis Luzzi, one of our Canadian team members, as he walked down from the summit with his guide.
Curt was the youngest, at age 51. Judging by his rapid ascent, you would think him no older than 30. He’s also about 6-foot-6-inches, so his stride is double mine—at least that’s what I told myself. This guy had never climbed a mountain over 10,000 feet but here he was, running downhill, like Ed Hillary.
It took a day or so to work our way back down to the nation’s capital of La Paz. At 14,000 feet, this place sits almost as high as our tallest peak in the United States. We only spent one day thawing out in the shadow of some of the most beautiful mountains on Earth. Morning light crested Illimani over our shoulder as we inhaled breakfast at our downtown hotel.
The John Quillen Adventures team was off for another excursion immediately upon our return from the big mountain. I explained to Andrea Maria, our overly indulgent receptionist, not to expect this group back until late tonight. With that we walked down the street to load up mountain bikes on a van and take off in a different direction.
The Death Road is a well-known Bolivian rite of passage. When they dumped us off at a shimmering lake, the mountain we had just climbed was gleaming in the background. “I can’t believe we just stood on the top of that,” Curtis remarked. It was cold here, and we put on the clothes our tour company provided. One by one, we hoisted sore legs over the saddle of mountain bikes.
The first ten miles were on a highway with a little bit too much traffic for my comfort. But we darted through a cloud forest and finally turned on to gravel. Now the mist had turned into a full-blown downpour. Our support van was in radio contact with our leader. And that’s a good thing because Richard experienced the first of three flat tires. This Death Road was taking a toll on his bicycle.
Soaked to the bone, we appreciated the sun as it appeared randomly. By mile 20, all seven of us were down at almost 8,000 feet and shedding layers. The mountains sprouted lush vegetation and coca fields. Abrupt drop offs to our left held the detritus of vehicles illustrating why this road was so named.
Mile 30 saw our first casualty. Rounding one of a million hairpins, I roll up on Richard holding the leg of one of our new friends. Their bikes were permanently entangled it seemed. I know you can’t kill Richard, but I was worried about the German he apparently took out in his zeal to make up for flat tire time. We waved down the people behind us to avoid a peloton incident. Our trusty support van was there to assess the damage. Before long, they had new bikes and everyone was back on their way.
We ended up at a nature sanctuary at 4,000 feet. Here animals rescued from the jungle found a new home as we walked through a cage filled with capybara and fallow deer.
Richard’s German victim wasn’t feeling so well and had to sit down. I convinced our team to tell Richard that the tour company wanted them to fill out personal statements about the accident. Then I asked if he had purchased liability insurance.
When the German man came and joined us at our table holding his head it couldn’t have been more expertly timed. It’s probably not wise for me to joke with my paying clients like that.
We had done 34 miles. A well-earned spaghetti dinner was prepared, surrounded by animals I couldn’t even spell. It took us four hours to get back to our hotel and Andrea Maria had already gone home. Sadly, it was time for us to do the same.
Bolivia stepped up to the plate on this trip. I’m already packing for my return. Maybe I can push this good luck and still catch Andrea Maria to experience a different kind of South American beauty.
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