Morning broke to find our group of nearly 120 riders gathered in front of the hotel preparing to depart. Military Police (carrying machine guns) were on hand to provide the Caravana an honorary escort to the outskirts of La Paz. The Governor of La Paz took the lead on an ATV, followed by motorcycles and then
ATVs. Our engines resounded thunderously off the buildings as we began winding our way through the narrow streets of La Paz. Our Caravana must have been a truly amazing sight. Spectators appeared from nowhere, enthusiastically clapping, waving and cheering us on. A few of the bikers couldn’t resist styling for the crowd as they cracked impressive wheelies. The carnival atmosphere left me somewhat awestruck and the multitude of spectators reminded me of a New York ticker-tape parade! What a hoot!

Our schedule required that we stop briefly for television interviews at the Paceña beer plant (one of the Caravana sponsors. No beverages served.) Thankfully, we didn’t stop long and I was happy as we moved on leaving La Paz far behind.

The road before me climbed and climbed like a stairway to heaven. On both sides of me a canopy of lush, green vegetation blanketed the mountains. Llama’s graze along the edge of the road. The scenery was nothing short of spectacular. Nearing the summit, now at approximately 17,000 feet, the road narrowed further and became significantly more rugged. Somehow I had found myself in a pocket with no other riders around. At this altitude the crisp mountain air began to take on a distinct chill. With every elapsed kilometer breathing became more difficult. Running flat-out now, my air-starved Prairie wouldn’t break over 37 MPH-even with the airbox lid removed. Still, I found my riding rhythm and I was having a ball pitching the Prairie into the narrow, tight, twisty corners and then blasting hard into the brief straights. I felt very comfortable on the Prairie and began to amuse myself by pushing my riding limits just a bit.

  I was riding hard high above the clouds (literally), lost in thought and having an awesome time. Rounding a particularly sharp corner I was suddenly confronted by another rider standing in the middle of the trail. He waved his arms frantically at me. I pinned the brakes hard, spraying gravel, as I skidded to an abrupt stop. The obviously agitated rider shouted something to me in Spanish. When he realized I didn’t speak the language he resorted to pointing over the edge of the mountain. I had a sinking feeling in my gut as I realized what that simple gesture implied. I cautiously peered over the edge. About three to four hundred feet below I spotted the crumpled shape of an ATV. It was so far down it was hard to even make it out. I had a sickening feeling as I realized that nobody could survive that fall.

My Kawasaki Prairie had the only winch in the immediate group of riders. I quickly maneuvered my machine to the edge of the cliff. Then, using a technique I learned when we conducted our winch test in North Carolina’s Upper Tellico region, I anchored the back of my quad to another ATV via a snatch strap. I didn’t want the body weight of a climber pulling my lone machine over the cliff. More riders had arrived now. By virtue of the fact I was one of the first on the scene I somehow found myself directing the rescue attempt. A rider from La Paz who was acclimated to this altitude went down the winch cable, but the fifty-foot cable didn’t afford enough length for him to spot the rider below. He returned top-side unsuccessful. By then, a support truck with a longer winch had arrived. I moved to the side allowing people who knew what they were doing to work. I watched as another attempt, using the truck’s winch, proved unsuccessful. The rider was simply too far down. Finally, the military police arrived with climbing gear and I watched as they descended the steep, treacherous mountain slope. By now, residents from the area thronged the edge of the mountain pushing each other for a better view. I had no idea where they came from or how the word had spread so quickly. The police worked to move the onlookers away from the edge, because the crowd dislodged rocks endangering the rescuers below.

Editor’s Note: The rider was not an official participant of the Caravana. He was a local resident who joined in when the Caravana passed through La Paz. He did not receive the benefit of the safety warnings regarding this most dangerous section of trail. The Caravana encourages safety at all times and was in no way responsible for this unfortunate incident.

About an hour later, the climbers brought our comrade up the mountain in a basket carrier. It is with deep sympathy that I report he did not survive. I later learned that the rider was the father of three children and had purchased his Yamaha Warrior the day before. I assume that his inexperience on the machine led him to riding beyond his abilities and the unfortunate result was he lost control. Our sympathies go out to his family and friends.

 

Descending the mountain the terrain became more jungle-like. Canopies of heavy vegetation protruding over the trail dripped water on our heads and caused the trail to become extremely slick in places. My pace slowed. It was a welcome relief to the dust found on most of the trail. Tired, and dirty after riding one hundred fifty-eight kilometers, I arrived in the town of Caranavi to find a band playing and crowds of people thronging the street in anticipation of our arrival. I was met in the streets with a cold drink and much curiosity when the local people noticed I was an American. Apparently the entire town had been gathered in the Town Square for the better part of a day awaiting our arrival. I learned that the Caravana has become the biggest event of the year for most of the towns we passed through.