El Camino de la Muerte—or “Death Road,” for those not trying to sound dramatic in Spanish—is as much a mental challenge as it is a physical one. Officially known as Yungas Road, this narrow stretch of gravel hugs the edge of the Andes, winding from the icy peaks near La Paz down to the humid jungles of Coroico. Before a newer (and significantly safer) highway was built, it wasthe route between the two. It also happened to be one of the most dangerous roads on Earth, claiming hundreds of lives every year.
At its sketchiest points, the road is barely three metres wide—with absolutely no guardrails and holy fuck drops everywhere, it makes you question every life decision you’ve ever made. Trucks used to pass each other on this thing.Actual trucks. With centimetres to spare. Add in fog, rain, loose rocks, and the occasional waterfall, and it’s no surprise it earned such a charming nickname.
These days, it’s mostly used by thrill-seeking cyclists with questionable judgment and probably a few unresolved personal issues. It’s safer than it used to be, sure—but don’t get it twisted. Peoplestill die here. Which made me wonder: what the hell was I doing?
It all started with a paved road, surprisingly. A nice, wide one at 4,700 metres above sea level. Did I mention they made us sign a waiver before we could even hop on the bikes? That set the tone real quick.
The first part of the ride was cold, fast, and kind of chill. Almosttoo chill. My nerves settled, and a dangerous wave of blind confidence crept in. “Hey,” I thought, “maybe I’ve been dramatic. This isn’t so bad.”
“How the hell did peopledrive on this?” I asked myself, staring down at a road that looked more like a hiking trail designed by Satan. And when I say gravel, I’m not talking smooth little pebbles. I mean loose, chunky, ankle-twisting rocks that move when you breathe on them. Add in thick fog, slippery surfaces, and the knowledge that one wrong twitch could send you flying off into the abyss, and you’ve got yourself the kind of adrenaline that makes your soul vibrate.
For the first thirty minutes, I was fully convinced I was going to die. At one point, we rode under a waterfall while hugging a chunk of trail barely wide enough to hold a dinner plate (bit dramatic but you get the gist). According to our guide,that was the most dangerous part. Honestly, fair call. That section almost saw me say goodbye to life as I know it.
But after surviving that, something weird happened: it got kind of… fun. I mean, still terrifying—but less of the “call my mum” variety. Once the nerves eased up, I could actually start to take in the view—and holy hell, what a view it was. The scale of the Andes melting into the madness of the Amazon is something that feels straight out of a fantasy novel. Towering cliffs, dense jungle, waterfalls cascading from nowhere—it was beautiful in a way that made the fear almost worth it.
“I think my days of downhilling might be done.”
Not because it wasn’t fun, easily the most intense and one of the best activities we did on the trip. But because fear—real, heart-thudding fear—somehow managed to weigh the same as the rush. Still, I lived to tell the tale… which, given my history, already feels like a miracle