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In the early hours I awake to a patter-patter on the tent fly-sheet. Light rain. More like snow. Hell. I turn on my side to sleep again hoping it isn't true.

When I wake again there's still the same patter on the tent and later when it has stopped, I unzip the opening and look out, see about seven centimetres of snow and the outside skin of the tent white. The sky a white mist.

Hell, I think. The thought of taking the tent down in this.

There are quite a few vehicles passing on the road and I walk out through the mist to the road and see the road a sloppy black wet sheen, which is going to make a mess of my bike. Mind I've so little brake-pad wear and its all steep downhill from here. It is the worse case scenario. Downhill in wet sloppy snow.

I am thinking I could may be stay put for a day. I don't have much food, but it may be better waiting a day. But quickly decide against that as there may be overnight frost with icy road conditions tomorrow.

I vacate the tent of everything and tip the tent on it's side to tip off the snow. Then during taking down the tent have to stop periodically to warm numb fingers by putting my hands inside my cycling tights.

On the road as said is a continuous steep wind down. My brakes making a rough metal-on-metal noise. Visibility is low. Then I see another touring cyclist come out of the fog on the way up. I move to his side on meeting, an elderly Frenchman doing a circuit from Salta to Cachi, then to Cafayate and back to Salta, with limited time to do it, so cannot wait around because of poor weather. As we talk the mist and cloud lifts with a sudden ray of sunshine. But it is only brief. Farther down I'm descending in low visibility grey fog, still with the horrible metallic sound of my brakes.

Lower still there's no more fog, but its wet and grey with drizzly rain.

I stop at a roadside café, El Maray. Inside there's a log fire where I warm myself while waiting for empanadas. The others a middle-age couple from Buenos Aires and a young goatie-beard man wearing a jama wool hat with four year old daughter. I'm not sure where they come from, but seemed to be living here. He talked away about the local countryside to the Buenos Aires couple between them showing admiration for me being out on a bike on such a day.

Not far on the road levels out along a narrow valley, so there's less pressure on my brakes. The drizzle continues though.

I push on out the valley to the junction with route 68 at El Carril, where I go left.

The rain intensifies reaching the city. The side of the road where I'm riding has lots of big puddles hiding potholes. Generally the road is a minefield of potholes. Then low misty cloud descends and I kind of get lost and start thinking I'm not in the city of Salta, but some other town. I cannot see Cerra San Bernardo and it all looks strange. Then I recognize I'm on a big street coming in from the south which passes the bus station. I know where I am now and make my way along flooded streets to the hostel, walking into reception dripping and looking thoroughly miserable.