Kermit and co - the Pub2Pub TVR, and other steeds.
Discussion
Pub2Pub_Ben said:
Hoofy said:
Ah right, I couldn't tell if it was raised up. Looked standard to me.
Is the suspension softer then or is it a road car firmness suspension? (Just imagine you being shaken to death!)
In the pictures so far, the suspension isn't on it's highest setting - we only lifted it all the way when the terrain started getting properly rough. Plus, the Mini is generally carting around 300+kg of kit, fuel, tools, spares and supplies in the pics, which certainly reduced ground clearance, and probably helps explain the near-normal ride height.Is the suspension softer then or is it a road car firmness suspension? (Just imagine you being shaken to death!)
Edited by Hoofy on Wednesday 21st February 10:54
The suspension was pretty firm (being a Mini, it's basically four lumps of rubber), so we were certainly subjected to a fair bit of bodily abuse on these tracks.
And so, it's on to the next stage of our attempt to drive a Mini up the world's highest volcano - the 6,893 metre tall Ojos del Salado, in Chile's Atacama Desert.
On leaving Laguna Verde, we spent a night at a slightly higher elevation of 4,520 metres at a run-down former police post known as Refugio Murray. This was our only night beneath anything so luxurious as a roof in our 24 days on the mountain. And it wasn't only buildings we were leaving behind; Refugio Murray also represented our last glimpse of tarmac - from now on, it was rough tracks all the way. And those rough tracks lead straight to the mountain, about 15 miles distant (Ojos del Salado is the mountain between the two cars in the picture below, taken from just outside the refugio).
From the luxury of the abandoned and slowly decomposing police station, it was about eight miles to our next camp spot, a random point on the map at an arbitrary 4,850 metres above sea level - an altitude chosen for acclimatisation purposes. We were a bit slow getting away, as overnight the mini's petrol tank had decided to start leaking from the seal where the fuel level sensor/float slots into the tank, filling the bottom of the boot with fuel. Having fixed this, and raised the adjustable suspension to its highest setting, it was time to roll. The first seven of those eight miles miles, the Mini completed faultlessly, flying along the rough tracks and taking the dusty Atacama in its stride:
However, the last mile was primarily composed of soft sand, and it was here that the Mini began to struggle, needing plenty of pushing, and use of both the waffle boards, and some timber we'd salvaged from the abandoned police station to make it through:
This took several hours, but eventually we made it through to our camp spot. And in doing so, we learnt one thing about the Range Rover - provided it wasn’t overheating and blowing its coolant out everywhere, it seemed able to sail over pretty much anything anything the Atacama threw at it. It was imperious, unstoppable, unreliable - everything that you'd expect from a Range Rover, in fact.
We ended up spending two nights at the camp at 4,850 metres, which we named 'Hell Camp', due to the misery of being continuously blasted by blown sand and grit in the exposed spot, which was higher than Mont Blanc, the highest mountain in Western Europe.
Originally, we'd only planned to spend one night at this spot in the middle of nowhere, but unfortunately one of our team members was starting to feel the altitude, with bad headaches and low blood-oxygen stats. This is an unpredictable hazard of altitude, and can affect anyone, however fit and healthy they are, and however slowly they ascend. In this case it was particularly unlucky, as we'd climbed much slower than the standard mountaineering recommendation of gaining 300 metres per day, but such things are all part of the challenge of a high altitude expedition such as this. When we awoke after our second night there, and our ill team member was feeling slightly better, but not much, we had two choices - to descend, or to carry on up and see whether he worsened. Staying at Hell Camp for a third night wasn't an option. Unanimously, we decided to ascend, while keeping a very close eye on all of our responses to the thinning air.
It wasn't only us who were suffering in the thin air, though. The Mini was becoming increasingly unhappy. Pulling off had gradually been getting more and more difficult, as lifting the clutch would result in the engine almost stalling as soon as it came under load, with the AFR gauge showing a very lean mixture. This meant that sometimes, it would take two or three attempts to get the car rolling in first gear with the clutch fully up, gaining a little more speed with each one. And obviously, when attempting an uphill start, this technique proved impossible. Which is a bit of a problem, when you're trying to drive up the world's highest volcano.
Because of this, progress required maintaining as much momentum as possible with the Mini, and when forced to stop on a hill, either rolling back to flatter ground for another try or, more often, using the Range Rover to tow the Mini to the next flattish section. Because the Range Rover was, once again, imperious. When it wasn't overheating, that is.
After a few hours, we came to a plateau which gave us our best look at Ojos del Salado yet. We'd finally broken the 5,000 metre level, being 5,150 metres up and our day's target of 5,250 metres felt within reach.
Unfortunately, the altitude wasn't sitting well with our ill team member. Blood-oxygen levels had dropped from over 85% in the morning, to near 70%. The headache was back, and some ominous chest pains had decided to make an appearance. Climbing higher had been a gamble, and it hadn't paid off. We immediately decided to rush down, as the best cure for altitude sickness is to descend. So, we piled back into the cars, and sped back down to Laguna Verde, losing 800 metres of altitude in a few hours, and hoping for an improvement in our patient.
And as it's getting late, that's where we'll leave it for now...
On leaving Laguna Verde, we spent a night at a slightly higher elevation of 4,520 metres at a run-down former police post known as Refugio Murray. This was our only night beneath anything so luxurious as a roof in our 24 days on the mountain. And it wasn't only buildings we were leaving behind; Refugio Murray also represented our last glimpse of tarmac - from now on, it was rough tracks all the way. And those rough tracks lead straight to the mountain, about 15 miles distant (Ojos del Salado is the mountain between the two cars in the picture below, taken from just outside the refugio).
From the luxury of the abandoned and slowly decomposing police station, it was about eight miles to our next camp spot, a random point on the map at an arbitrary 4,850 metres above sea level - an altitude chosen for acclimatisation purposes. We were a bit slow getting away, as overnight the mini's petrol tank had decided to start leaking from the seal where the fuel level sensor/float slots into the tank, filling the bottom of the boot with fuel. Having fixed this, and raised the adjustable suspension to its highest setting, it was time to roll. The first seven of those eight miles miles, the Mini completed faultlessly, flying along the rough tracks and taking the dusty Atacama in its stride:
However, the last mile was primarily composed of soft sand, and it was here that the Mini began to struggle, needing plenty of pushing, and use of both the waffle boards, and some timber we'd salvaged from the abandoned police station to make it through:
This took several hours, but eventually we made it through to our camp spot. And in doing so, we learnt one thing about the Range Rover - provided it wasn’t overheating and blowing its coolant out everywhere, it seemed able to sail over pretty much anything anything the Atacama threw at it. It was imperious, unstoppable, unreliable - everything that you'd expect from a Range Rover, in fact.
We ended up spending two nights at the camp at 4,850 metres, which we named 'Hell Camp', due to the misery of being continuously blasted by blown sand and grit in the exposed spot, which was higher than Mont Blanc, the highest mountain in Western Europe.
Originally, we'd only planned to spend one night at this spot in the middle of nowhere, but unfortunately one of our team members was starting to feel the altitude, with bad headaches and low blood-oxygen stats. This is an unpredictable hazard of altitude, and can affect anyone, however fit and healthy they are, and however slowly they ascend. In this case it was particularly unlucky, as we'd climbed much slower than the standard mountaineering recommendation of gaining 300 metres per day, but such things are all part of the challenge of a high altitude expedition such as this. When we awoke after our second night there, and our ill team member was feeling slightly better, but not much, we had two choices - to descend, or to carry on up and see whether he worsened. Staying at Hell Camp for a third night wasn't an option. Unanimously, we decided to ascend, while keeping a very close eye on all of our responses to the thinning air.
It wasn't only us who were suffering in the thin air, though. The Mini was becoming increasingly unhappy. Pulling off had gradually been getting more and more difficult, as lifting the clutch would result in the engine almost stalling as soon as it came under load, with the AFR gauge showing a very lean mixture. This meant that sometimes, it would take two or three attempts to get the car rolling in first gear with the clutch fully up, gaining a little more speed with each one. And obviously, when attempting an uphill start, this technique proved impossible. Which is a bit of a problem, when you're trying to drive up the world's highest volcano.
Because of this, progress required maintaining as much momentum as possible with the Mini, and when forced to stop on a hill, either rolling back to flatter ground for another try or, more often, using the Range Rover to tow the Mini to the next flattish section. Because the Range Rover was, once again, imperious. When it wasn't overheating, that is.
After a few hours, we came to a plateau which gave us our best look at Ojos del Salado yet. We'd finally broken the 5,000 metre level, being 5,150 metres up and our day's target of 5,250 metres felt within reach.
Unfortunately, the altitude wasn't sitting well with our ill team member. Blood-oxygen levels had dropped from over 85% in the morning, to near 70%. The headache was back, and some ominous chest pains had decided to make an appearance. Climbing higher had been a gamble, and it hadn't paid off. We immediately decided to rush down, as the best cure for altitude sickness is to descend. So, we piled back into the cars, and sped back down to Laguna Verde, losing 800 metres of altitude in a few hours, and hoping for an improvement in our patient.
And as it's getting late, that's where we'll leave it for now...
The descent back down to 4,350 metres brought about an improvement in the altitude sickness symptoms of our ill team member, and so we decided to spend the night there, and see how he was feeling in the morning. Unfortunately, the answer wasn't great, with the chest pain and sub-optimal o2 stats meaning we had to get him down to sea level ASAP. So, the Range rover and everyone else set off to drive the 150 miles to the nearest town, before returning with one less occupant, and a full load of supplies.
I was thus left alone next to Laguna Verde without enough fuel to make it back to civilisation, but with an old classic car. And so, I did what any petrolhead would do - I got out the spanners, and started tinkering.
Chief among the jobs I wanted to do was to swap out the lower supercharger pulley for the larger one I'd brought along. Up to this stage on the trip, I'd been running lower boost levels for reliability, but now the air was properly thinning, it made sense to change over to a bigger pulley, giving more boost. I also saw to a few other jobs and gave the Mini a thorough going over, while waiting for the Range Rover to return.
The middle of the Atacama isn't the ideal workshop, as the constant wind blew sand over everything as I worked, making delicate jobs like rejetting the carburettor off limits. But there were compensations - for instance, the view from the workshop wasn't exactly bad:
It was well after dark when the distant rumble of a V8, and the flashing of many spotlights heralded the return of the Range Rover. Climbing back up to over 4km up, carrying perhaps half a tonne of fuel, water and supplies, its overheating issues had came to the fore, and it had to stop many times to cool down. Additionally, the alternator had failed in the last hour of the journey, and the old beast had limped its way through the Atacama Night, often with its lights off, and with its bonnet removed for extra cooling. And its arrival heralded one of the best meals I'd ever eaten - a 6 hour old takeaway pizza, which was sublime after so long stuck out in the desert.
The next morning, after eating the pizza leftovers for breakfast, we started work on its issues - primarily, the alternator failure. And unfortunately, our hopes that it was simply a poor earth or some loose wiring weren't answered - the alternator was dead.
There were three of us in the desert now, and we had supplies for around a week. The Range Rover couldn't do another supply run with no alternator, and the chances of finding one in the Atacama were rather low. So, we decided to push on up the mountain, stopping every so often for the Mini to recharge the Range Rover's battery, using jump leads. This way, we hoped to get the supplies high enough for us to establish a high camp on the mountain, from where the Mini could push on to a high point. We'd worry about how to get the Range Rover down again when the time came. But this plan made for somewhat faltering progress:
And it wasn't just the Range Rover which needed help. Due to the Mini's poor performance in soft sand, and the severe effects the thin air was having on its drivability, it often needed a tow from the Range Rover to keep moving forwards. And so, the two cars crawled on up the mountain, helping each other to keep moving forward, the Mini's alternator charging the Range Rover, and the Range Rover dragging the Mini. Neither could have made it on their own, but through teamwork, they kept on slowly climbing upwards.
In this manner, we eventually made it past Hell Camp, and then past our previous high point. We made it through what's known to locals as the 'rocky way' - the roughest terrain yet - and arrived at our next camp, 5,250 metres up, which is known to mountaineers as Refugio Atacama.
And that's where we spent Christmas day, working on the cars, and scoping out the next stage of the climb. Which I'll post up soon...
I was thus left alone next to Laguna Verde without enough fuel to make it back to civilisation, but with an old classic car. And so, I did what any petrolhead would do - I got out the spanners, and started tinkering.
Chief among the jobs I wanted to do was to swap out the lower supercharger pulley for the larger one I'd brought along. Up to this stage on the trip, I'd been running lower boost levels for reliability, but now the air was properly thinning, it made sense to change over to a bigger pulley, giving more boost. I also saw to a few other jobs and gave the Mini a thorough going over, while waiting for the Range Rover to return.
The middle of the Atacama isn't the ideal workshop, as the constant wind blew sand over everything as I worked, making delicate jobs like rejetting the carburettor off limits. But there were compensations - for instance, the view from the workshop wasn't exactly bad:
It was well after dark when the distant rumble of a V8, and the flashing of many spotlights heralded the return of the Range Rover. Climbing back up to over 4km up, carrying perhaps half a tonne of fuel, water and supplies, its overheating issues had came to the fore, and it had to stop many times to cool down. Additionally, the alternator had failed in the last hour of the journey, and the old beast had limped its way through the Atacama Night, often with its lights off, and with its bonnet removed for extra cooling. And its arrival heralded one of the best meals I'd ever eaten - a 6 hour old takeaway pizza, which was sublime after so long stuck out in the desert.
The next morning, after eating the pizza leftovers for breakfast, we started work on its issues - primarily, the alternator failure. And unfortunately, our hopes that it was simply a poor earth or some loose wiring weren't answered - the alternator was dead.
There were three of us in the desert now, and we had supplies for around a week. The Range Rover couldn't do another supply run with no alternator, and the chances of finding one in the Atacama were rather low. So, we decided to push on up the mountain, stopping every so often for the Mini to recharge the Range Rover's battery, using jump leads. This way, we hoped to get the supplies high enough for us to establish a high camp on the mountain, from where the Mini could push on to a high point. We'd worry about how to get the Range Rover down again when the time came. But this plan made for somewhat faltering progress:
And it wasn't just the Range Rover which needed help. Due to the Mini's poor performance in soft sand, and the severe effects the thin air was having on its drivability, it often needed a tow from the Range Rover to keep moving forwards. And so, the two cars crawled on up the mountain, helping each other to keep moving forward, the Mini's alternator charging the Range Rover, and the Range Rover dragging the Mini. Neither could have made it on their own, but through teamwork, they kept on slowly climbing upwards.
In this manner, we eventually made it past Hell Camp, and then past our previous high point. We made it through what's known to locals as the 'rocky way' - the roughest terrain yet - and arrived at our next camp, 5,250 metres up, which is known to mountaineers as Refugio Atacama.
And that's where we spent Christmas day, working on the cars, and scoping out the next stage of the climb. Which I'll post up soon...
hairy v said:
Amazing Ben! Was there much other traffic around?
Oh yeah, it was total gridlock up there... More seriously, there were a few Japanese 4x4s coming and going - the route we took is the standard route used by mountaineering expeditions climbing the mountain, and as the mountain is the highest volcano in the world, and the second highest mountain in the Americas, it gets a number of goretex-clad groups heading up each year, usually climbing much of the way in what passes for a 'ship of the desert' in these parts - a Mitsubishi L200 or Toyota Hilux, generally in red, with yellow high-vis stripes. Though, we did encounter one PH-worthy vehicle high on the mountain, again driven by a guide, helping his Austrian client get closer to the summit, via the medium of four wheel drive:
Suffice to say, all were somewhat surprised at the sight of a 49 year old Mini scrampering its way up the mountain...
Penfolds said:
Absolutely loving this! Can't wait for the next update.
Thanks 
ChocolateFrog said:
Brilliant. Was following along on Facebook.
I've been 6500m up in the Andes. Hard to decide if you're in Heaven or Hell most of the time.
Indeed, it's such a strange environment, with its combination of beauty and discomfort. There's a Grand Tour special - I think it's the mongolia one - where Clarkson describes the place they're in as a 'beautiful bI've been 6500m up in the Andes. Hard to decide if you're in Heaven or Hell most of the time.
d of a country'. I can't think of a better way to describe the high Atacama than that - except it's not a country, obviously.
After spending Christmas day working on the cars at 5,200 metres, it was another few days before we drove them any further up the mountain. On Boxing Day, we hiked up the route to an altitude of just under 6,000 metres, scoping out the conditions and trying to get a realistic feel for just how high we could get the Mini. The general feeling was that it was going to be tough - really tough - but an altitude of well over 6,000 metres was possible, if everything went well, and the Mini kept working. On boxing day afternoon, we were descending back down to our camp in high spirits.
But it was all very well convincing ourselves we could get the Mini most of the way up the mountain, but doing so ignored the fact that the Range Rover wasn't exactly in a fit state to help, what with it having no working alternator. So, we got psyched for some backcountry spannering, fired up the AC:DC, and got to work on a solution. And that solution was sat behind the seats of the Mini - namely the spare alternator for the Mini's A-series engine. It took a good few hours, but eventually we managed to bodge the Mini alternator onto the Range Rover's V8, and change out the connectors so it could connect to the wiring loom. The result was a healthy 14 volts on the multimeter when we fired it up. Success, in other words.
Even if it did manage to burn out some of the wiring done by the previous owner, filling the cabin with smoke, the first time it was driven any distance. Evidently the shiny new Mini alternator was putting out rather more current than the tired old one was, before it expired.
After these days spent at the 5,200 metre camp, acclimatising and preparing the cars, it was time to carry on upwards, our goal being to set up the next camp at around 5,800 metres. This uphill drive, climbing 600 metres in around 4 miles, promised a step-change in difficulty, but then that's rather why we were there - for the challenge...
Getting the Mini from our camp 5,250 metres up the mountain, to the next camp above 5,800 metres, ended up taking two days. Much of this was down to the initial slope leading directly up the mountain from where we'd been camped for the previous days. Loose and sandy, the track which led up the slope had been badly churned up by 4x4s carrying groups of climbers as high up the mountain as possible, before they continued on foot to the summit. in places, the ruts were sufficiently deep that the Mini found itself beached, unable to gain any traction at all. Expecting the little 2wd car to make much in the way of progress was futile - it would need all the help it could get.
This meant that to climb the slope, we were entirely dependent on the Range Rover, which we used to tow the little car as much as possible, and when the surface was so loose that even the mighty Range Rover couldn't carry on with the Mini tied to it, we'd break out the Mini's winch, using the Range Rover as an anchor point. In this manner, we were able to keep making slow progress upwards. So slow that by the end of our first afternoon on the slope, the Mini was still just about in sight of camp. We chocked its wheels and descended in the Range Rover, before packing our tents into its boot and returning the following morning to continue the struggle.
The next morning we pressed on, and our task eased a little, with the angle of the track generally relenting - though, it still had its moments. This meant that the Mini was able to make its own way up the mountain for much of the time, though whenever things got particularly steep or sandy, the Range Rover would have to lend it a hand.
It took the whole of the second day to cover the four miles up to our final camp, at 5,840 metres, and the Mini took a bit of a battering in the process, being dragged over plenty of rather chunky rocks, and up many a sandy slope, when it wasn't scampering its way along without assistance. But it did it, and on the 29th December, we found ourselves only about 1,000 metres below the summit crater of the world's highest volcano, setting up our high camp, and preparing for the final push to a highpoint.
Petrolhead Tom said:
What an epic journey!
Thanks 
After spending a day hiking up to check out the onward route from our camp at an altitude of 5,840 metres, it was time to see how much further we could go. This wasn't easy however, as both cars were suffering badly from the altitude. The Mini was extremely difficult to start from cold, and it generally took ten minutes of trying and fiddling with the carburettor to get it going. The Range Rover also had issues. It's fuel injection system, which had been great up to the previous camp at 5,250 metres, now couldn't cope with the thin air, and when attempting to start the mixture would somehow be too rich to burn. However, attempting to start with the fuel pump relay removed would generate a splutter, and by re-inserting the fuel pump relay at the right time, it could sometimes be coaxed to life. Not that it did us much good, as it was so cold that the dubious coolant we'd topped it up with had frozen overnight, fracturing a freeze plug and resulting in a major coolant leak when the engine was running, and a spectacular icicle when it wasn't:
It was the afternoon of New Year's Eve before we had the Mini ready to continue upwards. We stripped out all unnecessary weight, got it running, and then carried on up the mountain. At an elevation of 5,900 metres, we found ourselves on a gradually steepening, vague track, littered with boulders.
The only way the Mini could make forward progress was using its winch, and so we proceeded by putting slings around boulders and dragging the little car upwards. Each time we had to reset the anchor points, we'd turn off the engine, drag the winch cables and slings further up the mountain and, once the next solid anchor point was made, we'd fire up the motor and winch another 15 metres. This approach worked fine for the first six winches on gradually steepening terrain, but when we set up the seventh anchor point and went to move the little car, the motor wouldn't start. Whatever we did, it simply wouldn't run - we're still not 100% sure of the reason for this, but we suspect that the angle of the slope meant the float in the carburettor's fuel chamber may have been sticking, which caused fuelling problems. Whatever it was, the Mini was dead, sat amid the boulders on a 20 degree slope, at an altitude of 5,920 metres. Despite plenty of cranking and fiddling with the carburettor, it simply wouldn't run, and soon the battery was run down too, making even winching impossible.
We decided the only course of action was to roll the little car back down the slope to safe, flat ground. But even this was frought with difficulty. The car had little directional control and was very much at the mercy of the boulders, which scraped its underside and jammed against the exhaust. Eventually, we were forced to use the Range Rover's winch and some long strops to drag it over the boulders, but luckily no real damage was done.
As darkness came on the last day of 2023, we left the dead Mini at a height of around 5,900 metres. According to the Guinness Book of Records, this is around 100 metres higher than any road on the planet, and we're very confident that it meant that as 2024 began, the highest car in the world was the little Mini I'd rebuilt as a Covid project over the previous few years.
The breakdown may have been a frustrating failure, but being the highest car on the planet as the year began provided some conciliation.
However, we still had to get both cars back down the volcano. And at that moment, the two highest cars on the planet were both broken down...
Hoofy said:
Damn! That's disappointing to read.
Are you bringing the Mini to the Mini Day at Brooklands (and the PH Brooklands meet)?
Hi, the Mini will need some work once it's back in the UK, so I don't expect it'll be ready for Brooklands Mini day in March. However, I will certainly be getting it out and about to some shows over the summer - not sure exactly which ones yet, though.Are you bringing the Mini to the Mini Day at Brooklands (and the PH Brooklands meet)?
Pub2Pub_Ben said:
Hoofy said:
Damn! That's disappointing to read.
Are you bringing the Mini to the Mini Day at Brooklands (and the PH Brooklands meet)?
Hi, the Mini will need some work once it's back in the UK, so I don't expect it'll be ready for Brooklands Mini day in March. However, I will certainly be getting it out and about to some shows over the summer - not sure exactly which ones yet, though.Are you bringing the Mini to the Mini Day at Brooklands (and the PH Brooklands meet)?
Do keep us posted.
The coolant leak from the Range Rover was a real worry, as there was no way we could keep topping it up sufficiently to keep things working long enough to get off the mountain. And, as it was coming from a freeze plug, there was no easy way to seal it - we weren't carrying any spares. However, after much head-scratching and a few hours work, however, we managed a bodge which enabled us to begin our journey down the mountain. By cutting down a piece of rubber from our bodging kit, we fashioned a circular plug which slotted into the hollow inside the freeze plug. This was sealed in using silicone sealant, and then a piece of wood was jammed between it and the engine mounting, to hold it firmly in place. It still leaked a bit when cold, but once the motor warmed up, it seemed to seal better and enable us to start the 150 mile journey back to civilisation.
But there were two things we needed to do first. One was to get the Mini going again, and this took several hours of fiddling before we got lucky and coaxed it back into life. And the second was to have a beer.
Allow me to explain.
While planning the trip, we'd teamed up with a pair of breweries - one in Plymouth, the other in Tucson, Arizona - to attempt to set a world record for pulling the world's highest pint. A beer called 'Mini6000' was specially brewed, and as well as going on sale in the respective taphouses, we took some up the mountain with us. This was poured from the bar tap on the Mini's roof rack at an altitude of around 5,900 metres, and went down rather well in the thin air.
A few hours later, after some further tinkering with the cars, as well as packing up our camp, the effects of the beer had wore off, and we finally set off down the mountain.
But there were two things we needed to do first. One was to get the Mini going again, and this took several hours of fiddling before we got lucky and coaxed it back into life. And the second was to have a beer.
Allow me to explain.
While planning the trip, we'd teamed up with a pair of breweries - one in Plymouth, the other in Tucson, Arizona - to attempt to set a world record for pulling the world's highest pint. A beer called 'Mini6000' was specially brewed, and as well as going on sale in the respective taphouses, we took some up the mountain with us. This was poured from the bar tap on the Mini's roof rack at an altitude of around 5,900 metres, and went down rather well in the thin air.
A few hours later, after some further tinkering with the cars, as well as packing up our camp, the effects of the beer had wore off, and we finally set off down the mountain.
Just as well the beer hadn't frozen!Descending the mountain in the Mini was far easier than climbing it. With gravity on its side, traction wasn't the issue on the way up, and in a few hours we'd rolled on back down to our previous camp spot at Refugio Atacama, 5,250 metres above sea level. In contrast to the way up, this time there were only a few occasions when the Mini needed assistance from the Range Rover, due to soft sand so deep that it became beached in the tyre tracks. Meanwhile, the bodged cooling system on the Range Rover continued to hold, and its bodged-on Mini alternator kept doing the job, so on it went.
After one last night under canvas at Refugio Atacama, we carried on down, taking all of the day to get down off the mountain, and cover the 150 miles of mixed gravel and tarmac, back to the town of Copiapo. But not before taking one last look back at the mountain.
The journey back down wasn't entirely without incident. The Mini split its top radiator hose, which needed swapping out, while the Range Rover boiled its cooling system for the first time in a while. But the cars made it, and soon we were rolling into a world of buildings, traffic lights, shops and restaurants, for the first time in almost a month.
And showers. Showers were most needed by the whole team.
So, with our time on the mountain over, it was time to think about getting the cars back to Montevideo, to be shipped home. We had just under a month to do this, and so we embarked on a 2,500 mile road trip down through Chile and Argentina to San Carlos de Bariloche, in northern Patagonia, before heading up to Buenos Aires, and then on to Montevideo. This turned out to be a rather fun trip, taking in the Chilean Lake District, the Ruta de los 7 Lagos in Argentina, another dull drive across Argentina's central grasslands and the cool café culture of Buenos Aires, before returning to Uruguay, from where the cars were shipped home. And a month ago, we flew home too, to carry on our automotive shenanigans back in the UK.
In their two months in South America, our unlikely vehicles had covered 4,000 miles, and climbed to over 5,900 metres on the flanks of the world's highest volcano. We'd made the Mini the highest car on the planet as 2024 began, pulled the world's highest pint on New Year's day, and somehow managed to bodge the cars sufficiently to complete the trip. As a memorable way to escape the northern European winter go, it was definitely a success. Now, we're left with only one question - what to do next winter?
After one last night under canvas at Refugio Atacama, we carried on down, taking all of the day to get down off the mountain, and cover the 150 miles of mixed gravel and tarmac, back to the town of Copiapo. But not before taking one last look back at the mountain.
The journey back down wasn't entirely without incident. The Mini split its top radiator hose, which needed swapping out, while the Range Rover boiled its cooling system for the first time in a while. But the cars made it, and soon we were rolling into a world of buildings, traffic lights, shops and restaurants, for the first time in almost a month.
And showers. Showers were most needed by the whole team.
So, with our time on the mountain over, it was time to think about getting the cars back to Montevideo, to be shipped home. We had just under a month to do this, and so we embarked on a 2,500 mile road trip down through Chile and Argentina to San Carlos de Bariloche, in northern Patagonia, before heading up to Buenos Aires, and then on to Montevideo. This turned out to be a rather fun trip, taking in the Chilean Lake District, the Ruta de los 7 Lagos in Argentina, another dull drive across Argentina's central grasslands and the cool café culture of Buenos Aires, before returning to Uruguay, from where the cars were shipped home. And a month ago, we flew home too, to carry on our automotive shenanigans back in the UK.
In their two months in South America, our unlikely vehicles had covered 4,000 miles, and climbed to over 5,900 metres on the flanks of the world's highest volcano. We'd made the Mini the highest car on the planet as 2024 began, pulled the world's highest pint on New Year's day, and somehow managed to bodge the cars sufficiently to complete the trip. As a memorable way to escape the northern European winter go, it was definitely a success. Now, we're left with only one question - what to do next winter?
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