Trekking the Andes

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Hola amigos y familia,
I know it has been a long time, but I promise that it has been for good reasons. I suppose the last time I did an entry was in Huanchaca, near Trajillo, so I will start from there.

Joe, Angie, and I left Trajillo on an eight hour (which with some delays turned into longer...) journey to Huaraz, the hiking capital of Peru. The bus ride was spectacular. The road wound around - and sometimes through - Andean peaks towering about 5,000 meters above sea level, flanking the bus by only meters and risinging startingly fast off into the sky. The floor of the valley was a brownish gray dirt and the mountains were an impòsing granite black. The thought occured to me loud and clear: I ain't in Jersey no more (that is the expression, right?). Arriving in Huaraz it was apparent to me just how fragile civilization is and how, at a whim, the earth could shake us off like fleas.

Huaraz is spectacular. Although itself surrounded by the Andes, its greatest offering is the nearby national park which houses some of South America's greatest hiking opportunities. The reason for the lack of blog entries is that I have been busy taking a couple of these opportunities, the best hike lasting four awe-inspiring days.

The first hike I did here lasted only one day, albeit a long one. Leaving with a French friend, Jean Baptiste (yes, that is his real name) at 6 am (after staying out drinking until 2:30...) we boarded the ´bus´for the path leading up to our final destination, a laguna sitting at a staggering 4,750 meters. We started at 3,300. Like I said, it was a long day. The hike up was amazing, with the sights hinting at the majestic andes lying in the Cordillera Blanca (white corridor, basically) beginning just kilometers away. The laguna was a greenish blue that I have never seen before, made even more mysterious by the snow capped mountain nestled happily on its northern side. It was funny to arrive, almost exhausted but with an aura of accomplishment, to a laguna at 4,700 meters (hard to believe that only 4 hours away you can be at sea level...) and to have a dog lazily trot by like it was nothing. It took us four and a half hours to climb and 2 and a half to return. The weather could not have accomidated us more, keeping the dangerous sun shielded by puffy white clouds that were a sight in themselves, at times. This hike gave a taste of what was in store for my second hike, a four day tour of the outskirts of the Cordillera.

Santa Cruz, the most popular multi-day hike out of Huaraz, was an absolute mind blower. This time I was hiking with Joe, Angie, and a new friend Ohad (an israelli 20-something just out of the mandatory army service), each of us carrying backpacks, the boys' weighing around 35 lbs each (we decided to spread weight because some people, and us as a group, brought too much stuff...). The first day was a very hard uphill, revealing both how acclimatized each of us was and how in shape we were. Arriving at the first campsite six hours into the hike, we were all thrilled at both the fact we could then rest and by the amazing scenery that was now emerging. For the entire day we were climbing, rising from 3,100 meters to 3,750 meters. It was here, at the new elevation, that the valley showed its stuff. While setting up the tents we watched as storm clouds poured down the valley and made us sure to understand that the Andes were in charge. The clouds came with such speed that the nearby river's soundtrack seemed to be coming from the clouds, like a cloud tsunami rushing towards us. It began to rain. Hard. And continued to rain hard all night. We were entering the lair of the Andes, and they weren't too happy about it.

The second day started on a bad note when Joe decided that, because his tent was leaking badly, he would return to Huaraz and the remaining three would continue without him in my two-man tent. Disappointed but determined, we got a late start (10 am) and made for the valley. The feeling was eerie. At first the numerous - and I mean dozens - of waterfalls skattered throughout the 300 meter tall walls of the valley gave the impression of an enormous archaic dam holding back an ocean, with the odd ho-hum leak now and then. But as the walls of the valley turned to a pitch black, sleek but jagged, dark and imposing sort, the feeling changed. When catching a glimpse of the mountains encaged withing the valley's walls, a chill shrunk me to an inch. I was surrounded by an intricate jail struggling to keep the ominous, frighteningly tall and cloud infested, mountains at bay, with the waterfalls instead now just a needed part of the cage. The valley was warm and animal filled, but just beyond the comparatively small peaks lining the valley slept and schemed the most awesome mountains on earth. "Welcome to the Andes", it said, "your time is coming..."

That day was cut short because of us being seperated for a couple hours. We decided to camp at a measly 3,800 meters after only about 3 hours of tracks laid. We all knew, though, that tomorrow we had to climb a full kilometer higher and then back down again to 3,700 meters over the course of one day. What we didn't count on was the unyielding rain that would put a twist on the day. Starting at 7 am, we unconfidently head out in the pouring rain for what would work out to an eight hour day with very few breaks (not even for lunch!). Beginning our ascent immedietely, we were worn down by rain and a long, perpetual climb to the base of the mountain. However, the views at first weren't really hindered by the rain, even somewhat to the contrary. The clouds made the scene more mysterious, allowing you to see an entire mountain but never all at once, a kind of alluring feeling that you get around a teasing stripper: "More damn it, more"... to which the mountain would always reply "ah ah ah, patience... paaatience". The climb up also gave us a chance at a bird's eye view on the valley we had trekked the previous two days which was really amazing. Wildlife was everywhere, I should add, with wild donkeys, horses, cows, and birds abound. You really were given the impression that you were remote. Mostly because you were.

Maybe three hours into the trip we arrived at the base of the 4,700 meter beast whose back we were going to delecately tip-toe accross. With the tip disappearing off into the clouds and a lovely blue green laguna resting to our left, we wound up the trail with each breath taking in less and less oxygen. Angie felt it the most with Ohad not far behind, but luckily for me the altitude wasn't too noticable, with some notable exceptions. Once we hit snow the path had become nothing but a shallow river which, much to our shigrin, made all three of our pairs of boots soaking wet just in time to hit the very cold peak. Because I found that walking slower than my preferred clip was bothersome, I ventured off alone twice, pausing in between to change socks and to wait up for the others. It was here, alone about 100 meters from the peak, that it really hit me that I was hiking through some of the world's most incredible mountain ranges. The view only cemented that feeling, with our travelled valley stretching off ahead, the emerald colored laguna to my right, and snow covered beaks composing the horizon behind me.

After regrouping and resting for a while, we (with me quickly seperating from the others) made for the silhoutte peak just above. Here breathing is like flexing a muscle (two, I guess) and really tests will power. Every step has to be willed seperately from all others, unlike walking to the store, which is quite an exhilirating feeling.

Once crossing the peak (not the highest but the hardest I have climbed) we were presented with another valley with impressive mountains stretching off into the distance (many snow capped) and lagunas nestled here and there along the trail. For about 2 and a half hours more we descended into the valley and followed it down towards the horizon. I counted, at a standstill, 14 waterfalls at one point. Simply mind blowing.

I arrived at the campground about 45 minutes before the others, allowing me to soak in the peeks I could get at the snow covered mountains on either side of the valley through the clouds. The campsite was covered with horses and cows eating the grass and soaking in the newly uncovered, but badly timed, sunshine. That night I, alone, watched the stars come out and the clouds clear from the mountains to give an outline of the peaks stretching off into the distance. Dodging cows and horses I returned to the tent for an early night, being awakened only by cows sticking their nose inside the tent (the vestibule) to steal our morning's breakfast. It was funny but disappointing... I wanted that cereal, damn it!

The last day was sunny and comparatively dry, although the steap climb finishing off the day wasn't appreciated by any of us, even with the great view of the valley. The bus ride back to Yungay, the stop over on the way back to Huaraz, was breathtaking. Climbing another peak to 4,700 meters we managed to stare, open mouthed, at the highest peak in Peru (completely glaciated and very intimidating) while winding down the side of the mountain on a very narrow road, which, I might add, had numerous crosses lining its side, one for each person who has died on the very same stretch. Gulp.

The sights were fantastic and the company pleasant although at time silent while the bus's occupants were speachless. The second bus ride was unpleasant at best, with me stuck in the front seats straddling the gear shift in a child's seat for two hours. It was worth it, though.

That brings me to today, where I am surprisingly full of energy and in two belt sizes smaller. Laundry is in getting done and the necessary ointments are applied (got a fungus on my foot, yuck). Again, it was worth it.

Plan now is to do a five day bus loop around more Andean peaks and then either to do Huywash, the most spectacular hike in peru, for two weeks or to leave it to the dry season some months down the road. For now, though, all thoughts are centered squarely on the last few days. There is lots to digest.

Ciao for now,
-N

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