Peru Times Two

Peru Times Two

 

Prior to arriving in Lima, I had read and listened to many assumptions and preconceived notions about the culture of Peru. I was warned about poverty, illiteracy, unlawfulness, and the economic desperation of the underclass. I was warned to buy locks for the zippers on my suitcase; to always be vigilant of criminals lurking around each corner; to mistrust those who offer services unsolicited; and to always concern myself with the purity of food and water. It sounded like the same bullshit that is directed towards poor, brown skinned people everywhere.

Peru is no more dangerous, unhealthy, or dishonest than any other place that I have been. When I cleared customs, I was approached by man in a pressed, white shirt, wearing a necktie and an ID on a lanyard around his neck. He offered me taxi service to my hotel in Miraflores. In spite of myself, the first inclination was to be mistrustful. Is this man going to take my belongings, beat me to pulp and leave me in an abandoned lot somewhere in a dangerous neighborhood on the outskirts of the city? It turned out that the cabdriver was super friendly, and helpful. Most Peruvians I met subsequently were the same way. He struck up a conversation in Spanish and spoke very little English. It is true that most Peruvians do not speak English well. My cab driver was more than willing to use whatever Spanish words I could spit out and run with them. He asked about my family. I knew this only because he used the word familia. From that I told him that I had a wife and three children that my oldest child was a daughter 26, next down was a son 23, and the youngest (also a son) was 20. He told me about his family. I was elated to make it this far in a conversation.

We drove along the Pacific shoreline and then ascended switchbacks up steep, tawny cliffs that took us into a web of city streets. In an instant, we were there at my hotel. I paid the fare, along with a little tip para su familia. The polish and elegance of the hotel was an unexpected surprise. The hotel staff all spoke some of the best English that I would hear from Peruvians during the entire journey. I needed help. Paying for my airline ticket to the city of Huaraz was a process so complex that I needed to pass my Apple iPad over to the desk clerk who tenaciously took on the challenge of navigating through the many commands in Spanish. Like most Peruvians I encountered, he was more than willing to give my concerns 100% of his attentions. This may be a cultural norm, or it may simply be a way to ply the wealthy turistas.

I was given the preconception that Lima would have a bandito at every corner. What I found was elegance and livability, at least in the Mirafores section of the city where I stayed. The most spectacular feature of this part of town is the towering cliffs that overlook a vast expense of the Pacific. Along the Cliffs is a walkway several miles in length.  On this walkway are well-dressed runners, bicyclists, lovers, strollers, skaters, and people in suits talking on mobiles. There was sculpture and statuary everywhere as well as many places with beautiful overlooks and benches where one can sniff the sea air and contemplate the deeper meaning of life.

I scheduled two days in Lima so that I might carefully organize my trip to Huaraz. I never expected to like the city. The preconception was that it was foggy and damp in the summer, much like San Francisco. Still, it was a place by the ocean alive with bustling humanity.

The tiny airplane to Huaraz was really nothing more than a narrow, elongated cavity. We had to walk several meters across the tarmac to ascend stairs into the fuselage and then ducked down, bent over like a hunchbacks, in order to get to our seats. The confinement of the space was the source of awkward comedy to most of the passengers who had just paid large amounts of money for the privilege of being squished into this sardine can. There was no loudspeaker and the captain simply stood up from his place at the controls and told us in rapid-fire Spanish that it would take roughly an hour for our flight and that the weather was favorable. The aircraft landed safely on the tiny airstrip was 20 miles north of Huaraz.

Right away we had a jaw dropping view of snowy Huscaran (the tallest mountain in Peru), I was paged to the desk to pick up a message from the trekking guides that I had hired. A free ride to town would be coming for me. The transportation turned out to be a lift provided by four airport employees on their way home from work at 5 PM. The office manager of the trekking company knew one of the airport employees. I must confess that my pre-conceived fears of crime and deception kicked in and I initially mistrusted these people. Shame on me. These sweet young folks were generous enough to drop me off at my hotel.

 Huaraz stood at an altitude of 10,000 feet and served as an excellent place to acclimatize. The hotel was called the Steel Guest House. It was touted in the guidebooks as a place with grandmotherly charm, and a grand view of the city with the towering Cordillera Blanca in the distance. The guidebooks were correct about the view but the guest house itself was a drafty place with dysfunctional showers and teenaged girls who spoke no English that the abuela of the place left in charge. I spent four days in that drafty old barn until I returned from shopping to find that the front door was locked and there was no one inside. I waited on the front steps, periodically ringing the bell with dashed hopes. I sat there with steam coming out my ears for an hour before I decided to move across the street to the Hotel Andino. This turned out to be a good move. The Andino was way more expensive, but it had large, warm, clean rooms with working showers, decent TV and wireless Internet. The complimentary breakfast at the Andino included fruit, muesli, eggs, yogurt, and fresh fruit juices. This was a big improvement over the Steel House which had 13-inch hospital sized TVs, and a breakfast that consisted of three pieces of bread, with instant coffee.

I had pre-booked an excursion with a trekking company called Mountain Explorers that I had discovered though Internet research and had only communicated with by e-mail. Once again, my suspicions were aroused by the looseness of our arrangement. I knew nothing for sure about this outfit. They had received good reviews by other Trekkers who had used them. I had sent them a $500 deposit via bank wire and put my trust in fate. Fate smiled upon me in the faces of Victor Sanchez (who sadly died in an avalanche a few years later) and Yessica Mercado who organized the trek masterfully from their office in Huaraz.

Dutifully, the people from Mountain Explorers picked me up in their sparkling new van where I met the other members of our expedition. They were:

Edith Millia - giude

Freal - cook

Tony - donkey driver

Preshwar - 27-year-old trekker from Australia

Janet - 50ish trekker from SF bay area

Dave - 60-year-old trekker from Utah.

 We were dropped at the national park entrance in Caraz and began our trek. We started at an altitude of 9500 feet and ended up at the 1st camp in Llamacorral (12500 feet). This was an altitude gain of around 900 meters or roughly 3000 ft. – a breathless task for any sea-level-dweller. I had already spent five days in Huaraz (10000 feet) acclimatizing. The challenge was felt most by the youngest person in the group. Preshwar had been through about 36 hours of aviation mishaps while attempting to fly from Melbourne, Australia to Lima. A volcanic ash cloud in the South Pacific had forced his plane to turn around and head west circling the globe. He held over for several hours in Rio de Janeiro, and the again in Brasilia. He finally landed in Lima and had to immediately board a bus and endured an eight-hour overnight bus ride to Huaraz. He began his trek with no acclimatization, and very little sleep. On the first day of the trek he suffered from vomiting, dehydration, and leg cramps. He was humiliated, being outpaced by a bunch of old people. Presh was a lovable lad, and we did whatever we could to help him along the way. He went to bed right after dinner and slept 12 hours straight.

The next day we continued our ascent from Llamacorral 3800m to Taullipampa 13779 feet (4200m).  Along the way we passed through a lovely valley with two aqua blue, glacier-fed lakes. At the head of the valley was the astounding Nevados Pucajirca range, capped with snow and flanked with massive glaciers.

The camp at Taullipampa was splendorous but uncomfortably cold by the time the sun went down. Each day when we arrived at camp: all tents were erected, and hot tea was ready. Dinner was served in a tent complete with chairs and table set with a red and white checkered tablecloth. It usually consisted of rice, potatoes, tomatoes, and onions, along with fish, eggs, or chicken. Hot drinks were served with dinner and a simple dessert pudding capped off the meals. Our cook Frael was an absolute ace. If I had done this trek on my own, I would have sustained myself with granola, Cliff Bars, and dehydrated food. The dinner tent conversation was always easy and friendly. By 7PM we were always cold and tired enough to retire in our warm sleeping bags and stay there until Tony brought hot tea to our tents before breakfast. I brought an IPad with me and listened to music while reading a Mario Puzo novel. By 8PM my eyes were closed. The nights rest was always interrupted by a few calls of nature. These were always an inconvenience and a sad concession to my middle-aged prostate.

On the third day of our trek, we made a slow, steep, lung-busting ascent to the pass at Punta Union. At 4750 meters or 15,583 feet this was a personal high for me (I have surpassed this by several thousand feet in the years since).

The pass was a flurry of human activity with a dozen or so Trekkers passing through to take in the views and snap photos. We could look west from the pass and behold the grandness of Alpamayo looking like the alpine royalty that it is. Everywhere there were the kinds of mountain views that most of us only see in pictures. Anyone who was there at Punta Union that day was a blessed soul.

The day was far from over: there was still a 3000 ft. descent and a 6-kilometer trek ahead of us. Just below the pass on the east side I ran into a boisterous Argentine who I had met hiking in Pitek, and in the dining room at the Hotel Andino. He proclaimed loudly to his group that I was el hombre que me salvó la vida (the man who saved his life). At the Hotel he told me he had suffered from altitude apnea and was unable to sleep. I hooked him up with a few Diamox pills and the problem was nipped in the bud. The man was gushing with appreciation. He thanked me repeatedly as the rest of my group waited on the side of the hill. We proceeded to execute the knee cracking descent from Punta Union to Tuctu where Freal greeted us with lunch. In the context of what usually passes for lunch on my hiking trips the setting was almost absurdly elegant: one of the most geographically spectacular places in the world. To sit there amidst the snow-capped Andes with the table fully set and a three-course lunch served was unlike anything I had experienced.

I was uncomfortable with the division of class, and privilege but the Peruvians were unfazed by it all. They liked to keep to themselves, when not directly serving us. Gringos bring a lot of money into the economy of these impoverished mountain communities. They are happy to play the part of gracious hosts if we are willing part with our piles of plata.

For the Peruvians, these mountain trails are a walk in the park. They grow up with the thin Andean air in their lungs and suffer few if any Ill-effects. They can literally run up and down the same trails that we turistas must pace ourselves slowly (despacio) over. They have fewer cars and walk more than we do. They engage in greater amounts of physical labor. When I was hiking to Laguna Shallup at the beginning of my time in Huaraz, I encountered an older woman of perhaps 70 years. She asked me where I was going, and I told her " Laguna Shallup" she took off in front of me shouting merrily over her shoulder “sígueme!" (Follow me). She left me in the dust and disappeared from sight within five minutes. She might still be laughing about this.

 

After about 10 hours in trekking, we finally made it to our final camp, which must've been about 10 km after Punta Union. We had a satisfying final dinner and the guide, cook, and donkey driver brought out some warm wine. They effusively thanked us for our patronage of Mountain Explorer's. It was a cute little bit of self-promotion. Proximo ano (next year) was what they kept saying. We went to our tents. This was a particularly warm campsite in comparison to others insofar as we're down around 12,000 feet.

The next and final day of our trip took us downhill and through a community of campesinos. They were waiting for us. There was a half dozen children who came up to us with their hands held out asking for food in shaky voices with crocodile tear-filled eyes. Once it became clear that we were the kinds of gringos who actually gave away food and candy, the children began to holler down the road to their friends. Within minutes their friends arrived and eagerly sought handouts from us as well. We had to tell them that we had no mas to give. This did not seem to surprise or even disappoint the children. They were accustomed to the game. Their parents found more respectable ways to get turista money. From one of these parents, una mujer hermosa, I purchased a woolen cap. The cap had been displayed with several hand- knitted items spread out on a blanket along the side of the trail. It seemed possible that the items were made from wool that was sheared from the flock of sheep that surrounded her. I would like to have spent more time getting to know the indigenous people of the mountains, but our guides seemed always anxious to keep us moving along.

On the other side of town, we met up with the van that would take my trekking partners back to Huaraz and drop me off with a new guide in Cashapampa where I would continue wonderings into the area of Nevado Pisco.

Pliejo, was the name of my guide for the Pisco part of the trek. He and I were dropped off but at the Cashapampa camp. Our porter Allejandro met us there. The camp was crowded with trekkers and had a store where you could buy cookies, Coca-Cola, and beer.

The style of trekking with my new people was simpler than with the Santa Cruz trekkers. There was only one small table made from a wooden box. I was the only client. There would be no tea delivered to my tent in the morning. Moreover, Pliejo and Allejando had a tendency bicker over methodology. The quarreled in a style that was reminiscent of Three Stooges. There would be a spirited conflict as to how one would execute a simple task such as erecting a tent. Pliejo sometimes spoke to his partner in very frank Spinach: the kind of Spanish that I wouldn't dare use. We proceeded past the base camp and into the moraine camp of Nevado Pisco. Neither Pliejo or Allejando spoke English. This made dinner table conversations quite awkward. I would have to use my creativity to construct humorous sentences in the Spanish. They seemed to enjoy any reference to sexual activity: either with young women or farm animals. The food they cooked was not as subtle or delicate as that served during the Santa Cruz trek. It was heavier and deeply soaked in cooking oil.

I don’t think Pliejo was a certified guide, but I never asked. He might have been the most available guide to Mountain Explorers at this busy point during the trekking season. Beyond a certain point, I found it difficult to understand the instructions of my guide. When we encountered the steep icy snowy upper reaches of the mountain, I felt unable to continue. I had no experience with ropes, crampons, ice axes, and other technical climbing equipment. It would have been a good time to learn more about these things, but the language barrier was insurmountable. On the morning that we were planning to climb the peak the weather was questionable. The night winds caused the tents to flutter and by 1 AM we had blizzard-like conditions. The air was cold, just above zero, and thick clouds engulfed the upper reaches of the mountain. For these reasons I decided to descend back to the base camp. This seemed like more of a disappointment for Pliejo and then it was for me. He felt as if it were his responsibility to get me to the top.

I, on the other hand, was happy to just be in and amongst some of the most beautiful mountains in the world. The hike from the high camp was arduous and it took more than five hours to return to base camp. When we got there, we had most of the afternoon to ourselves. Pliejo and Allejando saw this as an opportunity to socialize with the other guides who they seemed to know from other treks. I saw the afternoon as an opportunity to nap and walk around the beautiful surroundings while taking many photographs. It became a lazy, almost boring afternoon, but slowly and pleasantly the day passed. At one point I went up to a high lookout and greeted the late afternoon hikers returning from their summit bids. Every single one of them seemed exhausted to the limits of their capability.

With my belly full of warm soup, I retired to my tent where I watched video podcasts on my IPad. The Mountain air always makes me sleepy at night. At this altitude I felt nice and warm in my sleeping bag, and it was easy to doze off.

In the morning we had pancakes, packed up and descended to the lower camp where we would meet a driver that would take us once again to the city where showers, telephone, e-mail and food of a more civilized kind awaited us.

The front desk staff at the Hotel Andino warmly greeted me, dar una buena acogida Señor Carr. They had my room ready, and my bags delivered. I felt grateful to them and especially their hot showers. There is little in life that cannot be overcome with a good hot shower and a nap. I immediately phoned my wife so that she would not worry about me. It is always a pleasure to hear her voice.

Back to the city, I needed to get some first aid items. I forgot to bring a nail clipper. I also needed an Emory board to help with the corns on my feet. Neither of these items are easily translated into Spanish. There are no phrase books I know of that will aid the traveler in the purchase of items such as nail clippers or corn treatment products. With some creative pantomime I was able to get an amused pharmacy clerk to understand me. She enjoyed the game of charades and gleefully found each item after I had made the proper pantomime. I also needed to find a small pillow for increased comfort in the tent. The pantomime was harder for this. I later learned the words, almohada pequeña.

 Finding restaurants in the city was challenging. I was more comfortable in an establishment that catered to an international clientele. The only trouble with such places is that everybody looks like me. The loudness of certain tourists from North America and Europe is sometimes embarrassing to a fellow gringo. Americans can be direct and brash in a way that is not as charming as they might think. Europeans tend to come in large groups and speak their native tongue loudly. They all display a kind of arrogance that is difficult to ignore. On the other hand, when dining in a 100% Spanish establishment it is easy to feel like an idiot. It is more difficult to negotiate the menu in such a place. In the interest of fairness, I tried to patronize either kind of restaurant with equal frequency.

After recovering from trekking with a few good meals, a hot shower, and a good nights’ sleep it is easy to become bored and eager to hit the trail again.

Mountain Explorers had been an excellent trekking company and yet I wanted to consider other options. In downtown Huaraz there were perhaps 30 trekking companies with office fronts and eager salespeople waiting to sign you up for one of their many exciting experiences. It was difficult to determine from simply looking at these places which ones were the best. I had to choose, and it wasn't easy. I settled on a second-floor establishment called Pyramid Tours. The name sounded familiar, but I didn't really know why. I ascended the stairs to the office and was approached by a smooth salesman named Carlos who spoke excellent American English. He seemed elated that I had come from New York. Of course, he could organize any trek that I could imagine. I told him that I would like to climb Nevado Urus. He was delighted at my choice and knew just the right guide to help me with this climb. If I returned the next day with money and a list of my equipment, he would be happy to organize the excursion for a mere $400. This included guide, food, equipment, donkey, tents, and cook. I forked over the money in Nueva Soles.

It seemed, in retrospect, that Carlos had “miscalculated” the exchange rate between dollars and the local currency and managed to make an additional $100 on the exchange. This would turn out to be just one of many unfortunate problems with the Pyramid Tours. I had been in the city for two days and I felt a stupefying boredom. I was keen to get started and didn't want to consider whatever misgivings I had about Carlos.

The next morning, I waited patiently at 8 AM in front of the Hotel Andino for Carlos to arrive with a driver to take me to the trailhead. 15 and then 20 min. expired and all the time I felt as if I were being bamboozled. Again, the training I had received in how to mistrust a South Americans had kicked in. At roughly 8:30 Carlos arrived with a driver in an old and rusty Toyota taxi. We proceeded up a winding, rough, rugged, hemorrhoid-popping, dirt road with fallen rocks and hairpin turns. After enduring this road for 45 minutes, we discovered that we were lost. With a few consultations from the local Campesinos we were able to find our way to the proper trailhead where we met my guide Victor and his mother. Victor's mother, dressed in bright colors, and a tall fedora, would be our donkey driver. As soon as donkeys were packed, we proceeded quickly down the trail and into a canyon. Victor and his mother walked quickly to keep up with the donkeys. After a few kilometers of this pace, I felt the heat of the sun and Victor admonished me to go slowly. "Tranquillo " he said over and over. The word would become a mantra for the entire trip.

Tranquillo was the word that Victor used whenever he wanted me to slow down or to rest or to be careful. At the beginning of our walk, he let me follow close behind him. When that pace was too close behind his mother and the donkeys, Victor admonished me to slow down so that his mother would have adequate time to drive the donkeys to the refugio so that she could set up  camp. At around the 10 km mark Victor went on ahead of me. This gave him time to start dinner. I watched Victor’s figure diminish in the distance ahead, eventually disappearing completely at the other end of the canyon. The trail grew steeper, and the air became thinner from the altitude. By the time I reached the refugio I felt dog-tired. Victor and his mother had found many social distractions. They seemed to know everyone. Consequently, it was a long time before tents were erected or dinner was served. When the one tent was finally set up, I took a nap in it thinking that Victor would set up other tents around it. Not so. Carlos had neglected to include more than one tent. The tent that was in included only accommodated one person. This meant that there was only one tent for three people. If I did not rent a bunk in the actual refugio building, then I would have to share a one-person tent with Victor and his mother. This was an annoyance and an extra expense that none of us had anticipated. Therefore, I was compelled to spend two nights at $12 per night in the refugio. It was also a relief because the refugio was warmer and had beds with pillows as well as toilets and running water. Nevertheless, I was still burned with Carlos who had been careless and neglectful.

During dinner I asked Victor at what time we would eat breakfast and get started on our climb. To my astonishment, he told me that we would get going at 2 AM in the morning. I don’t like rising before the sun is well into the sky. It was an enormous sacrifice for me to have to get out of my warm refugio bed at such an early hour. I abided by Victor’s wishes and rose at 1:30 AM so as to be ready for our departure. Victor was stingy with breakfast: just coffee and bread. This was and another disappointment for me because I like to have plenty of gas in the tank. The temperature was ice cold and permeated my bones despite the fact that I was wearing two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks, plastic climbing boots, a down jacket, and two fleeces underneath: along with two pairs of gloves and a hat with a fleece headband. It took Victor 10 to 15 min. to find the actual beginning of the trail. It was treacherously steep and had no switchbacks. The surface of the trail was fine and slippery like beach sand. With the stiff awkward green plastic climbing boots that I was required to wear, it was difficult to get a grip on the surface. The soles were worn to baldness. Although Victor had encouraged me to go slowly, he always tore off ahead of me on the trail and left me feeling as if I wasn't fast enough. He seemed inpatient at times and was reluctant to allow me time to drink water or to take photographs. Time went quickly, and the sun rose beautifully behind the mountains to create a soft, white zinfandel light. It was spectacular to see the landscape around us. As the sun rose the temperature increased. The mountain became beautiful and by 9 AM we had reached the snow line.

We took pictures at about 17,000 feet. The difficulty of navigating the snow on the mountain turned out to be nothing compared to our descent down the steep and sandy trails below us. We had to go slowly and many times I slipped. I felt as if my boots were inadequate and dangerous. Victor became quite concerned about my safety and sometimes held my arm to brace me from the dangers of the slippery path. When we finally returned safely to the refugio, I turned my head toward the sky and enchanted my thanks to God. I felt grateful to have lived through the descent and I took off the green boots immediately. I implored Victor to throw them in the river. I was exhausted after 12 hours of climbing and waking up at 1:30 AM. It didn't take me long to climb back into the sleeping bag in my warm bunk at the refugio. The rest was welcome. I awoke feeling a wonderful sense of peace and stillness. I looked out the window to see Victor still sleeping in the open tent. It was a climbing adventure that I would always remember. Victor cooked some delicious pancakes at the end of the day. After dinner I invited him into the refugio so that he could see some of the photographs I have taken from our trip. All though he assured me he would be in as soon as he cleaned up, he never showed. The refugio was a place for foreigners to socialize and a place for the local residents to work. To invite a local resident to socialize was not the kind of thing that happened. I never said a thing to Victor about it.

The next morning was pleasant. I slept late and so did Victor and his mother. I had some coffee and pound cake in the refugio dining room and didn't require much more for breakfast. Victor still managed to serve me some cereal with fresh warm milk from the cows who were raised in nearby pastures. The walk back to the road was pleasant and easy in so far as it was all downhill and the lowlands were rich with oxygen. When we arrived at the road the taxi was waiting to take us down once again to the city. Victor came along for the free ride. He changed into city clothes with a fresh white shirt and some polished loafers. During the trip back I was fuming inside about Carlos and the haphazard organization of the trip. I had thought I might give him a piece of my mind. It didn't seem worth the effort, and I was happy to simply be let off once again at the Hotel Andino. Where they warmly greeted once again, dar una buena acogida Señor Carr.

 Whatever it was that may have bothered me about the trip was washed away by a long shower and nap. I spent my last night in Huaraz dining at the Cafe Des las Andes and feeling annoyed by all the western trekking groups that partied in large numbers there. I was no different from them, but I still felt bothered by their spotless, high end trekking attire, and their hegemonic arrogance.

Cordillera Huayhuash

 

 

Stage overview

 

1.     Day 1: Huaraz/Cuartelhuain

2.     Day 2: Cuartelhuain/Loma Ollocuyoc

3.     Day 2: Loma Ollocuyoc/Laguna Carhuacocha

4.     Day 4: Laguna Carhuacocha/Cordillera Huayhuash

5.     Day 5: Cordillera Huayhuash/Huanacpatay

6.     Day 6: Huanacpatay/Huantiac

7.     Day 7: Huantiac/Laguna Jahuacocha

8.     Day 8: Laguna Jahuacocha/Chiquian

9.     Day 9: Chiquian/Lima

10.  Day 10: Lima

 

During the intervening years I had read Touching the Void by Joe Simpson, a harrowing tale about high altitude climbing, injury, survival, and pure grit. Simpson had survived a fall of more than 200 feet into a crevasse where he landed on a small ledge. Regaining consciousness, he discovered his climbing partner was now missing and had possibly survived but left Simpson for dead. The cavalry wasn’t coming, and he had to save himself. He found it impossible to climb up the wall of the crevasse, due to overhanging ice and a broken leg. He went down to the very bottom of the crevasse and miraculously found another way out. Simpson found a snow bridge which he crossed to get on to a steep slope which he climbed down to get back onto a glacier where he crawled for several kilometers, fighting off unbearable pain, before reaching basecamp where his climbing party was just packing up to leave.

The adventure had taken place in the Cordillera Huayhuash, a remote mountain range in the Andes. It lies south of the Cordillera Blanca and some 360 km northeast of Lima. This place is rough, rugged, and not for the faint of heart. Most trekkers visiting the area favor either the Inca Trail or the (previously described) Cordillera Blanca. The Huayhuash had been the domain of the Sendero Luminoso (or Shining Path) in the 1980s. Sendero Luminoso is a terrorist organization in Peru, rooted in a combination of Andean mysticism, Maoism, and the world view of its leader and organizer, Abimael Guzman. During the 1980s trekkers in this area were either shaken down for cash or kidnapped for ransom. Most people don’t want to spend their vacation like that. The Sendero Luminoso were long gone by the time I got there in 2013 but the place was still barely visited by turistas.

 

I began this journey with the first night in Lima, the second night in Huaraz and next three nights at the Lazy Dog Inn (12,000 feet). The Lazy Dog is about 30 miles northeast of Huaraz. It was and still is owned and operated by Wayne and Diana, an adventurous couple from Calgary. They put a lot of sweat equity into creating the place. Their dedication to sustainability and community involvement was awe inspiring. After they got the Inn up and running, they built a school for the local indigenous community. The Quechuan people in the in the Peruvian Andes live in insular, rural communities and are not afforded the same educational opportunities that larger Spanish speaking communities have. As a result, many Quechuas grow up never learning to speak Spanish which puts them at a huge disadvantage when seeking gainful employment.

I hiked for hours each day in the hills surrounding the Inn. This helped to quell the fears the Diana expressed concerning a man my age trekking through the Huayhuash. She was impressed by my violin playing and she set me up on a pathway where the local walked by with their animals every day, and then arranged for me to give a little concert at the school.

 

After three restful days at The Lazy Dog, I was whisked away by a G-Adventures van. Riding along with me were:

Roger - (pronounced Roe-Hair) guide

Speedy- (I can’t remember her real name) G Adventures Chief Experience Officer.

Anders – Trekker from Norway

Heidi – Trekker from Norway, geologist, and life partner of Anders

Radio Raul – cook

Guillermo - borriquero (donkey driver)

We spent the first night in a very cold hotel in the tiny hamlet of Quartelhuain. When we arrived at around 4 PM there was a group of eight middle-aged librarians for the Netherlands lounging in the garden. We tried to say hello, but they never seemed to look our way. We were about to embark on a 10-day trek, and this was our last shower opportunity for the remainder of the trek. The water temperature never rose above that of a glacial lake, and I couldn’t bring myself to expose anything more than my index finger. I wrapped myself up in four blankets and still I was so cold that I slept with the restlessness of a viscacha.

On the first day we had to climb from Quartelhuain 4200m to Cacananpunta Pass 4700 a high altitude climb of over 1600ft on the first day when we were least acclimatized. This would be easy for any person at a low altitude but a lung-buster at 13000-14000 feet. Anders was nauseous with the headache from hell and Heidi was breathless and dizzy to the point where she had to rest for 20 minutes. I had the advantage of 4 days of acclimatization in Huaraz and then at The Lazy Dog. Even though they were both about 25 years younger than me, they had jumped right into the fray without a single days’ worth of acclimatization.

We got into camp at about 4 PM and Anders went straight into the tent he shared with Heidi clutching his aching head. After about 15 minutes he kicked Heidi out. She exclaimed “Oh it’s solo tents now, is it? You’re a pussy Anders!!”

The octet of Librarians from the Netherlands was camped next to us, but they never showed any signs of mountaineering comradery. The cold shoulder from the librarians would be an ongoing joke for the rest of the trek.

We were now above 4000 meters and would remain there for the next week, topping out at Trapecio Punta 5020m on day eight. Anders and Heidi bounced back on day two and tried to pressure our guide to lead us at a faster pace. They even tried tailgating, but Roger wasn’t having it and maintained a despasio pace throughout the trek. The peaks, valleys, and lakes were all overwhelmingly grand and resplendent. Each day we would climb up to a pass (Carhuacocha, Siula, Trapecio Punta, Yaucha, Shullca) and then descend into a verdant alpine valley to spend the night. The view from Punta Suila provides one of the most spectacular views on earth.

 

Trapecio pass provided the greatest challenge due to the high altitude and the arduous 9-hour long day. It rained for most of the accent. The Dutch librarians marched up the pass slowly, single file, carrying cute little umbrellas. We got no view at the top because there was a blizzard raging and the descent was death defying on the icy path.

The librarians were getting more and more worn down each day. On the fourth day we rounded a corner to find one of the women vigorously beating on the lower back of what may have been her husband. Each blow landed with a loud thud. Later we couldn’t help but wonder if he had a bad back or was this just a regular part of their relationship? On day 6 one of the women was feeling energetic and went bounding up Yaucha pass. She was completely shattered by the time she got to the top and rode on a horse with a blank look on her face for the remainder of the trip.

On the 7th day we camped at a glorious alpine meadow on the shores of Laguna Jahuacocha 

On the 8th day we hiked to the road in Pocpa where we met up with the van driver who took us on a sphincter clenching road with death defying switchbacks and potholes from hell. We ended up at charming hotel in the village of Chiquain where we showered and enjoyed a night of sumptuous food and blessed bed rest.

The most reliable test of the personal connections made during the trek takes place on the last night when everyone returns to the city. If people didn’t like each other, they would go out in separate groups. But if they if they made that special bond that trekkers do then they go out and party. I’m happy to report that this was a party group.  We doused ourselves with Pisco sours and laughed the night away.