Witnessing a Storm in the Andes — Cordillera Huayhuash, One of Top 10 Hikes in the World (Day I)
Day 1 of the exhilarating and spectacular 8-day long high altitude trek through Cordillera Huayhuash, Peru, voted among the 10 most beautiful treks in the world
One always leaves for long treks at the break of the day. As the darkness of Huaraz streets bids me farewell at 5 a.m., I snugly nestle myself in my seat, next to a Brazilian hiker wearing a red hat and sunglasses, quietly breathing next to me. Cuartelwain, a camping ground which is the starting point for the 8-day Huaraz circuit trek, is about 5 hours away and as our van trudges along the road, the sun rises up like a tide to uncover vast expanses of grasslands and some ice peaks in the far distance.
Cordillera Huayhuash is a 30-kilometre long mountain range to the south of Huaraz, stretching along the Andean Continental Divide, a huge barrier between the Pacific coast of Peru and Amazonean forests to the east. Depending on the route, the trek is between 110 and 170 kms long and is characterised by constant high altitudes, ranging between 3,300 and 5,300 metres above the sea, and boasting some of the highest passes in the Andes, all exceeding 4,000 metres.
As a herd of mules doggedly walks in front of our van, I carefully inspect the landscape for the remnants of some ancient civilisation. At this point, there are none. These are the lands of shepherds, frosty mountains and perilous passes.
The day that uncovers in front of our eyes is beautiful: crystal clear skies with brilliantly white cumulus clouds, crisp air and fascinating vistas.
We reach Cuartelwain around 10.30 a.m. and start unpacking our bags.
They will be put on the mules who will accompany us on our journey as we carry only 35-litre backpacks with the basic gear, rain protection and inevitable trekking poles which will prove vital on this trail. The area stands at 4,170 metres and offers views of the high valleys and parallel mountain ranges.
As we begin our trek, I walk slowly, mesmerised by the views and wanting to savour every moment for a little longer. I am excited and clear-headed, as I have gotten used to high altitudes by now.
The trail meanders, taking us ever so higher, until we reach the Qaqanan pass standing at 4,750m.
We are accompanied by two cooks who carry heavy loads of provisions on their back and flirt with me in the traditional and polite Latin American way, offering me a Canonazo, a chocolate bar filled with chocolate cream that melts in my mouth, adding to the exhilarating sensation of pleasure and freedom, as mild winds sweep over the pass.
The descent to the grassy plateau beneath the pass is mild and without challenges as the weather is sunny and the terrain is dry. We stop for a while to rest and eat warm food prepared by the cooks, as it is past noon. I look around for the best WC spot only to find a heap of stones, the final resting place of a Polish alpinist, Radoslaw Koszinsky, who fell to his death from the pass we have just walked over, and I am reminded that these mountains can be a formidable enemy.
My hike assumes a steady pace, and I enjoy views to my left, presenting me with rugged mountains that cut the horizon like a tooth, rivers and rivulets turning and twining in-between, green grasslands and brownish wetlands around lagoons formed by the excess water.
My lungs swell, although the air is scarce and I am grateful to God for allowing me the opportunity to see the amazing brush strokes he leaves across our material world. One either comes back from the mountains filled with awe and knowledge of the universal spirit or one does not come back.
There are cows in the meadows but no sign of people as the clouds get darker and we near Janus.
We set up our camp at Mitucocha. I have opted to sleep in a single tent although the Brazilian has generously offered to share the tent with me. The tent is big but rather dirty and I spend some time cleaning it. I feel the darkness coming and flattening over the encampment and I listen to the thunder in the distance. A storm is rising as I take out my sleeping bag and other gear. The call for dinner resonates across the camp and we drop one-by-one in the biggest tent. My companions are a mixed bunch: most of them young and well trained, tanned from the Australian sun or drilled in the French and German Alps. I lap up my stew in silence as the first drops of rain hit the tent.
I decide to go to sleep and as I am zipping up the entrance to my tent, the mayhem begins: the rain turns into hail and hits the tent with a mighty force, the winds rise and wine around us, the thunderbolts start striking closer and closer until I count one second between the lightning and the thunderbolt hitting the ground a few meters from me, and I lie down in the sleeping bag, begging and praying to God to spare us. Great fear rises in me and I start shuddering and putting my hands in a prayer, close to my heart. I momentarily understand the Incas and why one of their supreme gods was the god of thunder. The forces of nature gel and sharpen in a thunderbolt, its precise and merciless point striking down without discrimination…. thy justice be done.
As I pray, frozen in fear, the strikes become more distant until they disappear and I fall asleep, exhausted from the experience.
As I wake up and change into hiking clothes, I experience an unusually cold temperature. It is the last day of August and yesterday the weather was beautiful. I step outside and my boot falls through the snow.
