Travel slowly: Jet planes are for getting places, not seeing places; take time to absorb the beauty and inspiration of a mountain or cathedral.
October 10, 2013
Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe.
I had no choice but to travel slowly.
Today was the day that had loomed large in my imagination, the day I had worked hard all summer to be able to defeat. This was the day we were to climb over Salkantay Pass, 15,250 feet high. I knew that nothing we'd done the previous week was going to compare to climbing 2,500 feet in three miles at these altitudes.
We took a slightly different route to the head of the valley than we had yesterday, and instead of hiking to Humantay, we were going to skirt its flank to ascend the pass between Humantay and Salkantay. The early-morning sun quickly warmed the air, and I rolled up the legs of my capris and wished I'd chosen to wear a tank top instead of short sleeves.
Much of the early part of the hike was interminable sidehilling on a glacial moraine, a pile of rocks left behind when a glacier recedes. Our forward/upward view was limited, and I began to wonder how long we would have to pick our way among the boulders, seeming to go nowhere. Footing was iffy, and I was glad to have my hiking poles to help me balance, and to take some of the weight off my knees when I had to take big steps down. It was gratitude I was to express often over the next several days.
Eventually we passed beyond the moraine and, about an hour-and-a-half after we'd left the lodge, entered the first plateau, Salkantaypampa. I was surprised to see, sitting in the middle of nowhere, a small, open-fronted shack with a sign that said, "Souvenirs." A man (if my memory is correct, it might have been Santos) was selling handknitted and woven hats, bands, and other trinkets. Unfortunately, I had no money, and just couldn't quite bring myself to buy kitsch in the "wilderness." Behind the shack was a little hut I assumed was the man's home. It looked like it should belong to a gnome in a fairytale.
We stopped on the plateau for a short break as a group, the last time we were all together until the other side of the pass.
I took fewer photos this day than any other day of my trip. As we ascended from Salkantaypampa, first clouds and then fog started to roll in. A light sprinkle required rolling down my pants and putting on my rain jacket. I put my camera safely into my backpack, and put on its rain cover. As I continued to climb, the rain became mixed with hail, and the temperatures dropped into the very low 40s.
I was alone when I entered the second plateau, Soyroccocha. I'd stopped to pull out my camera and take a picture of the altitude sign (4,200 m = 13,780 feet) when Brenda came up behind me. She kindly offered to take a photo of me. A quick snap, and then the camera went back into dry safety.
Graduation march. Wedding march. Rest step. Whatever you want to call it, it's a way of walking even slower uphill. I'd always known about taking "Sherpa steps" when climbing steep hills: taking very small, short steps rather than long strides to save energy. Brenda taught us about rest steps, too. The idea is that when you take a short step with your right foot, you let your left foot lag for just a moment with little or no weight on it before stepping it up. Repeat on both sides as you slowly make your way up, up, up. The rest step allows each leg a moment of rest before it has to take the full brunt of your weight again. Honestly, I was terrible at actually doing the rest step. It's not that I couldn't, I just didn't. Instead, I just walked very slowly. I liked following Jen because she was very good at taking rest steps, and forced me to slow down with her.
I also figured out while crossing Soyroccocha plateau that I was incapable of drinking while walking. I had a Platypus water bag in my backpack with a drinking hose draped over my left shoulder within easy sipping distance, but there was no way I could walk and drink. Think about it: when you take a swallow of water, you are essentially holding your breath while you swallow. There was no way I could hold my breath and keep walking at nearly 14,000 feet. Normally, I'm a water pig; I drink nearly a gallon a day on a normal day at home. When I'm active, I want even more. It was lucky for me that the weather was so cold as I approached the pass so that my water needs weren't as great as they'd have been if it were hot. I had to stop walking every time I wanted a drink, swallow a few mouthfuls, and then catch my breath before I could start walking again. If it had even been 60 degrees I'd have never gotten anywhere. I won't even discuss trying to eat a snack on the move.
Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe.
Eventually, the top of the pass came into view. I could just see the billowing bright rain ponchos of the speedy members of our group through the fog. Hundreds of short rock cairns spread across the top of the pass around a bright blue sign announcing the elevation: 4,630 meters or 15,190 feet. (The exact altitude is different depending on the source of information.) Unfortunately, thick fog blanketed the pass and obscured my view of the mountains. I had really wanted a close-up view of Salkantay from the pass, but it was not to be. Yet another reason to return to Peru.
I still had on only my capris and a short-sleeved shirt under my rain jacket, so I wasn't inclined to linger in the rain and wind on the pass. I'd considered a couple of times putting on my fleece shirt, but it just didn't seem worth the effort of taking off my pack and digging it out. Given the lack of visibility, heading downhill towards lunch seemed like the thing to do. At least, it did until my knees started protesting from the effort of picking my way down a trail which was just as steep going down as it was going up. About an hour-and-a-half of knee twinges brought us back into the sunshine and down into a valley on the other side of Humantay.
If I read the Mountain Lodges of Peru cartoon-like map correctly, the valley we were in was called Ichupata. MLP had a camp of permanent lunch tents set up in the valley, as well as a couple of very welcome potty tents. Our luggage had caught up with us and gone on ahead on the backs of very quick horses (the next lodge had no road access). Also surpassing us in speed were Zoilo and Marcella, our chef for the next few days and his assistant. They'd consistently stay ahead of us in order to have hot, multi-course meals ready for lunch and dinner. I must say, it was a relief to have a dry place to sit down and eat soup and a hot meal.
The only downside was that it was hard to get moving again for the rest of the hike to Wayra Lodge, another few miles. From the top of Salkantay Pass we decended about 2,300 feet to just under 13,000 feet. Breathing just kept getting easier.
As we walked through the valley, we passed the tents the poor backpackers would be staying in, as well as a few local homes. I was happy to know I was headed to a more comfortable locale.
The path leading to the lodge was like something out of a fairytale sort of way. Stone steps leading up a hillside, and a huge glacial erratic with a stream of water mysteriously falling from its top.
While I was grateful for a hot shower and comfortable bed, I was thrilled that I was not completely wore out from the day's exertions. I'd conquered 15,000 feet, and could have kept going.
