The hot springs just outside the town of Lares is a place I heard about when I first arrived in Ollanta. I instantly put it on my mental to check out list. When I attempted to recruit others to join me one weekend, in addition to suggesting I hire a guide, the long term volunteers suggested I wait to tackle the trek until after the rainy season.
But hey, I’m from the Pacific Northwest, I can handle rain. And really, how hard can finding the trail really be? Alex entertains similar sentiments and is usually willing to get in over his head on adventures, just like me. The perfect companion for such a trip, I’ll recruit him upon his arrival.
He didn’t disappoint. In the week after arriving, while I was working, he shopped, packed, asked others for advice on route-finding and studied topo maps.
Making our way up and across the hills above Patacancha, I feel that we have actually transported ourselves from our previous life, even more than when we’re in town. For all the outdoor sports I enthuse over, I usually travel for the people and the culture. Give or take some details, mountains are mountains and grass is grass and 14,000 feet is 14,000 feet no matter if you are north or south of the equator. But here I am, in a natural setting so different from any of the other expeditions I have been on in the states or elsewhere.
Smoke is rising off the paha roof from each of the adobe huts we pass. The llamas look at us foreigners with curiosity and suspicion as their newborns stand on shaky legs to nurse. We pull out my ipod and view the picture of the topo map Alex snapped before leaving, the best we could do with limited access to maps of the area. A local man seems to be waving us upwards. A suggestion we decide not to take in lieu of following our interpretation of the directions, a suggestion that we later learn we should have taken.
The chromium green round clumps of spongy grass make me feel like, with each step, I’m bouncing on mini-trampolines. As we ascended the ever-steepening slopes, the spongy clumps give way to a flat star-shaped plant that so tightly hugs the ground it looks and feels like walking on stylized Astroturf. Water is everywhere. It isn’t raining. Yet. But the raging streams, overflowing ponds, and seeping ground remind us that we are, in fact hiking in the time of the rain as my host family keeps reminding me. Alex says the sky here leaks.
After four hours of hiking we arrive at the 14,500’ abra (pass), Ipsayjasa. The heavy mist wets our jackets, but it still isn’t raining. Yet. Even with the visual limitations, the view is amazing with laguna Ispaycoeha behind us and in front, numerous snow-melt streams so steep one cannot say where river transitions to waterfall.
We descend a few hundred feet and reward ourselves with a fabulous picnic. I once again congratulate myself on my choice of backpacking companions as we feast on homemade bread with avocado, apples and trader joe’s almond butter with flax seeds (an aside on nut butters: they are nearly impossible to obtain here. Alex brought me two containers from trader joes, I also received a number of Justin’s pb packets sent down in a care package from some of my amazing boulder friends. I wish I could adequately communicate the joy that those treats have brought me).
We begin hiking again. Now the grasses have turned to mud. I give up on trying to keep the inside of my boots dry. My white pants are brown with mud half-way up to my knees. We descend through a marshy valley, maybe a mile wide, home to numerous sheep, alpaca, llamas, horses and sprinkled with currently inhabited adobe huts built next to abandoned Incan ruins.
We didn’t even notice when it started to drizzle. Already wet from the mist and mud, it doesn’t make much of a difference anyway.
After two and a half hours the valley we were descending poured into a perpendicular valley, deeper, narrower, and more obviously carved by ancient glaciers. Magnificent, angry rivers morph into waterfalls and tumble 3000’ from their high hanging tributaries to the valley floor below. Our lungs rejoice and our knees brace for another 1500’ of down-grade.
By now the drizzle has graduated to rain. We give up our slippery path for a gravel road when we reach the quiet town of Huacahausi. I hear that cars travel this road, but I have my doubts as we traverse the third river at least 2 feet deep, carving its own path across the road.
The valley is breathtaking, but we barely notice the ruins and the vistas. I think it is safe to say it is pouring rain now. We have been hiking for 8 hours. I feel mud between my toes every step I take, inside my boots. When we stop to eat, my hands don’t work. I didn’t realize that it was that cold. Conversation early that morning was so easy. I decide to orally review my Spanish lesson from the previous day. Bad idea, now we are cold, tired, hungry and cranky with each-other.
At 4 pm, nine hours after leaving Patacancha and 11 hours after leaving our beds, we spy manicured grounds: fancy rockwork, beautiful flowers and pools of water with smoke rising off and mixing in with the mist.
We have arrived. Situated next to a raging set of class five rapids, the Lares hot springs park is a paradise. There are six pools of differing temperatures and shapes. The water feeding the side by side showers situated next to the pools must come from different sources; their temperatures vary along with the color and texture of the residue left by their mineral deposits and thermophile algae growth. The manicured grounds include grassy spots perfect for tents.
The minute our sodden clothes are replaced by our swimsuits and our achy feet are submerged in the hot water, our bad moods dissolve along with the sweat and mud.
After enjoying the baths a bit more Sunday morning we hike with all our supplies down into Lares proper to find breakfast and catch the bus that will take us home. While skirting around a fresh mudslide in the road, we pass a woman that asks us if we are planning on taking the bus to Calca. When we reply yes she hollers some information about the trip over her shoulder. Alex and I muse as we continue walking: did she say there wasn’t a bus until 1pm, or did she say there was no bus at 1pm.
We arrive in the tiny town of Lares and easily find breakfast of chicken soup, but struggle to find reliable information about the bus. I decide that it would be wise to wait until 1pm, when the bus is scheduled to arrive, before becoming worried about our return trip and my work schedule for the following morning. While waiting, a huge ruckus from the other side of town ensues: a series of rockslides slamming into metal sides of the community market; a second reminder of the dangers of traveling on steep roads during the wet season.
My relief is tangible when a combi shows up promptly at 1pm. We shoulder our packs and prep for our ensuing, potentially harrowing drive. The combi driver tells us and the growing crowd that the bridge between Lares and Calca has been washed out and the drive is impossibly dangerous. He will not be going. Local woman implore him that they must go to meet their husbands whom they haven’t seen in weeks. The driver is unmoved and he doesn’t even deign to answer Alex’s questions.
We look at each other and know what must be done. Wet clothes, muddy shoes and tired shoulders are put back into action. We stop by the closet grocery store, stock up and start hiking back towards the mountains between Lares and Patacancha. This hike is to be a bit different. On our way into Lares, we descended 1500’ more than we ascended and we benefited from a taxi ride between Ollanta and Patachanca, cutting three hours off of our hike yesterday. It is not guaranteed that we will find a ride on the return, but the extra elevation is. We start hiking at 1:30 pm. I have a meeting at 3pm tomorrow in Ollanta. That is our goal.
Our spirits are much higher as we climb the road between Lares and Huacahuasi, our attitudes much like they were Saturday morning when we set out. I can’t help but wonder where that barometer will be after 9 hours of hiking. It is raining non-stop.
Our impromptu campsite near the top of the steep glacial-cut valley teases us with spectacular waterfalls that are barely visible through the fog. We eat our sardines and avocado and fall fast asleep. I wake in the middle of the night from a dream (or was it a nightmare?) of fire-fighters pointing their hoses full blast at my tent. Right, I remember where I am. Not a dream, it is the rain in full force. I lay awake awash partly from the altitude, partly wondering if my tent can handle the Peruvian wet season.
By 6:30a the rain has abated and I open the vestibule flap to a scene of waterfalls crashing into the valley below us, Incan ruins on the hillside beside us, snow-capped peaks above us, and curious llamas peering into our tent as we gaze out. It is valentine’s day morning and there is no other place I’d rather be, and no other person with whom I’d rather be sharing it.
I trade my warm and dry long underwear for my wet clothes shoulder my bag and head for the abra Ipsayjasa. It leaks rain most of the day. We arrive in Patachanca at 1 pm. We can make it to Ollanta in time if we hike straight through. But both of us are hurting, wet and tired. We stop by the Awamaki sponsored weaving center in town and find to our delight, three volunteers, about to return to Ollanta, who have room in their cab. Before leaving for home we are welcomed by a local family and given hot tea, rice and a fried egg. I want to embrace them to show my gratitude, but that would just serve in making someone else muddy and wet too.
Our cab ride to town was not without incidence. The wet spell that had destroyed the road to Lares had affected this road as well. We pass several small landslides that were not present two days before and marvel at the raging river which has now superseded its banks and flooded the road in spots. Halfway through we stop behind two other combis stuck in a knee-deep mud-pit/landslide and it took 4 people including Alex and I, to push the stuck combi through while avoiding the 400’ cliff to the valley floor.
We walk into our homestay, mama grabs me in a tight embrace and picks me up. Twice.
I was so worried about you. And so was my husband. We thought you were sick, lost and in trouble on the mountain.
The rest of the afternoon she keeps giving me hugs and tells me how happy the family is to have us back. We are sus hijos tambien, her children also. I realize that for the duration of my stay in Ollanta, I will live with this host family. Most volunteers rent their own houses for a fraction of the cost of a homestay. But this is my Peruvian family; I can’t leave.
Mama heats up water for us to bathe. The first time here I’ve been a diva enough to ask for hot bath water. I think we deserve it this time.
Photos from our adventure can be accessed on my FB site (once my internet connection is fast enough to support an upload, hopefully soon). Follow the link from my last post if you are interested.
