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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steaming, Bubbling, Rumbling, and Erupting in Iceland

 7/6/23

If there is another place like Iceland on earth, I am unaware of it. The landscape is made from multiple layers of geothermal and geological disturbances that display a history of raucous events leaving dramatic evidence across the landscape over many millennia. There are jagged mountains that turn a vivid green in the summer. Steam rises from underground, geothermal water sources. Iceland is rumbling, bubbling, and rising. As climate change increases temperatures, the surface of the Earth rebounds upward as the weight of the melting ice decreases. Lava is everywhere. Ancient lava, covered with delicate moss, strewn over millions of square miles; more recent lava flows that look like rivers frozen in time, and red-hot molten lava spewing from active volcanos. Volcanoes are one of the main geographic features of Iceland. Iceland is the home to one-third of the lava that ever flowed on Earth. As much as 25% of the Icelandic land surface is covered with volcanoes. There are 32 volcanic systems comprising 130 different volcanic mountains. All this extraordinary scenery is surrounded by ocean and stark gray sand beaches.
On a lark, I took an opportunity presented by Play airlines (formerly WOW). I’d never heard of them, but they were offering cheap, round-trip fares from Stewart airport in Newburgh, New York (a short drive from where I live) to Reykjavík Iceland. I had always had Iceland in the back of my mind as a place to visit, hiker and nature nut that I am. And so, it came to pass. I boarded an outdated jet with amazingly uncomfortable seats. There are none of those little TV screens on the back of the seat in front of you, no free food, and very few accoutrements. The seats were narrow and crowded. If you wanted a roomer seat you could pay extra (anything from $25 for something just slightly better to $120 for an exit seat, or something in the roomier rows in the front. They charge you for pretty much everything. I had already pre-paid online for my luggage at a rate of $60 each way for 20 kg. I weighed in a 22 kg and right there at the check-in desk the took me for another $40 each way. They charge for carry-on baggage as well. I brought a few items on the plane in a fanny pack to avoid the carry-on fee. 
If you get hungry of thirsty, you must press a button to summon one of the flight attendants, and order something which you will pay dearly for. Even if you just want water, you gotta open that wallet. Fortunately, the toilet paper in the bathroom is free. 
The flight crew were all energetic, pleasant and of Icelandic dissent - possessing unbelievably long names. 
The plane landed at about 4:30 in the morning. It was light like it would be at 10 in the morning this time of year where I live. Iceland in July gets dusk-like between the hours of 1 AM and 3 AM. I brought along some eyeshades to help me sleep.
There’s no way you can check into any hotel in the world at 5 AM in the morning. I booked my room for the night before so when I got to the hotel, I could immediately shower and nap. 
The people from the airport shuttle bus company told me that my hotel was just across the street from the bus terminal in Reykjavík. It was not! In fact, I had to roll my 22 kg Northface expedition bag up and down hills for about 20 minutes until I reached the hotel. The light was so bright that I forgot what time it was. I kept saying to myself “my Reykjavík is such a quiet city.” It took me a while to realize that nobody was awake yet. I stayed at an “art hotel.” There were large, bold, beautiful paintings on display everywhere, and a spacious library with shelves that were lined with ancient volumes as well as modern murder mysteries. Long, leather couches formed squares around low coffee tables. Chess boards were plentiful. Since it was so early in the morning, I could catch a nap for an hour and still take advantage of the complimentary breakfast. After salmon, muesli, and yogurt I walked into the center of town. The hotel was just a couple blocks from a beautiful park with a lake named TjÖrnin SuÖurtjorn.  I walked along until I reached the end, taking a left by the Monument to the Unknown Bureaucrat, past the City Hall bus stop where I would be picked up by the trekking company the next day at 7 AM.
I’ll just say it, Reykjavík is boujee! The downtown is chock-full of cobblestone streets lined with high-end shops selling hats, scarves, sweaters made by local weavers, and pricey, name-brand, outdoor apparel. Copious coffee houses, restaurants were all eagerly seeking top tourist kroner. 
The wind was brisk off the bay, although, to my great surprise, the temperature rose to about 60ºf, and it was unabashedly sunny. I had studied the weather report carefully during the previous couple weeks and it looked dismal with clouds and drizzle. The average daily high was somewhere in the mid 50s and the low was somewhere in the mid 40s. I expected never to see the sun on this trip and yet on the first day I had to buy some cheap sunglasses from a drugstore. Oh, happy tragedy. 
The seashore is rugged and beautiful. There’s a rocky gray beach where people have constructed thousands of clever looking cairns with volcanic rocks. The mountains across the bay are usually covered with snow in the promotional photographs but apparently not in July. 
I walked 4 1/2 miles in and around the city center before I went back to the hotel for another nap (the first one didn’t really do it).  I woke up hungry and began to forage for food. The people who worked in the restaurants and stores and we’re all friendly, polite, and fluent English speakers. I walked up the hill to a towering 244-foot steeple of a church. It’s really a steeple that goes all the way to the ground. Hallgrimskirkja celebrates the High Lutheran sect. The design is stark and spare like the Icelandic landscape. The church is named after the 17th-century clergyman Hallgrímur Pétursson. At the entrance to the church stands an imposing statue of Leif Erikson, whose father, Erik the Red, had much to do with the early settlement of Iceland.

 
Just about every name in Iceland is long and intriguing. It’s mystifying to hear the locals pronounce them. Even visitors from other Scandinavian countries have difficulty decoding. The Icelandic tongue (íslenska) has so many idiosyncrasies and difficult pronunciations that really no one else, besides the natives can speak it with any credibility. It’s likely that Icelanders speak excellent English because there’s no place in the world, they’re ever going to go where people will understand Icelandic and they’ve come to accept that. 
On my second day in Iceland, I woke early and rolled my 40-pound Northface expedition bag down the hill and past the lake to City Hall where I was whisked away by an Arctic Adventures bus. There were two kinds of people on the bus. There was a day group that would drive four tedious hours out to Landmannalaugar, take a little hike, and hang around the busy campground for about four hours, and then get back on the bus for another four hours of tedious, driving back to Reykjavik. I was in the second group. We would spend two nights in a “hut” where we would sleep in rows, en masse dormitory style. The French call this a dortoir.  I call it a snoretoir because somebody always starts snoring and hell, half the time it’s me. To save the others in the group (there were about 10 of us) I found a private bunk room that was meant for guides, but not being used on that particular night. 
I got a pretty good night’s sleep, even though it never really gets dark in early July. It might get a little dusky at about 2 AM, but that’s it. I went out to relieve a call of nature around midnight, and the Hot Springs about 100 yards away, was packed with people soaking and socializing in animated voices. 
We would spend three days hiking. The first day was beautiful, in terms of the scenery and the weather. It was unabashedly sunny!  We went up and down several significant mountains, and finally arrived at a crater formed by a volcano at some point in the distant past. It was filled with water like a lake with deep purple colors around the edges. The hike was all downhill on the way back but added up to be about 13 or 14 km long. Everybody was “good tired” and just a little bit sore. 

 
The next two days featured more challenging hikes. The brochure for this trip said the hikes would be easy to moderate. In our group, there were people of a variety of ages and trekking abilities. The second day hike went up and down several, steep, slippery hills. With the additional thrill of a traverse through a snow field. If one were to slip in the wrong place, one could easily fall to one’s death. A 50-year-old woman in our group got to the snow field and freaked out. She froze and couldn’t move. She wanted to call for a helicopter. Thankfully, her family coaxed her gently and she made her way slowly, gingerly through the snow field. This was not a moderate or easy hike. This was strenuous and difficult. An experienced guide probably wouldn’t take a group like ours on a hike like that. On the third day I stayed at the hut because I was nursing a case of plantar fasciitis, and the woman who freaked out on the snow field stayed behind as well. That day I hiked it to a peaceful, beautiful area on my own. I went through a range of volcanic, rhyolite mountains that nature had painted in a variety of vivid colors, and then up a steep path to some places where steam would rise from mud springs or fumaroles. It was a novelty to play around in the steam; not something you run into much of any place else. 

 
The group would share two meals a day together in the hut dining area. After breakfast in the morning our guides would make sandwiches for lunch. We hearty meals washed down with wine at night. 
Our Slovenian guide was on her maiden voyage in terms of leading 3-day excursions. She was in her mid-20s, energetic, helpful, and pleasant. She seemed unsure of herself in certain ways which gave away the fact that this was her first rodeo. She made several trips to the Ranger station to make sure she had the right directions for the hike. She got a little bit lost on the first day. Everyone has to start somewhere. Maybe after she gets more experience, she’ll develop a keener sense of each group and what kind of hike they should take. 
After we got back to Reykjavík, I rented a car and drove out Route 1 on the southern tier of what they call the “golden circle” that circumnavigates the entire island of Iceland. Many folks who visit Iceland spend a week to ten days driving the length the golden circle. I prefer to spend less time driving and more time walking.
On the subject tourists, it should be noted that Iceland, in general is inundated with them during the summer. People from the sizzling south of Europe in particular, like to get a break from the extreme heat that has plagued them in recent years. At Landmannalaugar there were throngs and throngs of people with backpacks and expensive hiking gear all looking to get a 3-4 hour walk through the beautiful Icelandic interior. There was a full campground next to the hut where we stayed. The hut had at least 40 or 50 other people staying in the other bunk rooms. The parking lot was full and folks just kept showing up. You can’t blame people for loving beauty I suppose. 
On Route 1, in my rented jeep, there were many beautiful places to stop. Like national parks in the US, hundreds and hundreds of people would be parked in a pay lot in order to take in the beautiful sight of a glacier or waterfall. There were inevitably restaurants and hotels that would surround these points of interest. It cost between two and three dollars per squirt to the public bathrooms. It was easy to duck the fee and most people did. 

I stayed in a country guesthouse with beautiful facilities. They were 20k from the nearest town and the only thing the hotel restaurant served for dinner was fish and chips. Out of inertia I opted fror the fish and chips, and hell, it was good. 
I took a walk after dinner down to the sea and got at least 2/3 of the way there before it started raining. This was the first time. Before I got to Iceland, I thought that every day would be in the mid 50s and drizzling. 
The next day, if you can believe it, was even warmer and sunnier than the ones before it. The bright sun brought out the rich verdant green of the moss that grew on the side of the mountains. The immense, brilliant, Myrduls-Jokull glacier capped the high plains. The air was hyper-clear and full of detail; you could see a bug on a rock 100 yards away.  

I walked up a steep hillside to the edge of the glacier. The ice wasn’t pristine, white, or ethereal blue like you might see in an arctic climate. This ice dirty white with a translucent coat of black volcanic dust on it. The island has gone through thousands and thousands of major and minor volcanic incidents over the centuries. History has left a stain on the teeth of each glacier. 

 
After the Glacier hike, I drove south on Route 1 to the town of Vik. Vik had been the location of a Netflix series I had recently watched called Katla after the kind of wool they make Icelandic sweaters out of. The setting was beautiful, bleak, and quintessentially Icelandic. An icon of the series was three stone spires rising from the sea. In the American west, they would call them hoodoos. I had to go to Vik if we’re no other reason than two photograph, the spires that are burned in my mind after watching this very disturbing and dark series.  

My final destination of the trip, the Blue Lagoon, was not actually far from the airport. The entire drive, westward from Vik, was highlighted by gorgeous green jagged mountains to my right in the endless ocean to my left. After about 3 1/2 hours of driving, I arrived at the Blue Lagoon. It’s a resort that features unique Hot Springs with water that is a milky blue shade is due to its high silica content. The silica forms soft white mud on the bottom of the lake which bathers rub on themselves. The extraordinary amount of salt in the water, makes it very easy to float in. It contained all kinds of other beneficial minerals and left me with a glow that lasted well into the night. I got a series of 3 silica mud face masks from a little stand that you can swim up to. The first mask consists of black mud that you spread on your face and quickly wash it off after three minutes. The second mask is a white paste that supposed to do something cool to your skin. You wear that for about 10 minutes and wash it off. The third mask looks like green pistachio ice cream, looking substance that is intended to rejuvenate your face. My 68 year-old mug course could use all the rejuvenation it can get. 

 
The Blue Lagoon is adjacent to the Svartsengi Power Station a geothermal power plant, which is in the Svartsengi geothermal field. The world´s first geothermal power plant for electric power generation and hot water production for district heating. The electric power station was built in 1976. The Blue Lagoon is actually fed by the water that has been processed through the plant.
All the rooms at the Blue Lagoon resort were booked so I stayed at the North Light on the other side of the power station. When I first saw the hotel next to the steam plant, I thought for sure the place would stink of sulfur. It did not. Not far from the hotel, about 30 km, was an actively erupting volcano. I found this disconcerting. Local people scoffed at the possibility of a major volcanic eruption, in fact, droves of tourists were driving oof-road vehicles into the hills near the volcano, to get a front row seat on the action.

Canary Islands in late January

Seeking an escape from the numbing dreariness of late January 2023, I took a trip to the Canary Islands. I’ve never heard anybody I know talk about them. A lot of folks will guess that they’re somewhere in the South Pacific. In fact, they are just off the coast of Morocco. Americans don’t go there much. As it turns out, the place is swarming with winter vacationers, seeking refuge from the damp, gray climates of Germany, Sweden, Finland, Norway, and northern sections of the UK. The largest island in the chain of seven is Tenerife, where the beach-going party animals coexist with the denizens slower-paced retirement communities. There are boardwalks filled with restaurants, bars, and funky stores where you can buy corny beach stuff. Volleyball in conspicuously played by strapping young men and bikini clad young women. Wake from the ferry to La Gomera Higher up into the mountainous interior however, you will encounter a whole different kind tourist. These are the tree hugging lovers of truth and beauty. The beachfront in Tenerife was just a brief two-day stopover for me, insofar as my main destination was an island just to the west. 

                                                     

 The ferry from Tenerife to La Gomera leaves from an impressive terminal in Los Cristianos where you can catch a boat to La Gomera, La Palma, or El Hierro, the three westernmost islands in the chain. The Fred Olsen Express ferry was a sleek, mid-sized boat that carries cars, bicyclists, and foot passengers. There is a bar onboard where some folks started drinking right from the start of this 8:30 AM departure. The sun was warm, and the sea was a deep blue. La Gomera is characterized by jagged volcanic mountains and gray, rocky coast lines that are pounded by the unfettered sea. La Gomera has a relaxed and wide-open feeling to it. A gentle soul can leave the swarming masses of tourists behind. My fundamental project here is to go on a weeklong trek that circumnavigates the island, lodging each night at “rural hotels” in the quaint villages that populate the hills by the shore. The villages have just the right amount of funkiness, and disrepair for a nonconformist to feel at home. There is also enough low-key sophistication to attract nature-loving visitors around the world. Hundreds of miles of trails go up, down, around, and over the lush green, volcanic peaks. (a welcome sight in late January) I will stay in Hermiqua, Vallehermoso, Chipude, and finally San Sebastian for two nights each. Hermiqua was the first stop on the tour. I stayed in an elegant “rural” hotel that had an outrageous, 3-course, haute cuisine breakfast. Each delicious course was presented by a tuxedoed waiter, who gave a long-winded treatise on the preparation of the food. The chef himself visited every table seeking feedback from the guests. 

                  

 On the second day in Hermigua I took a long hike though groves of banana trees down to the rugged coast. Most interesting was Pescante de Hermigua were there was ruins from an ancient shipping center and a large, square, cement pool; about 4 feet deep, fed by waters from the wild sea. A few brave souls disrobed and bathed in the salt water. My principal activity there was to gaze out at the endless sea, breathe in the salty air, and feel the warm sun on my face. Pescante de Hermigua 

                                               

 The next morning, I took the long and arduous hike from Hermigua to Vallehermoso. The trails were strewn with volcanic rock that wears on the bottoms your feet after several hours of walking. It entailed ascending 3000 feet and then descending another 3000 feet. The ascent was a dogged huff and puff, but the views of the mountains, vast ocean, villages on the hillsides, palms, aloe, and the beautiful, green vegetation everywhere was worth it. I continued to be enthralled with the endless expanse of ocean. Try to imagine it. To the west there’s nothing between you and the Caribbean but 3000 of miles of ocean; deep, blue, and mysterious. The descent into Vallehermoso was more of an effort than the ascent from Hermigua had been. I descend carefully. I’ve had a few too many scary slips, in my long career as a hiker. I’ll go slowly if there’s any kind of loose gravel, rock scree, or ice that will make me slip and fall down the side of a mountain or off a steep traverse. There were many steeper-than-I-like switchbacks and lots of wet, muddy rocks. I came upon the enigmatic Roque Cano and traversed around it. Roque Cano The Canary Islands have many of these upright rocks. They look like the heads of religious leaders from the past - like the giant kings of the mountains. 

                                                        

 The small town of Vallehermoso is, as the name implies, situated in a beautiful valley that leads down to the sea. The hillsides are steep. Brightly colored houses are impossibly perched along the slopes. The downtown has a square and a Spar market. Europe is dotted with Spar markets - as prevalent as Stop and Shops are in America. You can buy all the same stuff at a Spar market. There are the familiar American brands. You’ll have no trouble finding a Coca-Cola or a Snickers bar at these locations. There are myriad varieties of European junk food as well. The Germans call it sheisse essen. European potato chips and cookies that have the same unhealthful caloric content as their American counterparts. It’s the very worst of American culture that catches on the most in the rest of the world. People everywhere have eagerly embraced, junk food, reality TV, over-caffeinated news people, Ziploc bags, and bad rock ‘n’ roll. Nearly every country, no matter how inappropriate, seems to have come up with a version of American Idol. Although there are English-speaking tourists from all over Europe, the locals speak mostly Spanish. A waitress, store clerk, or cab driver is likely to know only a few words of English, and so I am fortunate enough to have learned a few words of Spanish before I got here. Between my lousy Spanish, and their barely existent English we’re able to get business done. The dwellers of the island are consistently cheerful and friendly, always offering a pleasant “hola” to a passing stranger, no matter where they come from. It took a long time to find the hotel where I would be spending the next two nights. It didn’t really show up on Google maps because it doesn’t really exist on a street per se. I had to ask at a bar. The bartender and a few of the patrons went out onto the street with me and pointed their fingers up the hill, “Ahí!” They described how I would have to go slightly up the street from where we were, and then take a sharp right onto an extremely steep pathway, which then turned into an even steeper set of stairs. At the very top of this set of stairs was my hotel, a gated colonial mansion. The owners were surprised that it took such an effort to find the place. I didn’t argue with them. They set me up in a beautiful, two-bedroom apartment, which was way too much for just me. The place was adorned with big arched windows, and high ceilings, although it was freezing cold, and I had to pay for heat. The next day I took a €20 cab ride up into to the steep hills, zigging and zagging on a steep mountain road, going much too fast. I could hardly hold onto my breakfast. At the top of the ridge, we arrived at the Alto Lomo del Flores trailhead where he dropped me. There had been a storm the night before and the first part of the hike was downhill on a wet slate path. I thought for sure I would fall on my tender buttocks, but fortunately did not. If it had been a restroom floor certainly, they would’ve had one of those little yellow warning signs that said, Peligro! piso mojado! The going got tougher as I began to descend steep switchbacks and thrash through what barely passed for a hiking path. It was so grown over in places that I had to use my hiking stick as a machete so as not to become entangled in the thick vegetation that encroached from all sides. The tangled jungle of weeds was wet and with each step I took, my pants and sneakers became more and more drenched, as if I had worn them in a swimming pool. The water in my shoes went squish, squish, squish. Thankfully, the swampy path was only in the low sections of the hike, and eventually led precipitously uphill to Saint Clara from where you can gape at the immense ocean, and the isles of La Frontera and La Palma to the west. Rather than take the squishy path back I opted for a road that took me slowly up another thousand feet. I had to hug the side of the road, which had a railing on one side and a cliff on the other, to let a car pass, or in the worst-case situation, a delivery truck or an RV. The road continued upward and upward. I enjoyed cardiac exercise more than I did slogging through the overgrown, muddy pathways. Eventually the road lead back to the trailhead where I began, and where the taxi had dropped me off. There was a restaurant across the street, and I had the bar keeper call me a cab. I rested there for about 20 minutes enjoying a piece of banana bread and a Coke Zero. Finally, to my amusement, the same cab driver that brought me up up Vallehermoso in the morning had come back up just to pick me up to take me down again. 

                                            

 As with all my past trekking adventures, I brought along an old fiddle in a light case. This was not lost on the hotel owners who left this note in room. The hotel restaurant specialized in vegetarian cuisine made with locally grown ingredients. The food was amazing. A couple of middle-aged Irish guys invited me over to join them at their table. They graciously shared their red wine with me and after a nice meal and a few belts, I took out the fiddle and played a variety of tunes to the loud applause of my fellow diners. Someone asked if I wrote my own music. I played a quiet, pensive invention of my own and, remarkably that is what they connected with them the most. The room was silent, and the crowd was transfixed. I left the place glowing. 

   The trip from Vallehermoso to Chipude is beautiful but strenuous. Basically, it’s a lung-busting, three-hour climb up endless switchbacks until you get to the timeless, old-world, mountaintop village Las Hayas. From there it becomes mostly a downhill climb with some short, uphill sections just to keep it aerobic. It’s only 1.7 km to the next town of El Cercado but you must go deep, deep, down a treacherous path into a verdant, cavernous valley. I reached a point where there was large yellow sign. In bold letters it said, Peligro! (dangerous). Sometime in my mid 60s I gave up on paths that say Peligro! Forgoing the Peligro path meant taking a circuitous route on the narrow-paved road to Chipude. This augmented the length of my trip by at least 3 km. I also had to dodge the buses, taxis, and RVs carrying people who had little interest in hiking this crazy terrain. Most of road was downhill and I was making good time until I got to the foothills of Chipude where I asked an old man sitting on a stone wall how I get to the Hotel Sonia. Excitedly he directed me up a primitive path with stone steps that went upward at a 45° angle. Ahì! he said, in an exasperated voice pointing his finger to the sky. I climbed another 200m upward until I finally got to the Village Square Which was dominated by the hotel Asonia with its restaurant, bar, and modest hotel rooms. 

 My 40-pound, Northface expedition bag was waiting for me in the lobby. There was no elevator and the hotel clerk put the heavy load on his back and strained up the stairs huffing, puffing, moaning, groaning, and looking like he deserved a big tip. The room was about as basic as hotel rooms get. I’m still mystified as to how one opens the sliding door that leads on to the terrace. I’m pretty good at figuring things like that out, and yet I was flummoxed. There was water leaking in the bathroom and I guessed correctly it would continue all night. But still the bed was soft, and there was a portable heater (no extra cost) I could use to dry my clothes and warm the humble space. It. was raw, windy, and raining outside with a temperature of about 50°. In the restaurant I ate a strange kind of potato omelet that I washed down with a half-liter of generic red wine. The next night I ended up having dinner with a fun couple who were 70ish and from Derbyshire in England. We sat up for a long time drinking red wine and then grappa, chatting with increasing excitement about the royal family. After all, I recently became a dual citizen with stake in these matters insofar as I have pledged allegiance to His Majesty the King. The next day I had breakfast with the same couple and continued to enjoy their company immensely. 

                                              

With my bags on the way to Saint Sebastian I caught ride to Mirador de Igualero, and hiked up to Monte de Garajonay, highest point of the La Gomera hike. Mirador de Igualero has a chapel that overlooks the sea. The view was obscured by clouds that hung in the high mountains. Ironically the Spanish word mirador means a lookout. Similarly, Alto de Garajonay, a half an hour up the hill and high point on the island of La Gomera, was muddled in mysterious mist. Onward and downward; down steep rocky paths interspersed with steps made from mud and logs. The damp from rain during night before made all this slippery and when it’s slippery I go slow and use my hiking poles (Let me amend that in any event I go slow). Up the muddy steps, down the rocky slopes, up the rocky steps and then down the muddy slopes. In some places the trail ran alongside the road, and you could hear the cars, buses and trucks all speeding along the perilous, curvy road. Unlike curvy roads in South America, Africa, India or Nepal, the roads here are impeccably well-maintained as I have noticed in Corsica. That doesn’t relieve them from the burden of having hairpin turn after hairpin turn as the roads zigzag up and down the steep hills. By the end my feet were sore through the wearing soles of my Inov8 G grip hiking shoes. The last 2 kilometers were thankfully a smooth dirt path except at the very end, just bust my balls, the path went 45° down, down, down ancient steps that reminded me of the slippery stone paths of Nepal. The knee-cracking, steep staircase finally came to an end when it reached the main road. As always, the road itself was the scariest part. My final destination in Degollolada was a gas station/restaurant, what musicians would call a basic B-flat kind of joint. I celebrated the end of the trek sitting in the outdoor café with a Coke Zero and a delicious Snickers bar. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get the next 12k to the city of San Sebastian. It turned out that I was on my own. The trekking company would provide no transportation from the end of the trek in Degollolada to the final hotel in San Sebastian down on the coast. For about a half an hour I sat in the bus stop shelter trying to decipher the bus schedule (in Spanish) and waving desperately at a few of the buses that sped by indifferently. “A la mierda con esto”, I said to nobody in particular, and went back into the B-flat restaurant where I asked the Señora there to call me a taxi. She did so gladly. I told her that she was muy guapa, which she was. She gave me a flirtatious wink to indicate that she appreciated the compliment and no, I wasn’t just some creepy old guy. 

All was forgiven when I got to the hotel Parador in San Sebastian. There, I entered the old-world elegance of the aristocracy. The place oozed charm with old, elegant furniture, beautiful libraries, and dining rooms everywhere. The hallways were filled with ancient paintings and arched passageways. My room at the end of the hall had a massive door that must’ve been 12 feet high and 8 inches thick. The place looked Medieval like a Diego del la Cruz painting. My room was massive with a thick, round dining table, a velvet couch, and a high ceilinged, marble bathroom. There were two huge beds and a patio 20 meters from the sea. That night the wind would whisper through the palms, and I could sit for hours in a blissful reverie. The next morning, I took the ferry back over to Los Cristianos in Tenerife. I stood at the stern of the boat with a small group of passengers. We were all gasping with the delight of watching a small whale frolicking in the boats’ wake. 

A driver from the trekking company held up a handwritten sign with my name on it (I always feel important when they do that) and whisked me up the hill to my hotel in Los Cristianos which was heavily populated with people even older than me. Old men and women with portly bellies and wide hips were all hanging around the pool. Some women were topless but those were mostly under 50. It was a good day to do my laundry. I love the Spanish word for laundry (lavanderia). The washing machines were in the hotel basement. I would leave at intervals and return to my wash every half an hour or so. During one trip down to the basement, I had to stop and let a woman go by. She was looking deep into her phone, and I had no idea whether she would see me, go left, right, or straight into me. At the last minute she looked up and with an English accent she said, “I’m sorry I’m a little drunk.” I said, “Have a good time. “She asked me where I was from then told me she had been a bartender at South St., Seaport, downtown NYC for four years. She asked me if I was divorced, I said no. Did I have a girlfriend? No but I was married. She told me if I wasn’t married, she would be all over me because, “You’re gorgeous.” This doesn’t happen very often, and I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t flattered. I saw the same woman an hour later leaving with some other guy upstairs in the elevator saying “I’m not sure. Are you sure? “

                                            

 

 The next morning, I dragged my 40-pound, Northface expedition bag uphill for about six blocks to get to the bus station where I could catch public transportation to Vilaflor, a wonderfully rustic town in the middle of the island, on a hillside overlooking the sea. I lugged my 40-pound Northface, expedition bag up one long, steep driveway only to find out from the neighbors that my hotel was in fact on the next long, steep driveway over. So, I towed my 40-pound, Northface expedition bag down the steep driveway, down the steep sidewalk, then up an even steeper driveway to where I finally arrived at the Alta Montaña. It was noon and there wasn’t a soul around. The grounds were elegant like a modern Mediterranean villa. A handwritten sign on the door said that reception was only open from two until five in the afternoon. This left me in a quandary. Should I just sit here twiddling my thumbs for two hours or should I take a chance and leave my 40-pound, Northface expedition bag by the front door and take a walk around town. I left it there. Luckily there was a Cafe down the hill where I refreshed myself with red wine and cookies and then returned to this ghost town of an accommodation, taking a nap and one of the comfortable outdoor couches. At about 1:55 in the afternoon a harried man came to the front door of reception and opened it with his key, said “just a few minutes sir”, then disappeared inside, locking the door behind him. No “come on in, have a cup of tea and I’ll be with you in a minute”. He just walked in the door and locked it from the other side leaving me forlorn and waiting for the clock to strike two. At the top of the hour he opened the door, did my registration, and led me to my room. In most hotels there would be someone to help a 68-year-old man with his bags. This dolt had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking at his watch impatiently, waiting for me to hobble down the stairs with my 40-pound, Northface expedition bag. When it came to cordiality, this place sucked eggs. He dropped me off at the room but didn’t do anything like they do in most hotels, like show you how the lights and TV work or anything cordial like that. He just rushed off and I didn’t see him for the rest of the day. At one point, about an hour later I went to the front desk and rang the bell a couple of times but there was nobody there. I could’ve stolen everything. I wanted to reserve dinner at 7 o’clock in the restaurant. No hope. I left a message on the WhatsApp number that they had posted in the room. No response. Finally, I saw the guy leading some other unwelcome couple to their room and I confronted him. I showed him the WhatsApp messages that I had sent to him. He said, “That’s not my number, that’s the number of the other guy that works there who’s on vacation.” It turned out that he was the chef, and he was trying to do everything while the owner was away. He pointed down the hill and said, “There’s a nice restaurant down there.” I walked down there, and it was closed. Maybe the Alta Montaña should have also closed while the owner was away. 

 

In the morning I had breakfast in the restaurant. It was the typical complimentary breakfast you might get at a highway-exit, Comfort Inn in the Midwest someplace. I managed to find some yogurt and Choco Charms cereal along with a couple of the tiniest muffins you ever saw in your life, and a half-reputable cappuccino. They were not the usual workers there restocking and asking you if everything is OK. There was no smooth jazz or light classical music. It was quiet, like breakfast at a funeral. Everyone, and I mean everyone, spoke German. To their credit, the Germans are pretty good with the English language. They can be taciturn and reserved. However, there are always exceptions. I also met delightful people from Germany along the way who were both gracious, friendly, and even playful. The best way to unfold the mysteries of bus travel in Tenerife is to hold up your phone to the QR code that’s on every bus stop. This will lead you to a website that can give you detailed information, in English, about the bus you need to take and where it stops and goes. There isn’t a city in the world where bus schedules aren’t oblique and obtuse. It becomes even murkier when there is a language barrier. I found exactly the right bus to take me 23 kilometers up steep and winding roads from Vilaflor to the National Parks center. My first ambition of the day was to hike up to the top of Mount Teide. Teide is the 12,000-foot volcano the towers above the island of Tenerife. There was an overwhelming number of tour buses from Santa Cruz and Los Cristianos that brought hordes of tourists up to the national park to walk a half a mile or so, take a bunch of selfies, eat a bit of over-priced lunch, and head back on the bus to their resorts. They dutifully walk the grounds and collect their impressions. The whole video/selfie phenomenon has become international. The smart phone has become another sensor that we have to supplement sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste. We have a new digital sense that takes our impressions and records them in a convenient digital format. That information will be shared on social media. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if the actual human being ever really showed up. When my bus arrived at the park center, I quickly did my best to separate from the masses. I found the path that led up to the summit of Teide. As with most crowded national parks, you get a mile from the trailhead and there is hardly anybody left to breathe in the solitude. 10 or 15 minutes could pass, and I would not see another human being. The trail winds upward over volcanic rock: sometimes large slabs that you must scramble up and hope that your shoes can grip enough to keep you from slipping. Sometimes the volcanic rocks are small and round like little ball bearings. I slowly made my way up to nearly 9000 feet. Then it began to snow. First there were pretty, little flakes. Then it became steady. The flakes turned into hail. It’s never good to have balls of ice falling onto the trail. The wind started to roar, and the snow/hail came in heavy, horizontal waves. It didn’t take years of mountaineering experience to know that it was time to descend. I gave up all hope of summiting. After all you could take the chairlift up to the top in about 20 minutes, take all your selfies and be with the regular schmoes that go up the easy way. The other thing was that you need a permit (which I didn’t have) to go the last 200 meters to actual cone of the volcano. There’s no big hole there, it’s covered up. You can’t just jump in the hole and offer yourself as a human sacrifice. I went slowly, carefully back down the mountain until I reached flat ground once again. I only had about 40 minutes left before the last bus would head back down to Vilaflor. Just enough time to get a tuna sandwich and a Coke Zero. 

                                               

 Adventure and adversity have the same prefix. The adventure is in the adversity. Without mishaps and challenges, I get a little bored. I have a Russian friend who often tells me, “Theese ees not vaction. Vacation ees wodka, cigar, boat, and bikini.” My time in the Canary Islands included plenty of good food, wine, entertaining company, and serene times spent listening to and gazing at the sea. It didn’t rain once, and the daytime high temperature was consistently in the high 60’s and low 70’s. There was always the possibility of having my Russian buddy’s kind of vacation. But that is perhaps for later in life.