Nevado Pisco, part II: the vengeance

Walter thought a moment, then shrugged and said that it would mean another night at the camp, but he was amenable. Erin said she was done for the day. We parted ways and Walter charged back up the moraine almost at a jog, while I followed as fast as I could.

It was hardly after 7 by the time that we had roped up again, and the sun was already out in force, giving us animo (as well as later cooking the snow, and our brains on the glacier). However, to my horror, Walter also pointed to low clouds creeping up the valley that looked like they could spoil our weather. Walter finished fixing his crampons and took off with a jolt, practically dragging me after him. We got the wide col that marked the turning point of the route, and despite the snacks I had just eaten, I was starting to drag. After stumbling up another 150 meters with snow botting hatefully on my crampons, I ventured the obvious: the skis needed to go if we wanted to summit before midafternoon. A traverse above to a hungry-looking crevasse seemed like an appropriate place to leave them, since I probably would have to deski to cross the obstacle on the way down anyway. So at 5400 meters I jettisoned the skis.

Walter resting a bit above the col

From Nevado Pisco

I call this one "blue steel"


Final pitch too the summit


Relieved of my burden, we made better time for 70 or 80 more meters, but sure enough, I started slowing again. One breath between steps became two, and finally I was panting like a dog between each step. Worse still, the midmorning tropical sun was frying us alive. Yet somehow I stumbled up with my awkward loaner ski boots and the attendant 3 pounds of snow plastered to each crampon and got within 100 meters of the summit. A final steep section of snow put in the final sting, but a couple rope-lengths later, I was on top.

Made it!


Tall, isn't she?


It must have been the warmest, calmest 18,900 foot peak in the world at the moment. The clouds came and went below us but we stayed in the sun without even a breeze. After snapping as many pictures as I could blindly through an invisible screen on my camera, Walter collected the rope and I collected my wits and we descended.

We made good time back to the cache and it was time to ski. I snapped into the unfamilar bindings and tentatively started down the slope. The first few turns were the crux of the route, it turned out. Although slightly off fall line, a bottomless-seeming icefall loomed to my right. The angle was probably pushing 40 degrees. I jump-turned and slide-slipped over the roll until the top few inches of new snow, that had been overcooked by the sun, started to sluff. I gingerly traversed out of the way and paused for a second before continuing, making sure not to get caught in my sluff until the angle lessened and I had passed the void.

Skiing




My tracks leading down the col, Walter following


The rest of the run went without event, aside from the heavy snow and hairy-skis, which desparately needed a wax. Luckily, a supportive crust lay under the top few inches of mashed potatoes. If we had been three hours earlier, it would have been a few inches of powder on the crust. Oh well.

We made it back to my cached running shoes and unroped. Walter bid his leave and took off back towards camp, while I slowly repacked all the ski gear. I swear the packed weighed three times as much as it did that morning as I tiredly slide down the slabs. Two hours and a minor detour through some shifty talus later, I arrived back at camp just as it started to snow again.

The next morning we got up early and descended back to Cebollapampa to look for an arriero to carry down the remains of our camp. We found the hapless arriero who had fruitlessly waited seven hours for us the day before. We apologetically explained that we were finally ready to descend.

The drive back to Huaraz was a bit of a shock. Four days of climbing in the mountains despite the somewhat exotic feature of being conducted in Spanish had made me forget I was in Perú. Men laden with firewood for kitchen stoves and mudbricks drying beside the road reminded me that what I had done was almost inconceivable to 99% of the population in the country, much less the world. What a strange, wonderful way to be able spend one's time, hypoxically stumbling up dangerous fields of snow in order to slide back down again on planks of wood and plastic.

Planks of wood and plastic.

Nevado Pisco, part I

Hearing Andy, the German, discuss his ski dreams set loose dreams of my own. Several times we had stopped by a guiding agency in Huaraz called Quechandes. As luck turned out, they had some skis lying around for excursions they made from time to time to a flat snowfield to teach skiing as best they could. Once it was clear that we didn't have more than a few days left in Huaraz, my thoughts instantly turned towards skiing the most popular--and most technically straightforward--peak in the Cordillera, Nevado Pisco, 5760 meters.

After yet another mildly-terrifying drive, we set off from Cebollapampa (3800 meters) under increasingly-cloudy skies with the delicious luxury of donkeys carrying all the heavy stuff. We made quick work of the climb to the basecamp at 4600 meters. After setting up camp, I climbed up to the moraine we would be scaling the next morning and took a look at the route. Recent glacial retreat had devastated the valley we needed to cross. Trundly piles of granite lay scattered at the angle of repose. To the west, the sun was sliding beneath a sea of threatening clouds. I sat in an utter silence, without even a breath of breeze, hoping for the clouds to lift and permit a glimpse of Pisco. After 30 minutes I gave up and shuffled back down to camp.

Nevado Pisco from the climb to basecamp

From Nevado Pisco

The moraine-valley we had to cross to get to pisco, aka, the warzone


A little before midnight Erin and I woke to the sound of snow skittering lightly on the Megamid. Not a propicious sign, I thought, and rolled over. At the appointed alpine hour of 1 AM, it was still snowing. I had no interest in setting off into a storm, so didn't even try to talk to Walter, our guide. At 2, he yelled over at us asking what we wanted to do. Since we had a weather day in reserve, it seemed obvious to wait a day. Another day couldn't hurt with acclimazation, either, I reasoned.

After sleeping long enough that bedsores seemed possible, we got up. Low clouds and occasional hail and snow flurries vindicated the decision to wait. To pass the time, we played cards, fixed ropes to practice our prussiking, and z-dragged ourselves around the pampa. After eating ourselves sick, we waddled our way back to the Megamid. Almost immediately after settling into the bags, it started snowing again. I groaned and said a prayer to the mountain gods and tried to sleep.

1 AM came all too early and it was game-time, snowing or not. We made satisfyingly good time across the no-mans-land of the valley. As we climbed, a ghostly half-moon pierced the clouds to cast a dim glow. It gave enough light that we turned off the headlamps and made our way on talus, then clay, and finally granite slabs up to the base of the glacier. However, our celebration for the seemingly-improving weather was shortlived. As we roped up, the clouds crept up the valley and engulfed us. We dubiously set off in the midst of an especially heavy snow shower and kicked steps up the steep headwall at the toe of the glacier.

After 20 minutes, we leveled out on a bench and paused to parlay. The clouds had made no sign of opening and continuing seemed like a folly. Regretfully, we turned around and plunge-stepped our way down. After taking some defeated photos of me climbing up and skiing approximately three turns, we skittered our way down the slabs just as the sun was beginning to assert itself through the clouds.

A little flavor of the times


Improving weather reflected in an electric-blue lake


Almost immediately, the wall of fog that we had been swimming through began to lift. Visibility opened up. Alpenglow lit Nevado Huandoy. We scratched our heads in amazement and we continued down the trail. I was tormented by visions of fine weather that I would be watching back at camp while I waited for the burros to carry us back to the highway. After another 15 minutes of improving weather and descent, I finally ventured the question that seemed to hang in the air: Can we turn around and give it another go?

Santa Cruz: Out

We headed out of the canyon to camp below the highest pass of the trek. It only took a few minutes of climbing on the trail for the views to open up. The snowy peak of Taulliraju dominated the landscape. When the sun shone on Talliraju, it began to creak and groan, heaving serac into the small alpine lake below.

Lift thine eyes

From Santa cruz

Talliraju

From Santa cruz

Not so early the next morning, we started our climb up to Punto Union pass. Breathing and walking got a little more difficult over 4500 meters, but we reached the pass in the late morning just before the clouds, rains, and hail hit.

Punto Union with people

From Santa cruz

Punto Union without people

From Santa cruz

We headed down the far side of the pass, feeling sorry for the groups of trekkers we met trudging upwards in the early afternoon hail. Although they didn't have to carry any packs and had an expert Peruvian guide leading them and cooking their meals, we knew they weren't going to get the kick-ass views that we had gotten just an hour before.

The path became more of a stream bed than a trail, making the 3400 foot descent slow going. Arriving in camp late afternoon, we set about making the worst camp meal we have had in a long time. I don't know how we screwed up pasta so bad, but Andrew couldn't even finish it off...which is saying a lot about quality. We fed the last bit of pasta to the cows, and hit the sack, planning to get back to Huaraz early the next day.

Reflection back over the pass at the end of the third day

From Santa cruz

It dawned a sunny, beautiful morning, and we made good time. We ate breakfast, packed up camp, and hiked the three hours out to a town (Vaqueria) to catch a bus back to civilization. We did this all by 1030 in the morning, and felt pretty good about being on schedule.

Right as we arrived at Vaqueria, a collectivo pulled up and the driver offered us a seat on the van back to Huaraz. We questioned again, and he confirmed that he was headed to Huaraz. We threw our packs on top of the bus and hopped in.

About an hour later, we were in Yanama. We were told that we would be waiting there for another hour before continuing. We got off and ate lunch, returning to the van about 10 minutes before the set departure time. To our surprise, the 12 passenger van was surrounded by about 30 people with varying sorts of items to be loaded on the top rack: bed frames, squash, desks, potatoes. Peering inside the van, almost all of the seats were already taken. The driver assured us that we had seats on the back bench of the van, so we got on and kicked off a few Peruvians that had taken over our seats...one with machete in hand.

After much negotiation and a few U-turns to pick up other passengers, we hit the road. Although most of the people wanting a ride had been turned away, there were 25 grown adults, three babies in arms, and a couple of brave souls riding on the roof as we headed away from Yanama. As we got farther from town, the scenery looked very familiar. It took me a few more confounded minutes before I realized we were headed back to Vaqueria, where we had started. Chalk another one up to transportation errors for the trip.

This time we continued past Vaqueria in the right direction: up. We topped out at a 4700 meter pass and began down the snaking dirt road to Yungay. I began cursing my long gringo legs crammed into the back bench of the van as the bus lurched and bounced around curves. Several times my head hit the top of the bus, and several times the girl sitting in the seat in front of me shot me some dirty looks when my knees dug too far into her back. We made it to Yungay around 4pm...a little later than we had planned. With sore knees and a few bruises, we were able to catch a scary, but (by comparison) luxury collectivo back to Huaraz. Showers, beer, protein, and roughage were in order.

The snaking road down from Vaqueria, dropping about 6000 feet.

From Santa cruz

Santa Cruz: In

Huaraz has 24,000 ft glaciated peaks, and the finest weather of any high mountains in the world. So we decided to go for a hike.

Our bodies lurched through an unpleasant dance in various colectivos from Huaraz to Cashapama, which took more time than we thought. It was already midafternoon when we hit the trail, so we ended up camped only 20 minutes from the trailhead in Cashapampa on a grassy spot next an ebullient Río Santa Cruz.

Lower Río Santa Cruz and so many bromeliads


This proved fortuitous, since the next morning we made the acquaintance of a resident species of biting black fly that thrived in the canyon between 3300 meters and 3700 meters--where we had contemplating making camp (in our open tarp) the day before. With our early start we were able to camp above its awful kingdom. In camp, we spent a pleasant evening scratching our dozens of itchy, red welts and watching cows defecate in the stream we our drinking water was coming from.


Slight navigation error before our camp in Quishuar the second night

From Santa cruz

Full moon lighting camp

From Santa cruz

Giving the cows a taste of their own medicine

From Santa cruz

It rained overnight, but the next day dawned fair. We detoured from the trail and hiked up a side canyon to the south-side basecamp for Alpamayo. The clouds quickly moved in, so that view were pretty hide-and-seek by the time we made it up the lake where its southern icefall had carved out.

From Santa cruz

Poor Bessie, evidence of the constant ranching activity in the valley


Cairn and a peak in the Nevados de Caraz

From Santa cruz

The lakes in the area have a seemingly-strange series of dikes and channels. But the shifty glacial moraines that dam many of them have burst after earthquakes or seracfall. This caused a number of horrific aluviones (mudflows), the most infamous of which buried all 25,000 inhabitants of the city of Yungay alive. Now the lakes that might threaten the valley has been excavated or reinforced.

After admiring the engineering at Lake Ayhueycocha, we descended back to the valley, collected our craftily disguised cache of gear and hiked to the camp below the main difficulty of the hike, the 15,600 foot Punta de Unión.

Huaraz and Not-Lima

Operation Lima was a success. After asking around in Nazca to all the bus companies we could find, we figured out how to get to Huaraz without spending more than a couple of hours in Lima. Now, you might think we are being unfair. But even people who like cities have told us to avoid Lima. And after crawling up the walls in La Paz, we were inclined to believe them.

We did, however have a fascinating conversation with a graduate student doing his field work in Perú on peasant militias (originally formed to fight against the sendero luminoso) in the Ayacucho area. According to him and his professor, Lima has a much more favorable opinion of Fujimori, in contrast to Arequipa. However, because of how Fujimori favored certain regions, or even certain populations within certain regions, it's more complicated than just Lima liking Fujimori and Arequipa hating him. In Ayacucho, the city liked Fujimori (because of development aid received) and the campesinos hated him. Or maybe I've got that backwards. But anyway, it's complicated.

Fujimori innocent (often found next to signs to vote for his daughter Keiko in 2011, who has promised to pardon him)


Hauraz seems like a paradise for climbing, trekking and maybe even skiing. On the bus we sat next to a German who had brought AT set up. He had a very sharp Dynafit jacket on, too. I was jealous. Who wants to come to the Cordillera Blanca with me next season? There's big wall and sport climbing as well as fluted, scary-looking summits over 20,000 ft.

View of Huascarán (22206 ft!!) from our hostel.


We are going for a hike in the Quebrada de Santa Cruz tomorrow so will be incommunicado for a few days.