Huayhuash Alpine Circuit October 2023

The Cordillera Huayhuash in the Peruvian Andes is home to some of the steepest, gnarliest peaks in... I dunno I think the whole world. Two especially famous mountains in this range are Yerupajá, one of the highest (6635m) and most challenging climbs in the Andes, and Siula Grande, the one where Joe Simpson broke his leg and was left for dead as documented in his book 'Touching the Void'. Although the range holds a rich climbing history, this trip wasn't about summiting any of the serac ridden faces in the Huayhuash, it was simply a bid to navigate the high passes that separate them. This, in itself, proved tricky.

Carhuacocha Valley in all its glory

I'd initially planned a solo trek, 8 days around the outside of the Huayhuash range, following a well trodden route, frequented nowadays by guided groups aided by donkeys. The logistics of accessing the range unguided were blurry at best but I'd figure it out when I got there one way or another. I would just have to finagle my mediocre spanish through a maze of confused Peruvians, hopefully stumbling across the right path at some point. However, a couple weeks out from the trip, I got a series of texts from my buddy Joe. Although his messages are always a bit cryptic, if not outright chaotic, the gist of these ones was pretty clear: 'I decided to go to Peru next week, I'll meet you in Huaraz for the Huayhuash.' Maybe I should have been more surprised at the news, but if there's anyone in the world I know who would drop everything and fly to Peru for a month on short notice it's Joe. I’d met the guy just a couple months earlier while gold prospecting in the Yukon. We were thrown on a contract together, to work as a duo for six weeks in the remote mountains of the Canadian subarctic. Although not without a healthy amount of butting heads, we got along pretty good, so I was stoked to spend another couple weeks butting heads - this time in the Andes. Throughout the following week I waded through a storm of texts as we tried to figure out last minute details, each exchange punctuated by Joe's kiwi slang like 'I'm fizzin bro' and 'when can I catch ya on the blower?'. 

Huaraz from our beer drinking spot at Aldo's Hostel

As promised, I rocked up to Aldo's Hostel in the high altitude city of Huaraz just a couple weeks later to find Joe, relaxing on the rooftop porch sipping a Cusqunea “what took ya so long?”. Huaraz is a messy city of 120,000, nestled in the Cordillera Blanca, that acts as a mecca for mountain tourism. Joe and I spent a week in Huaraz drinking beer, eating good food, drinking beer, flirting with the tall blonde European ladies at the hostel, drinking beer… oh yea and acclimatizing. It's pretty easy to access good hiking via one of the many colectivos (public transport combi buses) that trickle out from the city center, although 4 days of hiking later I found I’d picked away at the best trails and was getting antsy to leave the city. October 17th rolled around (the day before our trek) and my body decided, at last, maybe too much beer. I became bedridden with sickness. My nose was a snot faucet and my throat was on fire. I slept not a wink before our alarm buzzed at 03:45 the next morning. Thus began our adventure. 

October 18th: I promise he wont rob you.

Logistics remained fuzzy even as we boarded our 5am bus for Chiqián - a small, remote town 3 hours south of Huaraz in the foothills of the Huayhuash. Having Joe along certainly helped in trying to figure things out but his Spanish was miles worse than mine so it still fell on me to make things happen. From Chiqián, we would need to find a colectivo that would take us an additional 1.5 hours along a winding gravel road to the even smaller, more remote town of Llamac from which we would start our hike. The classic Huayhuash route starts at Quartelhuain, a campsite quite a ways past Llamac on the gravel road, but that requires hiring a 2.5 hour taxi from Chiqián which we had no interest in paying for. 

Our bus arrived in Chiqián at 7:30am, and waiting right outside our stop was a kid, maybe 14 years old, with a run down corolla that read ‘Taxi’. He insisted on driving us to Llamac. I protested “no quiero taxi, dondé es el colectivo para Llamac?”. We didn't want a taxi, we wanted the colectivo but he kept telling us the bus wouldn't come until 5pm. We didn't trust the kid, and definitely didn't want him to drive us 1.5 hours on loose, winding canyon roads. Joe and I walked away, confused, and started wandering the Chiqián streets. For a town of 4000, it was already buzzing with activity at this hour. We continued walking the busy streets and asking locals about the colectivo. Unfortunately, we got the same answer over and over: no colectivo until 5pm. Pretty soon a local named Carlos approached us, eager to chat with foreigners. I held a conversation in broken Spanish for a while as we continued walking to nowhere in particular. When I told Carlos we were trying to get to Llamac, he lit up and gestured for us to follow him. We ducked down a side street and wound up in a small room with a small lady sitting at a small desk. She had someone who could take us to Llamac for 150 soles (about $60CAD). We gave up on the colectivo and agreed, then sat down and waited. 30 minutes went by while the bubbly Peruvian desk lady spoke Spanish very fast. I tried my best to keep pace with her banter but my brain was getting exhausted. From what I picked up, she had taken her walking stick into the Huayhuash mountains and hiked for days with donkeys and it was beautiful and she was surprised we were carrying all our own gear, she also grew pumpkins or squash or something and she had some bread to share with us - a little dry but we weren't about to complain. I wish I could remember her name. We visited her on our way back through the town a week later - still bubbly as ever. 

Joe looking angrily at a street dog for no reason in Chiqián

At long last we heard a rumble outside and an old, rusty Nissan pickup clanked up alongside our alcove. Half the windows were missing and the cracked windshield seemed only loosely placed into the vehicle's frame as it would move and bounce at a rhythm entirely different to that of the truck. The driver hopped out and 'popped' the hood, although the hinges for it were rusted out so he kind of just pulled it off and laid it on the road while he changed some fluids. The truck was sitting so low in the front that the fenders were essentially resting on the tires - no suspension left whatsoever. We loaded a spare tire and some engine oil into the bed of the truck and started making our way to the doors, which were sagging off the frame and unable to fully open or close. Just then our friend Carlos came around the corner and started his friendly conversation once again. He sensed our hesitation with the ride and sent us off with some comforting (?) words in as simple Spanish as he could: “prometo, él no te roba” - I promise he won't rob you. I hopped in the front seat and slammed the door behind me - the handle came off in my hand and I began frantically looking around for a place to stash it so I wouldn't be blamed. The glove box wasn't an option because there was no glove box, just a big hole in the dashboard through which I could peer deep into the workings of the vehicle. I stuffed it under the disintegrating floor matt where nobody would notice.

Our ride to Llamac

We rattled down the dirt road, winding through canyons, and past small paddocks. Part way in, we came to a halt and an old lady approached our truck carrying big bags of peaches from her homestead. We paid 3 soles ($1) for a bag of maybe 20 peaches then continued on our journey, chewing our way through juicy peaches for the next hour until our arrival in Llamac. Although Llamac is a lovely little abode, we were eager to get on the trail, plus I was about 90 seconds away from pissing myself after the long bumpy road, so we set off straight away for the mountains above. 

The trail wound up towards the distant snowy peaks of the Huayhuash high above, and provided a window into the peaceful lives far below at valley bottom. We found ourselves watching a pair of young farmers walk their cattle between fields for 40 minutes as we continued munching peaches in the sun. I concluded that being at a place in life where you can just sit and watch people walk cattle for as long as you want is a good place to be.

Leaving Llamac just as soon as Joe finishes tying his shoe

Our first night would be spent at Jahuacocha, a campsite nestled among cattle paddocks, dotted with mud huts that had straw roofs and surrounded by intertwining walls of piled stones. The stones, collected from glacial moraines that lined every valley in the Huayhuash made up some part of every structure in these valleys. It made sense - no use in bringing materials up from lower elevation when rocks will do just fine. Approaching the campsite, we waved to a couple of kids fishing in the meandering stream - they didn't wave back, maybe because Joe's walking stick made him look like crotchety old man when he moved. The kids were using the preferred method here of resting a wooden stick with a hook on the end very still in the water until one of the small trout came nearby, which they would then snag by jolting their stick upwards.

The cattle were completely oblivious to the fact they were surrounded by marvels of geology.

Setting camp, the clouds parted up the valley revealing Ninashanca, Rondoy, Jirishanca, and Yerupajá Chico, four stunning peaks increasing in height from north to south. We spent the evening watching the clouds swirl and shift around these 6000m giants as we ate somewhat palatable rehydrated mashed potato.

Jahuacocha

October 19th: He'd already eaten half his beef jerky, a move he'd come to regret.

We awoke to another clear morning and set off at first light for Paso Rondoy, a 4750m pass that would take us to Quartelhuain, our next camp spot. Not long after leaving camp, we noticed two stray dogs had started following us. We'd heard of the strays in the Andes, and had decided before the trip that we wanted no part in their stinky, rabid business. Unfortunately when we made that decision I didn't take into account how handsome they could be. Joe held strong and tried to shoo them off, I didn't hold quite as strong, and instead gave them head pats when Joe wasn't looking.

Cloud (left) and Travis (right)

As we climbed the pass, Yerupajá proper revealed itself for the first time behind us. This steep, inhospitable anomaly is a sight we would become familiar with over the next week as we circumnavigated the massif. My snot faucet, still very active, had kept me awake again for much of the previous night so I was lagging behind as the trail steepened towards the summit. Although I had hope, I knew there was a decent chance this sickness would persist the entire trip. I'm no doctor but I figured 8 days of hiking and sleeping in our noticeably thin atmosphere above 4000m isn't the kindest on the immune system. 

Yerupajá

Just before reaching our high point for the day the weather set in. Wind swept fiercely through the pass and chunks of hail began pattering off our shoulders. Upon gaining the pass, Joe sat down and pulled out his package of beef jerky. Of all the food we'd brought, the beef jerky was gold. It was a tasty snack, sure, but as the trip went on it also became a source of motivation in hard times, a valuable trading piece, and even a symbol of status. It seemed that Joe early on was losing status quickly as he'd already eaten half his beef jerky, a move he'd come to regret. The two dogs sat by us in worsening weather and Joe decided we should name them. Still trying not to get attached to these pups, I thought of naming them as just a fun way to pass the time, nothing more. The black fluffy one became 'Travis', and the other 'Cloud'. Not sure where the name Cloud came from because he had zero resemblance to anything cloud related, but Joe seemed to think it was a good name so I didn't argue. 

The trail down the north side of Paso Rondoy was pleasant walking, with a gradual angle, although the fierce rain and hail hurried our descent to valley bottom. We had talked about veering off the conventional Huayhuash route, instead cutting the corner through Paso Caracocha but, upon laying eyes on the steep route that would require exposed sections of scrambling, we decided it made more sense to follow the conventional route while the weather remained unforgiving. Plus we wanted to warm up to these mountains a bit before trying anything too crazy. 

A spot of sun hit us as we reached the gravel road at valley bottom. We had our first doubts of Travis and Cloud here after they bothered a passing horse rider, and Joe started threatening the two pups with the walking stick he'd found to try and get rid of them. They'd clearly had experience with stick wielding humans in the past because they were very responsive to the gesture. Turns out Joe's stick did more than just make him look like an old hunchbacked shepherd. We set camp at Quartelhuain just before 2pm and the rain picked up again almost immediately. It took only five minutes of sitting in our tent before we were bored. We hadn't brought cards or games or anything to pass the time during weather stints and we were quickly running out of things to talk about. Later in the trip we would eventually resort, in desperation, to things like counting the teeth on the tent zipper, throwing things into various tent pockets, or seeing who could catch more rainwater in their tiny ass bowl (I won… by a lot). 

mmm that's a tasty thumb

An hour passed in the rain until we heard approaching footsteps outside and we both jumped at the opportunity for reprise from our nylon prison. We approached a trio of euro travelers, eager to chat with new faces. They'd completed four days and we're ready to get out of the mountains, hoping to hitch a ride somewhere, anywhere it seemed, on the dirt road below us. Regardless of our efforts to hold conversation with the tired hikers, they were antsy to keep moving so we wished them luck and then perched ourselves on the hilltop to watch their night unfold. They descended to the road to try their luck but the few vehicles that passed before dark didn't even slow down to acknowledge their frantic waving. This confusing behavior didn't reflect the, usually very friendly and helpful, interactions we'd had thus far with locals at all. Eventually, the euro squad, looking deflated, trudged down the road out and of sight. The disappearance of our European entertainment spelled bedtime as the rain started picking up, so we settled into the tent once again for the night. 

October 20th: The valley of Carhuacocha is breathtaking.

First pass of the day (Cacanapunta)

Joe and I knew that a guided group was just one day ahead of us on the standard Huayhuash route because several friends we'd met at our Huaraz hostel were taking part. We decided to combine two days of walking into one, partly because it made sense with our food budget, and not entirely unrelated to the fact that one of these Huaraz friends was a cute German gal with whom I had an interest in flirting. 

Joe set a stiff pace up the first pass, especially for my, still very sick, lowsy butt. Although Travis had disappeared, Cloud had stuck around for day 2. Joe, however, remained reluctant to have him and never let him get within a bus length without raising his stick. I put on a mean face when Joe was around, but continued with the odd secret head pat. Views from this first pass didn't reveal the high glaciated peaks in the central Huayhuash that we'd had the previous two days but we enjoyed the variety, marveling at colorful valleys encased in swooping rock formations and high elevation plateaus. A steep, rocky chute led us off the ridge and, just like the day prior, the weather began setting in early. I suggested we veer off the muddy, donkey trodden path that led down the valley, instead staying high to find our own route over two small passes off trail. Enthusiastic at first, it didn't take long for Joe to start cursing my decision as we skirted into complete whiteout on increasingly snow covered slopes. 

An hour passed before we saw, well… anything at all. Earlier doubts of our route choice faded slightly, though, once we emerged from the fog and into a peaceful paddock, perched at the foot of looming limestone walls, set high above a wide, U shaped valley and a glassy lagoon. We breathed in deeply to savor the moment - ahh the sweet smell of cow shit. We split up, each meandering our own route across the paddocks, and down to the water's edge. At this point we had the option to climb back high again off the conventional route through steep terrain, or follow a gradual climb over our second, and final, pass. Although the sun was now warming our faces, it was already 11:00, and afternoon weather hadn't been kind to us thus far. To avoid the possibility of getting caught high in a thunderstorm, we decided on the valley route. 

A couple hours of simple walking past happy cattle led us to a breezy 4600m before dropping down the other side. Jirishanca poked its untamed headwall through the broken clouds in the distance. Getting a glimpse of such an untamed face reminded us of the stark contrast between those wild peaks and domesticated valley in which we walked. Our valley which had been pounded into submission by pack animals day after day, creating a wide, muddy hiking trail. Beautiful as the conventional Huayhuash route was, it was becoming clear that Joe and I craved a more intimate interaction with these mountains. 

A smattering of poopy trail beneath Jirishanca

Call me ;)

Not far down the trail, Cloud found a fresh feast.   A mother cow had passed away whilst giving birth, rolling down the valley wall to where she lay now. A harsh reality for the cattle out here. The carcasses would feed scavengers such as stray dogs and the famously enormous Andean Condors (a bird which we had yet to see, being a rare sight in the Huayhuash).14:00 rolled around as we crested the bend and found a hilltop perch above the valley. 

The valley of Carhuacocha is breathtaking. Just beyond the lagoon, where we would eventually set camp, grassy meadows turned to tails of glacial till that rose into crumbling moraines. Cracking ice falls became thick glaciers of blue ice that nestled themselves in the nooks beneath slabs of black rock and seracs hanging 60 meters high. Above that, unforgiving headwalls of 70 degree ice snaked through rock overhangs and shot on impossible angles towards the sharp, corniced ridge tops and finally to where pointed summits cut through wisping cloud. Three peaks - Yerupajá, Yerupajá Chico and Jirishanca - stood proud, in clear view. We sat and admired them for a long while; it seemed there were endless levels of intricacy to these peaks, such that one could sit there all day and never get bored. Unfortunately we didnt have all day, and at some point we reluctantly moved on towards the camp below.

What a poser

Descending towards our campsite, we assumed our friends were somewhere among the tight-knit patch of yellow tents at one end. After setting our tent at the other end of the site, I started feeling a wave of sinus infection boil up in the form of snot. I made my way towards the water's edge to wash my face but an unfortunate misstep sent my right foot splashing into the shallow frigid water. I sat down to collect myself and found my nose had started pouring blood, likely due to the cumulative wear of three days of snot rockets. The odds of these inconveniences all lining up were baffling but, even more baffling, was Joe piping up "Hey look, it's Isabel!". The German gal I'd wanted to try my luck with had spotted us and started making her way over to say hello. Perfect timing. 

October 21st: It wasn't just snowing, it was absolutely nuking.

Weather doin its thang

Weather on the east side of the Huayhuash is known to be consistently worse than the west, but we wouldn't let the rain and low fog harsh our proverbial mellow. We set off at 5:30am regardless, deciding today to take the high route (as opposed to the valley route) after chatting about it with some farmers at Carhuacocha. Making our way past the moraine-lined lagoons beneath Siula Grande, the fog would persist, giving us only occasional glimpses at the glaciers above. The trail skirted a steep valley wall, climbing above overhung cliffs. Each step brought us closer to the ceiling of fog until we were engulfed in complete whiteout at 4600m with still another 250m to climb. We crested onto a little plateau and got tied up in a game of  'try to pick your way through hidden swamps coated with ice in a whiteout' . There were no winners, not even the swamp which was left imprinted with mucky foot holes. Wet feet brought me up the final steep pitch to the pass, where Joe was waiting, and, as if like clockwork, it began to snow. 

The weather variation one can experience in the Huayhuash is nothing short of comedic. Early morning sun will melt the overnight ice from your tent and then, within a couple hours, force you into short sleeves and sun hats. You can spend an entire day in summer attire if the weather holds and the high elevation sun will peel your skin in a flash if you aren't careful. When the weather turns, however, you can end up shivering through your down layers as snow cakes your shoulders. That was our situation at the moment, but, instead of sulking at our misfortune, we were completely swept up in the magic of the Andean squall. It wasn't just snowing, it was absolutely nuking. The fantastically relentless storm was producing snowflakes the size of quarters. Skiers starved of winter too long, we hit stoke level 1000 pretty quick, and it wasn't long before we were reminiscing about deep powder, steep spines, and pillow lines. As time passed in our winter wonderland, the fat flakes became rhymed balls became icy whisps and then nothing at all and the clouds did their best to part above us, revealing crumbling rock peaks and vast glaciers across the valley. Forty minutes had already zipped by on our 4850m perch, and we found a moment of silence, watching the Huayhuash peaks reveal themselves once again. Joe cut in "How did we get here bro? We're in the Peruvian Andes". 

Joe contemplating his cracker in the snowstorm

I managed to trip and fall into that puddle on the trail even
after stopping right in front of it to take a picture

At last we descended from the high pass towards a new set of paddocks, donkeys, straw huts and lagoons. Cloud, after sleeping in that morning, had found us during our long break at the pass. The dog was becoming more of a welcome sight each day as we began appreciating his laid back attitude and conflict averse nature. Ironically, these friendly attributes were put aside shortly after leaving the summit as we admired his furious attempt to hunt a bounding vicuña. Cloud chased it strategically with another stray at a speed unparalleled except by, unfortunately for him, the vicuña itself. No dice on that hunt, and he eventually came slinking back up the valley to find us again. Just as he was greeting us, we received another welcome greeting - "Jooooo!!" We turned around to see the entire guided group far above us, all nine of their hands in the air waving excitedly. Joe and I had gotten into the habit of introducing ourselves both as Joe because we thought it was stupid and funny and people usually got a kick out of it. This meant, after eventually chatting with all 9 parts of the guided group at some point the night before, we'd become pseudo famous among their group as the Joe's. We waved back, trying to seem nonchalant but wondering amongst ourselves what we'd said or done to charm them into such enthusiasm. 

Our gear drying window coming to and end

After meandering down from the pass and through grassy meadows for a couple hours, we reached our camp spot. The weather dropped a gift on us as we arrived and rain gave way to sun for a moment. We set the tent and dried out some gear in the short window, assessing any damages we’d sustained from the past two days of rain. Joe discovered an unfortunate casualty as he pulled his soggy, disintegrating roll of toilet paper from his jacket pocket. "Got any spare, gee?" - I took a look at my own toilet paper situation - dry but quickly approaching its end - "sorry bud, looks like you'll have to drop golden tickets the rest of the trip", Joe hung his head and waddled off towards the pit toilets. 

The sun didn't last long, and we later found ourselves sharing a shot of Peruvian corn liqueur in the donkey stable with a pair of French hikers who were trying desperately to dry their soggy gear under the straw roof after missing the window of sun. Joining them for a quick dinner in the stable, we left them to sleep in their donkey shit palace and called an early bedtime.

October 22nd: I looked up at Joe, his eyes were wide, mine probably wider.

This would be decision day for Joe and I. Although I've been talking about this trek being 8 days, we were packing 10 days of food because we hadn't yet fully decided which route we would take. If we followed the traditional guided route it would be 10 days, however we had the option at this point to instead go for the “alpine circuit”, which would shorten our total by two days but add a solid dose of sketchiness. 

I'll give some background on this alpine circuit thing so we're on the same page. The Huayhuash alpine circuit was thought up in the early 2000's by mountain climbers, originating from routes used to gain access to the climbable faces and glaciers of the peaks above. Two Peruvian guides reported their traverse of the circuit in 2005, which involved large sections off trail, exposed scrambling, and some light mountaineering on glaciated sections. Instead of circumnavigating the Huayhuash range like the valley route does, the alpine route cuts the thing right in half, adding two tricky 5000m passes. Although the route is probably now repeated at some regular interval, there remains no trail and, at least when we were there, not another soul in sight. The two aforementioned 'glaciated sections' have seen some sun since 2005, and now have quite a bit less ice best we could tell. Joe and I, based on recent satellite imagery, were pretty sure we could put together scrambling routes that skirted the edge of these suppressed ice margins, forgoing the need for glacier gear, but we wanted to get some eyes on before making any decisions. 

A very small piece of the very large Jurau Glacier

We set off at our usual 0530 in a low fog that looked to be quickly burning off as the morning sun began piercing holes through the layer. Walls of sheer limestone became illuminated behind us and up ahead the giant seracs of the Jurau glacier came into view. We climbed a steep step to gain the plateau beneath the glacier and I stopped, in awe of what lay before us. Joe pushed ahead, always in a hurry to gain the pass, but I stayed on the plateau, fighting my way over loose hummocks and around ponds of runoff until I was at the seam where the rocky till turned to glacial ice. Although I’m no stranger to glaciers, something about those Huayhuash icefalls that cling themselves to near vertical, crumbling rock faces with big, overhung seracs showing blue ice is enchanting.

By the time I made the 5000m col at Paso Trapecio, Joe was nowhere to be found. I dropped my pack and sat down to admire Cuyoc in the distance. Cuyoc is a flat-topped, snow capped peak that shoots up like a 5000m barnacle from the whales back of the Huayhuash. Adding to its grace is a laguna of vibrant blue, glacial runoff that sits at its base. I hadn't sat for long before I heard Joe shouting my name, and I turned to see him high above on a rock outcrop waving his arms. I dropped my pack and started the long scramble up, eventually meeting him at 5150m on a viewpoint that revealed all the major peaks in the southeast of the range as well as the full extent of the Jurau glacier. This viewpoint was where we had to decide either to make a break for the alpine route or continue to valley bottom. The Jurau glacier is one section where past groups have required glacier travel but , from what we could see, there was a relatively straightforward, if at times scrambly, route around its cracking margin all the way through the valley. This was good news to us and made our decision easy - alpine route it was. 

Cuyoc

The glacier tongue with its evil smile

When we descended back to the col, our friends had already made the pass and were sitting in the sun. We told them our plans to leave the main route, which meant we were saying goodbyes. We didn't dwell though, and by 11:00 we were making haste. Although Cloud followed us off the col, we hit our first scrambly section almost immediately after leaving the main trail and gave the stray our friendliest goodbye pats before clambering up a set of loose, muddy chutes that would take us to the glacier. Only 50 meters up the pitch we came face to face with a thick tongue of ice that was calving into a little tarn. Easy enough to get around though, we continued up to our second 5000m pass of the day. Joe, as per usual, was buzzing with geological excitement in this valley, which looked like it had been cheese grated top to bottom by the glacier and had some funky mineral intrusions. I'm a bit shit at geology but Joe made it sound interesting. I'll give you his number if you have any questions - he's single, ladies.

We navigated bulges of smooth, striated rock along the west margin of the glacier, stopping now and again to admire the peaks above. At one point we spotted a waterfall perfect for a makeshift shower, something we both needed real bad at this point, especially Joe, but we couldn't bring ourselves to give it a go as our sun had begun to give way to much colder, grayer skies. We were eager to drop some elevation and set camp before the arrival of evening rain. Our valley took a sharp, westerly turn after a couple clicks and dropped off steeply, thus began a section of pleasant route finding requiring careful footing and the odd rock climbing move. 

Did I go colorblind or this photo actually just grayscale

A couple hours of that brought us to a camp spot at 4600m on a perch that revealed the valley ahead towards Yerupajá and Siula Grande as well as a clear shot back up the glaciated valley we’d just descended. Joe took his shoes off camp-side to relax for a moment and I immediately wished I’d pushed harder for him to try out the natural shower. The sun poked out again just before disappearing early behind the high peaks surrounding us and temperatures dropped quickly. 

You're lucky I didn't choose the version of this photo where Joe is picking lint out of his belly button

We shivered while eating dinner, trying our best to enjoy the spectacular views, but struggling against the pull of warm sleeping bags in our tent. To keep the evening alive a bit longer, Joe suggested we try to start a fire using a trick he’d learned in Nepal. We gathered the oldest, driest cow patties we could find and piled them in a makeshift fire pit. I grabbed a lighter as Joe poured some of our cooking gas on the pile, then things got interesting. At this point, after a long day at altitude, our level of communication was lacking slightly. I reached in to light the pile just as Joe went to drip a bit more gas on. It lit up in a fireball which, for one second, was fun and exciting but very quickly turned to chaos. The fire had traveled up the stream of gas and was now thriving on the 600ml of white gas remaining in the bottle. Joe, stunned, was holding the bottle, which was completely engulfed in flames, in his bare hands. We both started yelling things at the same time and neither of us could hear each other. Time passed in slow motion as Joe tried to screw the lid back on the flaming bottle, all the while ignoring me shouting “drop the bottle! Just drop it!”. Amidst the panic, the fire we’d started on the ground was also becoming a hazard as we scurried around the site frantically. 

“Get a towel!” yelled Joe as he finally got the lid back on and threw the, still flaming, canister on the ground. I ran to the tent then stopped for a second - ‘a towel?’ i thought to myself, ‘where would I find a fucking towel? Everything we have here is either down, fleece, or nylon’ - I grabbed a liter of water and ran back to Joe, who was now packing the wettest cow patties he could find around the flaming bottle. I dumped the entire liter onto the scene. To our shared amazement it had no effect, as the flames sputtered back to life almost immediately. I started helping Joe pack cow shit around the bottle until it was completely out of site under a pile of brown. We stopped for a moment and I looked up at Joe, his eyes were wide, mine probably wider. After a few seconds Joe kicked the top off our shit pile and, sure enough, the thing lit up in flames - panic once again. “Its not gonna work!” I yelled, “what do we do?!” Joe shouted back, already busy grabbing more handfuls of shit to pack on. This is all we could do right now. We covered the bottle entirely once again, this time with a much denser layer of cow feces. We stomped it down over and over and over again until we were sure there was no way it had enough oxygen to keep burning, then we waited. Maybe 30 seconds passed this time before we gingerly dug into the shit pile and found… no flames. A sigh of relief and a moment of silence passed. Then, simultaneously, we broke into laughter. We laughed and laughed some more until the stars came out. We settled into our sleeping bags for the night where we laughed ourselves to sleep. 

October 23rd: Truly the largest bird I’ve ever seen in my life.

I arose in the night for my regular 2am piss, a phenomenon that Joe had come to despise as I somehow managed to wake him up every time. At least I wasn't the one with feet that stunk up the tent all night long. You always butt heads a little when you're just two for a trip like this. Fortunately though, we had our fair share of alone time as my sickness meant Joe was far outpacing me every morning on the climbs (I should also give credit where it's due. The guy is strong even when I’m having a good day). Back to my 2am piss. I clambered awkwardly from the tent into, to my delight, a perfectly clear sky spotted with all the intricacy of the milky way. The snowy peaks above stood like the ghosts of giants in the night. And best of all… silence - no donkeys, cows, dogs, other campers, just us and the mountains. Here, we were truly alone, and the uncertainty that lay ahead only sparked my excitement further. Challenging terrain ahead meant we’d have to be smart, careful, and make some tough decisions. This is what we’d come here for, and the prospect of tough decisions served to excite more than anything else. Reluctantly, I climbed back into my sleeping bag, shivering after trying my best to prolong the starry bliss piss. 

I dont know what to caption this one

Token self timed photo

Clear weather persisted into the morning, but Joe and I had no desire to stick around for the warm sun to crest our campsite, instead sticking faithfully to our 0530 start in the frigid air. Not 30 minutes after setting off for our next objective, Paso Rosario, I dunked my foot in a glacial creek crossing. Joe giggled to himself from the other side, I wasn't quite as jolly about it in my morning grumpiness. We scurried up and over an impressive medial moraine, standing 70 meters high, which led us to another, slightly trickier creek crossing. No slips on this one though, and we started up the mellow valley just as the sun finally reached valley bottom, warming our mitts and down jackets. We stopped to de-layer and I convinced Joe to pose for a token self timed photo. I just needed one to prove to my mom I wasn't alone out there. 

Siula Grande

Our route followed a network of game trails that braided their way up the hillside towards Rosario. I stopped partway when the empty patch of dirt denoting Siula Grande base camp came into view below us, the peak itself standing proud above. We’d seen this peak from a few angles now and each new face looked less and less climbable. To the best of my knowledge your options are 1. the north ridge, a finnicky climb to a long, knife edge and heavily corniced ridgeline 2. the west face, a more direct climb first ascended by Joe Simpson and Simon Yates as described in Touching the Void but riddled with rock and ice bulges that consistently produce dangerous debris fall, or 3. something on the south face which has large sections of planar climbing but is riddled with enormous, looming seracs. The thing is no joke, as is the story with most peaks in the Huayhuash. 

Another push and some awkward route finding led to a small rocky outcrop ahead. Joe reached the spot first and I was making the final push when, from up the valley, a bird came into view in the distance. I watched it for a moment as it approached our outcrop. The mostly black animal soared towards us, not once flapping its wings. I was taken aback initially by its poise, but it wasn't until it came swooping right above us did I grasp the sheer size of this bird. It was absolutely, breathtakingly enormous. Truly the largest bird I’ve ever seen in my life. As it soared over our heads we spotted its white collar - a telltale of the Andean Condor. These birds are the biggest flying creatures by mass on the planet and can have wingspans of 10 feet or more - this fella I’m sure was damn near that. I sat down to admire it circling us time and time again, coming in for close looks, all the while coasting effortlessly in the clear sky. Andean Condors can fly many hours, or even entire days without once flapping their wings, instead usingtheir incredible surface area to ride mountain drafts. Being vultures, they eat carrion, which isn't hard to come by with clumsy cattle roaming the range. Andean farmers have an admirable respect for the birds, but also a great fear that, in some regions, has led to a declining population attributed to defensive killings. Conservation efforts for the Andean Condor often start with increased education amongst mountain locals who might become combative towards a Condor, assuming it will target their young cattle. Contrary to oral histories across the Andes, however, studies show the bird will almost never attack a healthy animal. 

Joe's shot of the Condor - NatGeo is calling

Cover up those arms, you're peeling

The Condor moved on after some time, deciding we weren’t rotting carcasses despite our potent stench, and we pushed on towards the pass. This climb was endless, and grueling. From our rocky outcrop it was straight up a grassy, 45 degree slope for 2 hours. With a 10 day pack, at 5000m, that's tough. I was head down, one foot in front of the other, for what felt like an eternity. But eventually I looked up, and the top was there, not too far off. I was absolutely mucking my bag of lollies at this point, hoping the sugar would distract my body from despair, and the top got closer yet. The summit push turned from grass to rock and deep red dirt. When I reached Joe at the top, he was already eager to get moving down the other side. Although tired, I took a look at the deteriorating weather and agreed. Our stunning morning was already giving way to dark clouds at only 1100, so we started shimmying and sliding down the loose slope on the other side, picking our way around cliffs in search of supportive ground. 

Shimmy slide down the other side

At one section we were able to get a distant look at the pass we’d be attempting the next day. This was the second pass that historically required glacier travel. I was first to get eyes on our planned route. I studied it carefully for a moment. “oh man, it doesn’t look great” I mumbled down to Joe. He dropped his pack and clambered up alongside me to take a look. He too, took some time to asses the pass before concluding “glacier looks bigger than the satellite imagery” “Yeah, we might still be able to make it work though” “Mhm, we’ll get a better look up close in the morning” We continued our descent to valley bottom. A lot was going through my head as we trudged the last few km’s to camp on the shore of a moraine sheltered tarn. Even if we had had glacier kit, the lower tongue was so heavily cracked it was unclear whether that would even be a safer route than to attempt navigating the loose rocks and cliffed terrain beyond its margin. Laying in the tent that night, I kept visualizing the challenging day to come, and my 2am piss was far from bliss as I stared into the ghostly eyes of the glacier above, imagining us tumbling off the cliffs and disappearing into the open crevasses below. 

Our camp spot between moraines

October 24th: From this ledge onward, we would be working in a no fall zone.

Camp teardown was quick, we were eager to get a better look at the route awaiting us. From the second we left our 4600m camp at Laguna Caramarca, we were charging. Straddling a steep lateral moraine that led us fall line directly towards the nose of the glacier, we gained 350m in just over an hour - pretty good for being at 5000m with a heavy pack on a loose moraine. Then, at last, we got eyes on the Rasac glacier, wedged tightly against a steep wall on its west margin just as we’d seen the day before. We took some time in the morning sun to parse together a scrambling route through what we could see of the steep face. We could ascend a chute of rockfall to gain a small ledge which traversed on top of the first bluff, then we could kick steps into a 50 degree slope of finer rock and packed dirt to gain a second bluff. Another packed dirt slope would take us to a dragon's back feature that looked climbable. From there it got a little fuzzy as it appeared to cliff out but we were missing a lot of perspective from our viewing angle. We were confident we could piece together at least the first half, and the second half would have to come later. 

Gaining the first ledge after climbing a chute

The first section went mostly to plan, up the chute to our first ledge. From this ledge onward, we would be working in a no fall zone. One slip would send you tumbling off the cliffs below and into the cracks of the Rasac glacier. The pack dirt slopes proved a little spooky, it was a process of kicking in steps, scurrying quickly past exposed sections, and always looking for the next island of safety, usually in the form of solid rock. Overall, however, it was feeling very doable. Within a half hour we’d made the second bluff. We stemmed down a chimney of crumbling rock to our next dirt slope which was the same story as the last, although some intermittent rock fall from above made us move a little quicker, settling for mediocre feet instead of kicking solid steps. Then we made the dragon's back, which proved an excellent island of safety. It was easy climbing on solid rock with a wide ledge at the top, enough for us to drop the packs for a moment and assess what lay ahead. It looked possible to continue climbing vertically on good rock but the moves looked steeper and less secure than what we’d just done and there was no way of knowing where that rockface led, as it rolled over out of sight. This meant that if we went for it only to find out it led nowhere, we’d be forced into a terrifying downclimb. The other option was an easy, if scary, traverse across a thin, exposed ledge of loose dirt to scout a chimney descending down and around the rockface above. Joe was confident the vertical climb was the best route and he started up, carefully picking his way through awkward, slabby moves with insecure holds. I wasn't so sure, instead opting to scout the ledge. I made the traverse and peered over to see no chimney, and instead 30 meters of overhanging cliff below - Joe was right. I tiptoed back towards the climb, pressing my body tightly against the rock face each time Joe yelled “rock!” As a broken hold would come whistling over my head, tumbling far down below until it came to a rest on the glacial ice. Eventually Joe hooted “it goes!”. That was a relief, but I couldn't be too relieved before making the climb myself. Following Joe’s lead, I stepped through slab moves, wishing I had rock shoes and not quite as much weight on my back. Although I was enjoying the funky moves over the rock bulge, my heart was racing which wasn't boding well now that we’d crested 5000m, and I was forced to stop every two moves and rest for a minute to avoid blacking out from the lack of oxygen. Joe came into view sitting at the top, himself breathing heavy, still recovering from his climb. We’d gotten into a rhythm of jokes at this point every time we broke 5000m because our moving pace would slow to an absolute crawl. We would turn quickly from young, fit hikers to old, shuffling stooges, our feet moving barely 5cm between labored steps. “Jeez you gotta hit the gym a little more” Joe jeered as I made the final moves up to his ledge. 

Spice is the variety of life... or something like that.
Joe is somewhere in this photo

Ahead of us lay another exposed slope crossing, although this one looked slightly easier than previous. The slope would take us within 50 meters of the col, but that last 50 appeared the toughest obstacle thus far. Another, longer, section of exposed climbing, this time on crumbly rock with intermittent patches of loose dirt. Joe went ahead again to take a closer look, while I stayed back to look for another option. Joe managed the first couple moves up the face then stopped, he didn't love what was next - a precarious step onto steep crumbling rock and a layer of slick dirt all without a single handhold. I tried to get a better look at a possible chute we could descend below to find a way around but it wasn't promising. Any attempt to descend the near vertical chute would likely end at some point being swept forcefully to the bottom by a wave of rockfall that came intermittently careening down from above. I looked back towards Joe… he was already getting himself ready for what lay ahead. I sat down in place and watched, feeling helpless. I had confidence in the guy but held my breath nonetheless. He placed his foot, adjusting it a few times, trying to find anything solid. He spotted the next handhold far above. He’d have to lunge for it. He then, regretfully, eyed the dreadful cliffs that lay below. Without much further thought, he transferred his weight swiftly onto his foot, paused for a moment, assessing the insecure position, then lunged up for the hold above - not too shabby. He navigated some insecure scrambling above to gain the ridge and that was that, now it was my turn. I traversed to the base of the climb, opting for a different route as I had no interest repeating Joe’s crux. My route added 5 or 6 meters of climbing up a loose chimney but avoided Joe’s tricky move. Again moving painfully slow at our now 5150m, I plucked my way through the lengthy climb to meet Joe on the ridge. Once we both stood on top, relief settled in. Joe was grinning ear to ear as we finally had a chance to look around and appreciate our surroundings. We’d been navigating tricky terrain in a no fall zone for over an hour and the cumulative stress was morphing into elation. We were perched on a high col in the middle of the Huayhuash, looking up at 6017 meter Rasac, so close it felt like we were hugging it, or rather it was hugging us. 

Joe contemplating the best ski line

Descending down the other side was straightforward at first, just fall line down a scree slope broken up by boulder fields. Then, about half way down, our scree slope seemed to drop off. It was tough to tell whether it ended in a cliff, or just rolled over to a steeper slope. We pushed on, hoping for the latter. 10 meters above the precipice I said “Joe I think it's a cliff”, he mumbled something of acknowledgement but pressed on regardless. We had it set in our minds that the hardest route finding was finished once we had gained the pass, so we wanted very badly to believe it was just a roll over and nothing more. Joe got to the bottom of the slope first and paused thoughtfully for a moment. Then, slowly, he turned back to me and, with a wide grin, said “it's a fuckin cliff”. I approached the edge to take a look for myself. It wasnt just a cliff, it was, indeed, a “fuckin” cliff, dropping easily 80 meters vertically to a moraine below. Looking right and left, the thing was, unfortunately for us, impressively large in all dimensions. We scratched our way back up the scree slope and started traversing along the top in search of another route. We spotted a cairn amongst the rocks and worked from cairn to cairn for a while, hoping they had some merit. We were led down onto a wide ledge beneath the top headwall where a little bivy spot had been prepared, nestled behind a waterfall. The cairns then took us to a section of easy downclimbing through the bluffs below and dropped us the enormous moraine that we’d spotted from the top. Although the little detour was time consuming, it was, thankfully, straightforward compared to our morning scrambling. Celebration was in order now that we’d definitively put the hardest terrain behind us so we broke out the goodies. Well, mostly I broke out my goodies. Joe, having no restraint whatsoever, had eaten all his beef jerky and all but two lollies. I chucked him a lolly to keep him happy but, as much as he tried to suggest a bite of jerky, there wasn't a chance in hell I was sharing mine. 

'Its a fuckin cliff'

We began the long descent down the valley, spreading out naturally, each settling into our own rhythm. I was reluctant to leave this special place, lined with giants, so I took my sweet time. The good weather we’d had all morning had persisted, making it easy to stop and enjoy the warm afternoon sun, which had become a rarity thus far on the trip. 

At long last, we reached Laguna Jahuacocha and made the final walk around it's edge to the campsite. This campsite was the same spot we’d spent our first night of the trek. This is where we’d met Cloud, and where we’d first laid eyes on Yerupajá and the other peaks we were now so familiar with. There was a comfort in setting our tent, alone now in this stunning valley. Alone, that is, until the two local cattle herders, an older couple, shuffled out of their straw hut to come say hello. Joe and I, sprawled out in the sun at this point, welcomed the couple to our tent site and they sat on the grass beside us with warm smiles. Although my Spanish is mediocre at the best of times and Joe’s is completely nonexistent, we managed to hold broken conversation with them, grasping snippets of their fascinating lives as generational cattle herders in the Andes. They spoke of fishing for trout in the nearby stream, of their many cattle, alpacas, donkeys, and horses, all of which roam the mountains freely for most of the year. But what they were most excited to tell us about was their cheese. They painted a mouthwatering picture of the cheese that they would spend all spring laboring. They were incredibly proud of their product, even boasting how all the folks from nearby villages would make the long walk to this valley in May and June just to get their share of cheese. Regardless of the language barrier, we sat with the couple for nearly an hour before they bid farewell and shuffled off, over the hill and back to their hut.

Only Joe, our very own NatGeo photographer,
can make a cow look so damn majestic

Before following our friends' lead and retiring for the night, Joe and I wanted to settle a debate we’d been having the entire trip thus far. When we were buying food in Huaraz in preparation, we’d been short some calories at the last minute and decided to grab cheese and salami to fill the hole. Although the language barrier in the supermarket had always meant we never knew exactly what we were getting, we didn't think much of our choice of meat at the time. Once we started hiking, however, we pulled out the salami to have a bite for the first time and noticed it seemed to have a texture not quite what you'd expect from salami, it was a little bit… squishy. Nonetheless, it tasted fine so we thought maybe they make their salami different out here. As the trip progressed, both Joe and I noted that each time we ate some salami, our stomachs would rebel and we’d end up gassing out unpleasant farts all afternoon. A few days into experiencing this phenomenon Joe brought up the question “are we sure this meat is cooked?”. It was a good point, we’d never had any confirmation that this meat was, indeed, dried salami and not just raw sausage. The first time Joe posed the question we both landed on the conclusion that, yes, the meat was cooked - no worries. As the trip progressed, however, Joe would have strokes of doubt, and would pose the question again and again. I held strong on my opinion that the meat was cooked throughout, but Joe was becoming increasingly convinced of the opposite. By the time day 7 rolled around, it had turned into a full debate when we pulled out the meat, with each party presenting developed arguments and rebuttals. The conclusion: we’d have to try and cook it to find the answer. And so, on our last night in the Huayhuash, we decided to cook the mystery meat. We fried our remaining chunks in oil, listening to the crackling pan and watching intently the browning meat, studying every detail of it's changing state in search of an answer. At last we decided they'd cooked long enough and plucked them from the pan. Nervously, we clinked our respective chunks and went for a taste. It took only one bite. We’d been eating raw chorizo sausage for the past week. 

October 25th: It felt natural to reflect on what we’d accomplished

So long, Cloud

We awoke after a restless night in our tent, interrupted by bursts of heavy rain and wind. We had been debating adding a day to the end of the trip, taking a detour to reach another pass, but it was an easy decision to forgo that thought as the rain and low fog persisted into morning. I poked my head out of the tent to get a look at the rain. Yep, it looked like shit out there. Aside from the rain, I was surprised to see a dog laying just a couple meters away from our tent in the dark morning. “Joe, I think Cloud might be outside” - we had left Cloud 3 days earlier, on the exact opposite side of the range from us. Any route navigable by dog between our campsite now and the last point we saw him would have been 60km or more. Joe shuffled from his sleeping bag and peeked out of the tent to get a look. He whistled and the shape lifted it's head, revealing familiar, deep brown eyes and a lazy smile - Cloud! It was incredible he’d managed the journey in just 3 days, and even more incredible he’d found our tent after presumably walking all night through miserable weather. He looked tired and skinny but we were happy to see him. I tried to offer him food, we had enough left to share, but he’d never been one to accept scraps. He followed us the whole day on our easy final descent to Llamac then, from what we heard from other hikers later on, made his way back up to the Jahuacocha campsite, presumably awaiting another group to follow. That was the way of life for these mountain strays. 

Our hike out was quiet. It felt natural to reflect on what we’d accomplished in 8 days while revisiting the views of quiet paddocks we'd been so entranced by on day 1. Arriving back in Llamac, we were very aware that our adventure remained far from over, as we were still a long way from Huaraz and had no idea how we’d get out of the valley. We’d heard there was a bus that could take us to Chiqián from Llamac, but, as is usual in Peru, we’d been told multiple conflicting things about when, where, and if that might be. We walked to a little booth on the gravel road just outside the village and asked for any information. The very kind lady told us that an empty bus was returning after dropping a guided group further up the road and would be able to take us somewhere. Sounded easy enough. So we sat, and waited. After 20 minutes or so the lady from the booth, Rosalina, eventually came outside to sit with us, eager to chat regardless of the language barrier. As we fumbled into increasingly complex conversation, she sifted through a bag of fresh wool, stringing it out with her hands so it could be wound into, of all things, hats. All the local women in this part of Peru, including herself, wore beautiful, felt hats of deep browns or greens. Rosalina explained each of these hats took three days to make by hand, weaving and pressing wool fibers together to form the sturdy material. 

Joe and Rosalina on the roadside

After nearly two hours sitting on the roadside with Rosalina, a truck finally came rolling down the path towards us. Although it wasn't the bus we were expecting, she hopped up and flagged it down, landing us a ride back to Chiqián. We arrived in Chiqian too late to catch the only bus to Huaraz that day, but it was a blessing in disguise as we were able to explore this enchanting little town that doesn’t often see foreigners. The news that two gringos were walking the streets quickly spread and we, once again, were celebrities. We ate like kings, as every street vendor wanted us to try their local dish. We felt like welcomed aliens, as all the school kids giggled and pointed and took pictures and said the few English phrases they knew - “good evening” was a hit. 

Although the Huayhuash was my first stop in the Peruvian Andes, followed by a few other treks across the range, it still holds a mighty spot in my heart. It’s a special place for so many reasons that mere words and pictures cannot convey. It’s a place that not only amazes, but inspires. Witnessing the Huayhuash giants is a masterclass in humility; experiencing the culture, a lesson in simplicity. Some trips you have to search hard for learning takeaways, this trip felt more like a seminar.