Story: An Unusual Hike in the Peruvian Andes

“Still snowing,” my guide Daniel said to me again, as I lay, basically asleep, in our cozy refugio at over 15,000 feet. He said this first at around 1:30 AM, and we were supposed to be hiking by two. At four he declared the snow had let up enough and it was time to to go. I took a few slurps of cocoa, and shoved down as much of the stale, tasteless bread as I could. With bleary-eyed vision leading my clumsy mountaineering boots across icy, dark boulder fields in the pre-dawn chill, I knew this was not a touristy day-hike.

The push was to hike Mt. Pisco, an 18,872-foot peak in the Peru’s stunning Cordillera Blanca. The mountain range is a jagged alpine paradise, attracting ice climbers, trekkers, skiers, snow campers and anyone else who enjoys the freedom of the hills.

At the outset, Pisco looked to be a cakewalk. Or at least doable. It was rated Moderately Difficult by the European climbing system and was described in a local pamphlet as “good warm-up peak”, and “some of the easiest ice-climbing at high altitude.” Sold. I came to Peru with two friends, but with one busy taking hallucinatory jungle drugs in the Amazon Jungle and the other swearing off the concept of hiking at any altitude altogether after our foray to Macchu Pichu, it was clear I was on a solo mission.

While I could supply the heart, I wasn’t nearly dumb enough to head up solo, so I needed a guide. Preferrably an excellent guide. In Huaraz, the mountain town that served as base camp, there was a plethora of guides available at the whim of the gringo. Some were quite cheap. I decided to go with the most highly recommended organization money can buy and hired a guide through the internationally approved IFMGA, the governing body of mountaineering across the world. My guide Daniel was Peruvian, small in stature, with, dark bronze skin and angular cheekbones, typical of the high mestizo population in Peru. We discussed equipment and how much I didn’t have, went out and bought a good-looking bag of food and set out for day one the next morning. That was it.

Things were looking good. I was going to bag Pisco in a couple days, come home, drink a soothing litro de Cusquena, and reminisce about times once had on that wacky mountain range known as the Andes.

At around 8:00 AM on the aformentioned day we left the refugio, day two of the journey, this glamorous and noble vision of conquering rugged mountains in the truest of pioneer spirits had turned to stinking, fuming shit. With faith in my guide dwindling, stomach and leg pains increasing, and oxygen to the brain at an all-time low, I was wondering what the hell I was thinking actually looking forward to this. Christ, I even paid for this. The altitude left me helpless and gasping for a deep, full breaths after unimpressive 10-20 yard stints. The dizzying, head-rush feeling came on stronger and stronger after every attempt at gaining some vertical on the summit. I could have passed out. But no, it hadn’t gotten to that point yet. I got it together and looked at my pack mule of a guide, who appeared about as tired as Kobe Bryant gets after jumping up and down once. “Como vas”? he inquired, “muy bien buddy, muy bien,” I replied, in nothing short of a solid lie.

After getting to the snow line, we climbed an hour or so in full-on ice climbing mode with crampons, a lead rope and an ice axe. Just what I needed, the technical element. At this point my guide suddenly became something of a suspicious, unnerving figure. Also one who was my only link to safety at my precarious position on the side of a mountain at around 17,000 feet, which happened to be higher than anywhere in the lower 48 states or Western Europe. I began to ponder, why was he not communicating the goings-on of the trail to me? Were things like safety, proper crampon usage and general advice all things of little to no importance? Should I have taken the fact that he had forgotten to make sure we had any water at all before we hit the trail, thereby heading out with only one full water bottle, as a trouble sign? He was certainly in mountain-goat form, but his communicative skills were an iffy situation. What would the IFMGA think of this?

Either way, once we made it to a plateau where the final, steep push was laid out in front of us save a few wispy clouds, I knew it was time for a pause and a reassessment of our situation. I asked if the route got harder and more technical, “si,” he replied. I asked if I was going rather slowly to make it on course to the summit at a safe time, “si,” he replied. I asked what time was a safe time to make it to the peak at, what time it was now, and how much farther it was to the peak. He informed me, wasting no breath, that it was nine ‘o’ clock, the summit was dangerous after ten and that we had two and a half hours to go. Stupefied, I stopped questioning. Had he known this all along? Why didn’t he tell me our summit success was dwindling?

My rationale was out the door, so I threw my little remaining faith at Daniel. He calmly suggested we push on for an hour and then go from there. Failing to see the point of this if summit success was basically out the door but still dumbfounded by his time equations, I thought ‘what the hell’ and kept going. Steeper, higher and generally more brutal were the main themes of the next thirty minutes. The wind up top looked to be increasing and dark clouds were making brief but ominous sweeps across the peak. As a final zinger, I now concluded I didn’t trust my guide who for what I could tell, would (and probably could have) just as soon drag me to the top by the rope before giving me any words of wisdom.

It was time to make decision.

I thought about the shame, the agony of defeat, and the bruised ego I may have to suffer if the towel was to be thrown in. I then thought about life and how I generally enjoyed it and it quickly became a no-brainer. I stopped, bickered for a minute with Daniel, and turned around.

After a long hike down that was almost as demanding as the hike up we returned to the solace of the refugio. It was only around midday and I had plenty of hours to sit, reflect and ponder.

In the end it was a lesson on trusting an institution of authority for its reputation rather than researching its practices. I had thought paying a little more would get me everything I had hoped for, when all it got me was a little more broke. More importantly it was a lesson on trusting my gut and going with what seems to be the safe move even if a so-called professional guide is oblivious and just wants to keep charging higher and higher.

I still consider the Cordillera Blanca a beautiful and desirable locale for anyone with a sense of adventure and an ironclad set of lungs. The aesthetic onslaught of 20,000 foot plus mountains surrounding me for three days was the highlight of Peru and the potential to explore there is nothing short of endless. I’d just say try and chat it up with your guide a bit before you hit the highlands. And make sure they bring some water.