Friday, February 15, 2019. I left my $15/night hostel, Andes Warak, at 5:00 a.m. to meet the $10 van and trekking guide. I had my state-of-the-art $3/day rented hiking boots, which took me two days to find despite Huaraz's abundance of equipment rental shops. About 14 people in total were to head up to Huascaran on the trip, all in their twenties. This made me feel virile. I and the van driver were the only old guys and he wasn't planning on hiking, of course. The group of kids was a hodgepodge of nationalities. Whatever language the girl behind me in the van was speaking, its rhythmless staccato grated at my ears. It might have been some Baltic dialect, Czech I'd guess. No Romance language. Far from it. (Though I wonder what French and Italians think of English?) All these kids seemed like hard-core trekkers from well-to-do backgrounds...dashing young men and healthy young "earth biscuits," donning the garb expected for their brief role in the counterculture... statement hats, braids, piercings, Alpacawear. But, there are too many labels and too much Gortex which discredit their antimaterialistic disguise...Northface, Marmot, Kavu, etc. For a few kilometers during the trek, I buddied up with Hussef, a frizzy-haired Moroccan kid from Cobb County, Georgia, via Raleigh-Durham. He had just come in from Pullcalpa, a city in the Peruvian Amazon where he had stayed with members of the Shipibo tribe. He did Ayahuasca with them, and he liked to talk about that. Laguna 69 is one of the most desired treks in the Andes because of the stunning scenery. The lake got its name after the advent of aviation and the subsequent "discovery" of numerous high-altitude lakes. (Like the convenient, numeric naming of distant moons and stars after high-powered telescopes came about.) Lower lagoons have old Quechua names ascribed by people living near them for generations. Huascaran National Park, in which Laguna 69 is located, is literally a vertical world, and proportions are beyond easy comprehension. There are towering granite intrusions reaching into the clouds - straight vertical rises weeping streams of water. In the distance, snow-capped peaks, some of the tallest in the western hemisphere. (Google "Cordillera Blanca" for details.) You can do Laguna 69 via overnight camping, or if you're like many Peru adventurers who try to cram in as many great Peru experiences as they can in the short time they have, you can take the grueling day trip to Laguna 69. From Huaraz it's 14 hours round trip...8 driving, 6 trekking. That's the trip I took.
Leaving the city of Huaraz, the trekking hub of south/central Peru and a sort of kinder, gentler version of Mos Eisley, the van heads north into higher elevations. Just beyond Yungay, the van stops at an outdoor cantina where everyone has a final chance to use a toilet. Huascaran National Park has no facilities, only what our guide referred to as "Inca toilets" (just pop a squat in the shrubbery). Yungay is also where the pavement ends. The remainder of the long van ride is over a deeply eroded packed-earth road that winds its way up into the most breathtaking and frightening landscapes you can imagine. If you've been to Yosemite, supersize that, cap it with snow, then add a few hundred massive waterfalls, a bunch of rock slides, and a handful of heart-stopping avalanches. In preparation for this unplanned trip, I spent 3 days acclimating in Huaraz at 10,000 ft. I took two practice hikes, including one to the Pastoruri Glacier, a considerably shorter hike than Laguna 69, but at a higher altitude...16,450 ft. Even so, when I started the trek to Laguna 69, I noticed I was spitting blood, likely from my nasal capillaries constricting in the high altitude, but possibly from some sort of internal hemorrhaging suffered during the jolting van ride. I had packed 2 bottles of water, 2 apples, 1 banana, 1 bag of trail mix, 3 handmade honey-sesame balls, each exactly the size of a Titleist, a baggy full of coca leaves, and a selfie stick, which helps when you're traveling solo. All of the above I bought in the Huaraz central market, except the trail mix, which came from a fancy supermarket in Lima. I only wished I could have packed a couple of papa rellenas (much like a soft knish laced with a little chopped hard-boiled egg, fried and topped with marinated, shaved onions and squirts of green salsa and mayonnaise. 30 cents each), or a sandwich of hot, fresh roasted pig embedded with crispy wafers of crackling, a spoonful of roasted peppers and also topped with marinated shaved onions (90 cents each). But these Huaraz local street-food favorites would have turned to mush in my backpack. Like I said, I rented my high-tech boots, which are absolutely essential to this trek, and, a telescoping walking stick. I had on a pair of third-hand Columbia hiking pants that my sister Bertie gave me, and I layered myself with two shirts and a light sweatshirt. I also packed a windbreaker. You never know what the weather will bring up in the high Andes this time of year. You just have to be prepared for cold temps, wind, rain, even hail. Ironically, you better coat your face with a generous amount of sunscreen. It does tend to be very sunny and mild during the afternoon. And, it's not unusual to experience all of the above conditions in a day, except the hail. Although I got all of it the day I went to Pastoruri Glacier, even pelting hail.
Though Laguna 69 is the quintessential target, I saw three other beautiful, high-altitude lakes on this trip. Two while driving and one while hiking. The trek to Laguna 69 starts off innocently. A flat, very soggy, bucolic expanse is crossed, allowing one to enjoy the dramatic landscapes around them. Cows graze in thick carpets of natural grasses. I'm in a pampa, a type of terrain that God obviously included in his Creation so as to facilitate the raising of crops and livestock for people whose fate brought them to live in the High Andes. But before long, the trail narrows and begins to give hints of deviance. Now there are long slow inclines and places where I have to select the right rocks to step up and advance forward. Soon the small group breaks up, as people assume their own pace. Before long, I'm alone. Those in front and those behind gradually become specks. Sometimes, I can spot someone ahead of me on the mountainside or far down below me. The trail winds back and forth like any route must to ascend a steep grade. Eventually, the trail wound into a tighter spiral. I am going up a steep, crooked, narrow, rocky stairwell with no banister and a precipitous drop-off, merely inches from the sole of my boot. I'm looking down at the trail, ahead to my next stride, in order to choose a safe spot to plant my foot. I guess the path to Heaven is sometimes likened to a stairway because life can demand physical and mental "climbs." When I look up to take in the fantastic scenery around me, the blood immediately rushes out of my head. I feel sensations of blacking out, brought on by the strenuous hike, the thin air, and lack of sleep due to the pre-dawn start of the trip...plus, being 60 years old and having hypertension, which is now compounded by chewing coca leaves all morning. But, in times I look above, I see relief, a potential end to the relentless upward march, what appears to be an oasis of level or descending terrain. And yes, there are brief areas where some relief is found and I fool myself into thinking Lagoon 69 is just ahead. No, there are several kilometers to go.
About two kilometers from Laguna 69, I enter an insanely remote, high-altitude pampa. How the cows ever got up here is something I would contemplate later. Exhausted from the prior ascent, I trudge through this gooey pasture toward a massive rock scarp. At its base is the home stretch, the most daunting and abusive leg of the hike. I am about to step into the ring with another serpentine monster, at a point when my aged body is already weary and nearly broken. I have serious thoughts of turning back, but, like a pathetic Jerry Quarry, I get in there to take my punches so I can go home with part of the purse.
The twists and turns of this last ascent permit no view to an end. Around each corner, another, and then another. Up and up into thinner air. Now I cross a hiker or two on their way down, and I ask one of them in a tone that must sound pleading, "Is there much further to go?" In my eyes I'm sure he can see the desperation, but he answers truthfully. He knows that giving me false expectations might lead to a final breakdown once I realize there is more agony ahead than he's led me to believe.
Finally, I see a summit. It looks like a natural levee of boulders. It is a summit circled by much higher snowcapped summits, of course, but this must be it. I must have made it. Clawing up onto this point, I do at least see a stream. The path does at least flatten. Anticipation swells. Some strength is renewed with adrenaline. Surely this clear mountain stream runs from the lagoon? The path hugs its course about fifty feet above rushing waters and before long I spot my first glimpse of the turquoise pool. I made it! I relax, eat my overripe banana, choke down some trail mix, and try not to think about the long, joint-pounding, 3-hour descent.