Huayhuash Circuit

Huayhuash Circuit 

Best lines of the Circuit:

‘I love fucking donkeys.’

‘More cheese balls anyone?’

‘That water sounded beautiful. I knew it was safe to drink.’

Musings from the Huayhuash Circuit:

•

We met a chemist/world traveller/rancher/shepherd/teacher we dubbed Chicharon Beel and his dog Chavo in a massive drainage flanked by grassy shelves and walls thousands of feet high and a glacier clad head wall snow capped with 20000ft peaks. He rode in on a galloping horse with Chavo using his short strides to keep up. Chavo was valiant, his shaggy ears striding in the wind, his underbite obvious under his panting jaws. He spoke of his world travels listing off countries which included Chile, a country he didn’t like. He spoke of living life to the fullest, the plumpest as plump can be. I’m not sure if he was drunk, but his bag full of coca leaves and bloodshot eyes gave me a clue what high he was, but I’m a shit short if he didn’t charm us with his bacon fat. Chicharon Beel gave us some pork belly from a thermos from his wrinkled and dirty weathered hands. We noshed on the delicious charred fat as Chavo, the small noble dog, gnawed on the fat, eventually swallowing the thick slab of fat whole. Then, his tiny jaw opened, the wracking noise of the up-choke ensued, and he gagged out the fat. We laughed as hard as we could possibly laugh. 

•

Atop Punto Rundoy we straddled the fins of rock poking out of the worn flat and dusty areas. We marveled around at the high peaks above us, our first incredibly high alpine pass of the Huayhuash Circuit. Soon, a burro pack train trotted up and we watched the packer shoo the burros down to a level trail that undulated gently to another twin pass a short distance away. Down the drainage we followed dreamboat singketrack while gazing back at the massive amphitheater of Rondoy. We encountered Peruvians from Lima who were trekking out in this awesome landscape. It was refreshing to meet city folk from the selfsame country as the mountain locals who held an obvious difference from the mountain folk: smooth skin, white teeth, a perfumed smell, cleaner clothes, electronics, and a physical struggle to trek up this high versus darker and weathered skin, sparse teeth, a musty and earthy smell, even smoky; vibrant and dark clothing, maybe a cellphone, and an intense propensity to exert their strength in the high elevations, the ease and comfort of the mountain people such an impressive sight to behold. But watching the Limans smiling and struggling and enjoying their time in their high country really showed pride to me, proud to be Peruvian, something I don’t see in the States where not everyone goes to the mountains, or what I’m really saying is where the rich only go to the mountains to buy up land and houses making it difficult for others who love the mountains to live and play and thrive.

•

Along the hike up the valley exhibiting the famous Tres Lagunas under the enormous skyline of the Huayhuash including the highest peaks of Yerupaja and Suila Grande, we met Pyn and Sylvia, a cool couple who had bought a couple llamas and a dog and had been tramping about the mountains surrounding Huaraz. We met them on their last trip before they head back to Europe and other travels. This adventurous couple wowed us with stories of their worldly travels. After a long and fun descent from Punto Suila they ran into us again at a beautifully blue lake. We chatted again and exchanged information before saying farewell. We skipped into Huayhuash camp where we met Juventino, a local mountain guide who had the rugged look of a mountain guide accompanied by the blood shot eyes and dry skin familiar with time spent in high elevation and under the powerful glare of the sun. He spied on our gear while cheerfully chatting with us. Early the next morning he brought us a pot of coffee. He definitely brought some smiles into our trip.

•

The Paso Trapecio and Paso San Antonio day, the stunning scenery, the long and arduous climbs, the benefit of hard work as a team, the 3 of us friends rolling into Huayllapa exhausted and sitting on three worn beds under a faint light amid yellow walls, the clock on the wall by the rickety window stopped, time simply frozen, the ache of a long and wondrous day: A dream of a young kid finally come true.

Desert Trail Resupply Page

Desert Trail Water Report

note: mileage and distance between sources will be updated soon

Desert Trail: Scablands and Beyond

Every long distance hike is difficult and filled with challenges. You get out of it what you put in, usually all the guts and heart that you can possibly muster. It ain’t easy. You give the trail life, sustenance from each footstep making it a tangible. Then, the trail has a heart, a beat, a pulse. Months go into the planning for an endeavor that may take many months to walk. And, when you’re done, so many months afterwards, the trail never leaves you; you are always on that trail, the ‘trail of life.’ This may sound so corny, but it is true. The trail is always there, weaving its way through the corridor of your existence. The interesting thing is that the path ultimately leads no where, to the same ending. However, there’s a metaphysical difference between a trail of life and a trail.

So, does it matter, this connection, to make the Desert Trail complete? Even if the difference is only between people’s experiences on that trail? No. The trail remains the same, right? Yes. And, no. Reason being is I didn’t come to re-create someone else’s experience when geographic features changed dramatically. I want my own, while I want others to keep theirs. I hike for immersion, for an utter absorption within a landscape, a pilgrimage in time within a wild place. Naming a route that others will walk again matters. Because empathy matters, love for a landscape matters, sharing matters. Hikers who delve into a particular trail pay service to others and ultimately pay a route forward. Future hikers’ experiences are influenced by the ones prior. A group may come to manage the trail, to stand for what the trail stands for, and help cultivate experiences for other hikers. Anything done on your own is simply something different, an endeavor you should value. I had an experience like this, probably the biggest and most valuable experience in my life: the Vagabond Loop. I did this route for me, solely for me, even named it for me so I could honor a personal hero of mine, to honor a life I could only hope to have lived. Thinking someone would hike it again is out of my realm of thought because it was such a personal thing. If I did think someone would hike it again a different name would have been the case. Something like the Four Corners Loop. The difference is not the trail but the experience one can expect to have. This goes for the same of others trying to put together or hike other routes extending from Mexico to Canada. All this makes you think how special the AT, the PCT and the CDT are. As they connect the borders or span the entire Appalachia, under a themed route, the trails are not always capable to follow the themed geographic route due to natural barriers, private land issues, among others, and while they may move away from the theme to continue onward around an obstacle the distance is reasonable to re-attain the route while also remaining scenic and retaining the general character of the trail. 

After the Wheatlands I crossed the Snake River on a dam and entered the Scablands. The Scablands are a bizarre and interesting landscape. Island blocks of basalt rock, sharp and abrupt columned cliffs, honeycombed walls with protruding rock painted with lichen, and gouged out channels from ancient floods on a super catastrophic level from so many years ago are the obvious characteristics. Giant potholes filled with water and pockmarked lakes dot the vast area, giant ripples bare of any soil show a hardened and wavy rock, purple wildflowers coat the grassy expanse, rattlesnakes lay coiled up on small cliff shelves and rattle differently than the ones down south, and I recognize the weirdness here, how it does have a desert feel.

At the far end of a tunnel, on the abandoned railroad bed, I leaned up against the concrete wall and closed my eyes. Compacted chips of concrete littered the dank floor. I lifted my head up, the back of my head resting on the wall. The tunnel provided a wind break yet the wind whistled softly and eerily down the long burrow. I sat right next to where the plant life took over and barricaded the opening. What a beautiful and lonesome chamber I was in. The romantic bore of times past in the vast expanse of the Scablands and the scrawling of names and dates from previous vagabonds and travelers were scribbled on the walls reminded me of the hallowed grounds of a cemetery or a tomb. Some names were up twice, even three times. The chill of the wind sunk in as thunder rolled over outside. The wind would be sucked out and the air would fall inside and tumble down the tunnel. A light ringing of the ears developed inside my head. So many layers, the outside to the inside to the inside which is outside the heart but inside the soul. Within the dampness I remained hidden from the world. What romantic lonesomeness and isolation, this beauty, to be away from it all. The scrawling dates ranged from the late 20s to the early 90s. Simple taggings, just a name or initials and a date. Maybe one or two had a phrase written under the headline, but not much. I sat there thinking I would not like to have met these vagabonds of the past. I’m not like that; I don’t need the acceptance or the company. I’m happy with letting things be. I’m content with the scrapings of the past, the story of a tunnel told by the wind, the dank air, and the tall plant life. I find nostalgia in the scars of humanity while not looking for the connection. I get more connection and an understanding without them being there than with them being there. I cannot cast judgment on someone I cannot see or interact with. It’s like I’m protecting myself from any preconceived notions, like I would not like to not like these vagabonds of the past. They are better remembered than to have interacted with. I build people up in memory, those imaginable times; the invisibility makes people more likeable to me. It is not that I’m being misanthropic at all. It’s the etch in time where the etch should remain. In other words, I’m only concerned with my journey and the landscape I am in. I cannot relive anyone else’s. The trail is a foundation for a story. A themed route brings purpose to the traveler. That’s how I empathize, not in recreating someone else’s story, but soaking the story up through remnants, most importantly my story.

Walking into Spokane and out of Spokane with so many miles of pavement, I slowly wore down enthusiastically. I felt a bit defeated but continued. At this point, I could feel myself looking for short cuts, looking for excuses. To me, in my opinion, the Desert Trail ended long ago. And walking further north made absolutely no thematic sense.

At a pass on a forested crest, I found my excuse. I ran into two bears. One darted off while the other paced back and forth, a vibe of stubbornness and holding its ground emanated from the black bear. I slowly backed off and got back to the road. I knew if I went down I was never getting back up.

In the end, I got really tired of retracing Buck's steps as it wasn't the DT to me. I felt like I was following his journey and not mine. And that’s not what following a route for everybody is about. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe others would enjoy his extension, maybe not. This is just my opinion. I just feel something incongruous doesn’t justify an imaginary terminus. For roughly 1550m, the Desert Trail is an incredible themed route. It makes sense. I’m not one for groups, being a part of a club or anything like that, but I want to help to continue to establish this route through the desert landscapes I love. I can only do this by walking, feet on the ground, as well as to relate my experience on it honestly. Anything beyond that scope, I would dishonor the route. 

So, one last day, I just pushed madly to within a mile of the border, something like 45m that day. I was over it and, in my own selfish way, I finished in a place that was on my own path. I finished the route in a different place that I had originally expected, intended, and even envisioned, in the rain, in a rain forest, and not the damn desert at all. I won’t post a pic of me at a monument between two nations, wearing my rain gear, trying to force a grin. (That pic is for me, proof for me).

My first paragraph from my first Desert Trail entry: ‘My trick in all this, I’m not letting you know what’s real. And it’s because I don’t know what is real. I slip into my own reality.’

The desert is but a dream.