Days 19-22: Solo Hiking Colca Canyon

Solo Hiking Colca Canyon

Days 19 – 22

January 16 – 19

Cabanaconde, Peru

I bid good riddance to Cusco as I took a night bus to Arequipa.  Our early arrival allowed me to take the next bus to Cabanaconde, the gateway to Colca Canyon.  The first four hours were on a highway typical of this region of the world: one lane each way with a shoulder wide enough for half a car.   After Chivay, the road narrowed down to a bit wider than one lane, just wide enough to pull over and let another car pass from the opposite direction.  For the next two hours, we weaved through the Andes, passing through one small town after another.  As part of their daily commute, there was a constant influx and efflux of local women wearing the same colorful clothes and wide brimmed hats unique to the region yet common amongst mountain cultures.  We drove amongst the clouds, and I could see the beginnings of Colca Canyon below, far below.  

We passed by a viewpoint where more ambitious hikers arrive at dawn to watch the Andean Condors circle above the canyon, looking for their first prey.  I was fortunate to spot one who was early for his dinner.  The wind currents here must be strong; his wings were immobile.  

At 5:00 PM, our bus arrived at Cabanaconde, and I stepped into the streets of a small mountain village with few signs of modernity and no immediate signs of other travelers.  One of the women with the colorful clothes and the colorful hat pointed me in the direction of the town center where I could find Pachamama Hostel, a one-stop-shop for all solo hikers coming to Colca Canyon.  Along the way, everyone I passed greeted me kindly with a smile and a wave.  Not that I was anything special, but because they didn’t know anything other than civility.  I checked into the hostel, picked up a map of Colca Canyon, had my dinner, and played cards for the rest of the night with three other travelers returning from the canyon: one from Germany and two from the UK.  

Early the next morning, before setting out on my hike, I left a note with the reception, telling them where I was going.  There was no internet out here, and I neglected to tell anyone where I was going before leaving Arequipa.  So, that was my backup plan.  I was about to spend two days alone in the middle of Nowhere, Peru, climbing around in the second deepest canyon in the world.  

The walkway leading up to Mirador de San Miguel (Saint Michael’s Viewpoint) was flanked on one side with stone walls, each section of wall bearing the name of a nearby village accompanied by a carving representative of daily agricultural life in that village.  At the viewpoint, I had my first panoramic view of Colca Canyon, yet from here, I couldn’t see the bottom.  

The stone walls leading up to Mirador San Miguel.  On each stone face, there
is an inscription representing each of the nearby towns.

My view from the top of the canyon.

The rising sun implored me to press onward; I needed to walk 14 kilometers (8.7 miles) and descend 1,300 meters (4,265 feet) by the end of the day to reach Sangalle, the Oasis.  The ridgeline across the canyon towered far above my elevation, so high that most of the peaks were capped with snow, a contrast to the comfortable temperature at my elevation of 3,400 meters (11,150 feet).  A motionless smokescreen of clouds hovered over the opposite ridgeline, casting shadow puppets below on the lush tundra overgrowth prompted by the rainy season.  While there were no signs of an impending storm this morning, the Andes have proven themselves unpredictable in the past.  

After a two kilometers of hiking, I was finally able to see the canyon floor below.

Two kilometers into the hike, at Mirador Coshñirwa, I could finally see the bottom of the canyon and the sculptor responsible: a wide raging river colored red-brown by the runoff from the rain.  The power of the Rio Colca below overwhelmed the silence of the canyon.  My descent was slowed by my curiosity of the terrain before I reached the river.  At 2,100 meters (6900 feet), my elevation was low enough and the sun was high enough to make the heat apparent.  

My first bridge crossing.  I would hate to cross the river without it. 

On the other side of the canyon, I had to climb 100 meters to San Juan de Chuccho, a small village featuring two places catering to the gustatory and dormitory needs of foreign hikers.  At this late morning hour, the town seemed empty except for one working crew and two dogs adamant to protect their territory.  I’ve learned to carry at least one rock with me through towns like this.  One of them got the jump on me.  Coming from behind, the only thing that alerted me was a slight growl and the swift of four legs across the dirt and loose gravel.  In one movement, I spun around and tossed my rock towards the oncoming dog.  With these dogs, it never takes a violent throw; just a rock in their general direction is enough to scare them off.  

Between San Juan de Chuccho and Coshñirwa, I had to cross a small river over a suspension bridge.  Except instead of a bridge, I found five construction workers toiling amongst the remains of the last bridge that collapsed.  For my river crossing, I had to scramble across several damp rocks and tightrope across a plank of wood.  Then, a steep 450 meter (1,480 feet) ascent up to Coshñirwa encouraged me to have the spaghetti lunch at the first restaurant I spotted.  

The bridge is out!

Food always tastes better with exhaustion and a good view.

Of the few signs of life in Coshñirwa, the vast farming there was indicative of a full village, but I only spotted two other souls besides the woman who served me lunch.  Just as quickly as I was in town, I was out again.  As I strayed from town, a thick blanket of clouds enveloped the sky, shading the entire canyon, occasionally loosing a spot of rain.  Far in the distance, the low roll of thunder could be heard.  Then the sky opened.  

Rainfall was standard at this point, and I deployed my umbrella.  Everything would have been fine, but I encountered a blockage on the pathway: a rock slide that left only a small sliver of walkway available with sure footing.  It wasn’t worth seeing if the rain would bring about further sliding, so I hurried my way on the edge of the cliff, tiptoeing with my umbrella overhead like a circus performer.  I breathed again on the other side.  Then, as if to taunt me, the rain ceased.  But I could see to the east there was a heavier downpour, and it was slowly approaching me.  Down in the canyon, the winds were almost non-existent, but the streaming shape of some of the clouds indicated that this probably wasn’t true for winds at 6000 meters.  

A recent rock slide blocked most of the pathway, necessitating my careful tiptoeing
to the other side. 

I came to a cliff where Sangalle came into view, and I could see my exit route for tomorrow.  A local vendor sold me a liter of water for five soles, slightly more expensive than I’m used to, but a fraction of the cost as found in Sangalle.  The plan for the night was to spend as little money as possible.  With only 70 soles ($22) in my pocket and no ATM for 200 kilometers, I still needed to get out of this canyon and back to Arequipa.  

Another bridge crossing over El Rio Colca.  This one was much higher in the
canyon with a far more treacherous fall.

Dramatic bridge crossing is dramatic.

From my vantage point, I could tell why they call Sangalle the Oasis.  While the rest of the canyon was ultimately devoid of trees, they seemed to accumulate in this region thanks to the multiple waterways feeding the river.  Upon entering Sangalle proper, the name became more apparent.  The palm trees, beds of flowers, fields of grass, swimming pools, and the white noise created by the raging river nearby brought a special peace to this area that actually justified the exuberantly higher prices for accommodation and meals.  Being low season, staff were more abundant than clientele.  At one of the mini-resorts, I met two gentlemen, one a marine biologist and the other a data scientist, who fulfilled the promise of an intelligent conversation warranted by their titles.  As the rain started again in the late afternoon and continued long into the evening, raindrops on the bar’s tin roof played in the background until we were all too exhausted from our respective long days of hiking.  

The view of Sangalle (the Oasis) from above.  I stayed at the place with the
nice swimming pool.

Knowing that my 1,300 meter (4,265 feet) ascent out of the canyon would be long and arduous, I arose early the next morning, only to find I had already been beaten by the Peruvian summer sun casting light on the top of the ridgeline to the north.  Thirty minutes into my climb, much of the canyon was luminously awoken.  Though the canyon wall for my ascent was steep, the many switchbacks assuaged much of the ardor. 

The sun was already rising high in the sky just 30 minutes into my climb out.

Looking at the opposite side of the canyon, the low angle sun cast shadows into dark outlines of the soft layers of surface sediment eroded by the rain.  Two hours into my ascent, the sun finally came over the canyon wall, reminding me how much cooler the shade was.  400 meters shy of the rim, many of the cacti were in bloom, and I spotted multiple birds of a humming bird species I had never seen before.  Distinct with long beaks and feeding behavior, the contrast was the size of their wings and the tempo they moved.

At 400 meters below the rim, many of the cacti were in bloom.
Hummingbirds were feeding on these flowers.

Nearing the top, I had to make sure to admire what was below me.

Just before the top of the rim.  The sun was already bearing overhead at 10:00 AM.

I reached the rim of the canyon, taking one last moment to appreciate the last two days before heading back to Cabanaconde.  A shower at the hostel was well warranted and within my time budget to make the 11:30 AM bus back to Arequipa.