Cajon del Maipu and Ranger Rachel

Something I forgot to mention before: on the bus ride from Putre to Arica I noticed a run-down roadside restaurant called Markamasi (say it with a normal American accent). Anyone who is a UPS volleyball fan would definitely have stopped here.

After an afternoon paragliding in Iquique, I took the long bus ride to Santiago, made even longer by out-of-synch episodes of The Nanny. I didn´t stay in Santiago, instead making my way by bus 95km away to Cajon del Maipu, where Refugio Lo Valdes (also known as Refugio Aleman) awaited me. Once again there was no public transportation all the way there, so I hitched a ride with a dump truck driver to Baños Morales, where the refugio is. The refugio was a surprise-- a rock building with wood shutters in contrasting colors, just like the third generation huts of Switzerland. The similarity comes from the fact that the refugio was built by Germans, members of the Andean German Climbing Club. The decorating motif was edelweiss flowers, which seems pretty funny for the outskirts of Santiago. I slept in la mina, the attic, where I just rolled my sleeping bag out on a mat. (I read on the sleeping bag company website that I should avoid washing the sleeping bag... always, so that means I will go an entire year leaving it smelling just as it is... anyone want to go camping??).

In the morning I walked over the river in the valley to el Monumento Nacional El Morado. The CONAF (ranger) building at the entranced was staffed and I paid an entrance fee of $3. I walked past burbling red streams full of minerals to a quietly rippling lake at the base of a glacier. On the way back, I stopped to check out at the CONAF office and the ranger on duty (or off duty, as it turned out) asked me up on the balcony for a cerveza. I said ¿como no? and climbed up, nearly hitting one of the guys sitting on the bench with my poles. Oops.

The conversation that followed was one of the best I´ve had since the start of my Watson project. In Switzerland and India, I could talk to the locals, but I didn´t have enough of a command of their languages to get very deep. But here, with Ranger Guillermo, I finally got to discussing how wilderness should be according to Chileans. Perfect. That is exactly why I was there. I stayed watching the sun set on the vertical curtain rocks across the valley, then went back to my refugio for the night, satisfied with my invitation to return to the CONAF office the following day.

I hiked another valley that day, but, hindered by the strong wind and a wandering mind, I walked fewer kilometers. In the afternoon, I stopped at the refugio to get my pack, almost falling asleep in a lounge chair looking out at the snowy peaks (with, sure enough, German chatter in the background). My pack, decidedly heavier than one week ago, is full of books in Spanish--I am ready to spend the long bus rides catching up on South American literature since my Spanish major had a decidedly peninsular bend. I had a coffee with Guillermo the ranger back at the hut as the last walkers of the day wandered down from the glacier. We made two big loaves of bread together and spent the night talking with Fernando, the other ranger, and el viejito, whose name I never caught. We discussed why there were no women working at the CONAF station and the machista mindset that keeps them from working elsewhere. I got to take a photo in Guillermo´s official looking park ranger hut and even snuck the rubber duck in for a shot or two. In the morning, I ate more homemade bread and scrambled eggs out of a shared skillet with my new ranger friends before heading down the road. I got a ride to Santiago before I even hit the crossroads.

Now I am sweating away in the big city and the locals rush around doing Christmas shopping. My thoughts are back home as today is the first night of Hanukkah (no wild Hanukkah in Santa Monica parties for me). Tomorrow I meet Carolyn at the airport and we head south to Patagonia in search of refugios in Torres del Paine.

Lauca2

A police truck drove by and the driver asked me where I was going. I was quick to defend--no where, just walking. I finally got that he was telling me there was another tourist climbing GuaneGuane and that I could join. I hopped in the back of the truck and met Laurent, a French guy who had been backpacking South America for 15 months. He was carrying his whole 50lb bag, but he was still the one stopping and waiting for me. My head was pounding as we headed higher and higher, past the scratchy bushes to the loose dirt and rock closer to the top. Laurent was a fellow couchsurfing and he was full of suggestions for my hut adventures in Chile, so while he waited for me to catch up, he made a long list of connections and recommendations for the rest of my time here. I shared my chocolate with him, which he said was like champagne to him since he was living off of just rice. The view from the top was incredible. It was a clear day, and I could see out to the twin volcanos and to the laguna cocacotani and lago chungara. We added our own little rocks to the cairn and then calmly sat at 5,096ft and went over the list Laurent wrote for me. I headed down at 5.45 but Laurent thought he would build his tent up there on top. I felt good the first 20minutes going down-every step I slid downwards at least a foot. It was like skiing in powder at Cystal. I made my way along a bifodal valley. I tried not to step where it was green-the bifodal was soft and squishy and crunchy, like walking on turf grass after rain. It seemed so delicate, and I couldn´t tell which parts would give way under my feet, so I just stayed on the rocks at the edge.

OK, well I can´t write more now. I have my bus ride (23.5 hours) from Iquique to Santiago in a half hour. From there I will visit one more refugio just a few hours from the city before meeting Carolyn in Santiago on Monday.

y mas fotos

fotos

Lauca National Park

The idea of no public transportation to a national park was hard to grasp considering what we have in Yosemite, with buses going around the entire park. But Yosemite gets the same number of visitors in a day that Lauca does in a year, so ok.

A few days ago, I packed my bag in Putre and walked up the road intent on catching a ride to Parinacota. The locals in town assured me this was the way to go, legal and safe. I took a dusty trail into a valley and crossed a river, climbing up on the other side. This cut off the 5km I would have walked on the road back to the international highway. At the crossroads, I walked up to the police and asked them when there were buses or anything going that way. One of the policemen waved down a truck and got me a ride. So I heaved myself and my pack 6ft up into the cab of the big-rig and we were on our way. The driver and I had lots of time to chat because we were going up the hill at 10mph. And we had to stop a few times to let the engine cool down. But I didn´t mind--with snowy conical volcanos slowly coming into view, I needed time to look around. We passed green bofedales and vicuñas grazing by a river. In Chucuyo, we stopped at a roadside restaurant for lunch... me and all the Chilean and Bolivian truckers. The lunch special was quinoa soup and alpaca steak with rice, typical Altiplano fare. Thus fortified, my driver dropped me off at the tiny whitewashed adobe town of Parinacota. I took a quick turn around town. There was little sign of life on the two streets in town and the CONAF (national park ranger office) office was closed despite a posted sign promising long hours every day of the week. A local Aymara family offered lodging for tourists. There used to be an official park service refugio but it was no longer available for tourists so as not to compete with local families. At such high altitudes--4,000m I think--my head hurt and I felt pretty tired, so I napped under my sleeping bag for a couple hours before venturing out into the village.

The CONAF office was still closed in the afternoon, but there was a well-marked trail that led out just beyond the village. The Parinacota interpretive trail had seen better days in terms of interpretation, but the wildlife was as stunning as ever. The big black ducks made funny noises while playing in the shallow water of the lake. I walked past spiky plants in the dry dirt and had a larger than life view of the volcano Parinacota, over 6,000m, and its twin volcano across the border in Bolivia. The bofedal stretched out in front of me--rounded patches of green with water flowing slowly all around. Alpacas and the fuzzier llamas grazed all around, uninterested in my progress through their feeding ground. A quick dinner with food I brought from Arica then I went outside again. The wind was stronger this time, but the colors were so vivid in the sunset that I had to keep snapping photos despite my numb fingers until the battery on my camera ran out (don´t worry... I had another one). The almost full moon rose just behind the twin volcanos. The sun lit up the snow in pink, then as the light fell, the color transfered to the sky behind them--a swirl of pink and blue. The moon grew a fuzzy ring of yellow. The orange stripes the sun left behind were reflected in the pond where the black taguas were still playing. Then my mom´s thoughts on how taking pictures interferes with the moment came into my head, and I put away my camera and tried just to be. The volcanos set off in pink, the ripple patterns of the water, and my hood crinkling in the wind. But enough of that--it was too cold to enjoy the moment for too long, so I went inside to my room--the pleasure of a mountain hut means being able to escape to somewhere warm.

I woke up late--the cold had kept me from sleeping late into the night. After a granola breakfast, I hung around the main square waiting for the CONAF ranger who had finally shown up to stop talking with the kiosko owner so that I could ask him about trails and huts. Ernesto told me about the trail to Cocacotani Lagunas and the Cerro GuaneGuane trail, but it was probably to late in the day to do them since there are often afternoon storms during the invierno boliviano. So I emptied my pack of everything except necessities... which ended up being quite a lot: clif bars and tuna as snacks, 3.5 liters of water, 2 jackets for the afternoon, and my first aid kit. I walked down the road in the direction of the lagunas, no really thinking I would make it the whole 11km. After only 20 minutes, I passed a house and a big sign that said propiedad privada, no pasar, multa (private property, do not pass, fine). The road split so I walked one way, thinking that maybe the sign referred only to the other part of the dirt road. But rocks all along the jeep trail were painted with the same words: propiedad privada. I realize why that struck me-not just because I don´t tend to trespass on land when there are signs warning against it, but because I was in a national park. How could this be private? Another thing to ask the rangers about. The road ended soon after that, a watery bofedal had swallowed it, so I turned around. Maybe the ranger meant that I should go the other way down the road.

Still feeling good, I passed Parinacota and the little lake as I followed the jeep trail in the other direction. I was just walking, my own slow pace, enjoying the vast empty landscape. In 1.5 hours, maybe 2 cars passed me. I had a snack sitting on the side of the road in the sand, watching the heat waves rise in the distance then be blown sideways by the wind so that the picture I saw was like a bad-quality VHS.

I kept walking up the road, watching the shape of Guane Guane peak change as I moved around it. I had thought of this day as a warm up, getting used to the altitude, before I attempted to climb GuaneGuane.

Coming up on my next entry... climbing into the back of a police truck, a 5,000 meter hill, and a serious grapple with national parks in Chile and how they are run.

L´chaim... yes the hills are still alive

...with the sound of music, what else. After my trek past la Quebrada de San Lorenzo, I returned to town for a day before leaving for points further north, and wouldn´t you know it, the sinfonia in town had a open air concert in the plaza de 9 de julio. Of course I decided to attend, especially since the poster said comedias musicales. I looked at the program and was disappointed for a second. I read ¨La Novicia Rebelde¨ ¨Mi Bella Dama¨ Ël Violonista en el Tejado¨ and ¨West Side Story.¨ It took a minute to sink in that these weren´t just some local Spanish language musical comedies and that I knew more than just West Side Story. The Rebel Noviate... wait a minute - that must be my good friend Maria von Trapp. And Mi Bella Dama and El Violnista en el Tejado tranlate easily to old favorites My Fair Lady and Fiddler (ok techniquement Violinist on the Roof, but I got the picture). So the Saltenos and I enjoyed a night under the stars with some real classics. The concert, with the locals humming along to the music, drove hum how similar South America is to the US, especially compared with India. But ok enough about the post-trek music... here´s a bit on La Quebrada hike.

Climbing up out of the quebrada, or gorge, I moved from wet jungle to clear views of the valley. Overlooking the flat city with shiny buildings in the distance reminded me of the hikes I took while studying abroad in Granada. Then, as in now, I was thrilled to be up in the mountains, looking down. There is no better place. After the 2 hour climb out of the valley I made my way just below the ridgeline, with ups and downs, and views of the valley on one side and rolling hillsides stretching out on the other. As the wind picked up and clouds threatened me with rained, I sat down by Lago Bravo (or something) for a rest. I renamed it Tapps that 2 / Sludge Lake in honor of the nice layer of green sludge that covered most of the surface of the lake. I watched the leaves on the lake that left tracks of clear water in their wake after being blown by the wind. It was loud by the lake, like the sound of generators at an overused campsite, but it was nothing man-made: the ranas (frogs) were just announcing their presence. The intermittent drops of rain on the little bit of lake that wasn´t covered reminded me of my visit to the Pitti Palace gardens in Florence, the rain drops breaking up the reflection I would have seen otherwise.

I enjoyed splashing through little streams as the trail wound its way upwards through another quebrada. I sampled a local plant, a kirusilla. It was about 3ft tall, with a single curling leaf on top. The stalk, or stem really, was over an inch thick and covered with little spikes that looked like they would hurt but were actual pliable to the touch. Manuel ripped out a stalk from the root and peeled out the outer layer, handing me the white flesh of the center. It was sugary sweet, juicy, and wonderfully cool after the long walk.

This ¨hut¨ was a building by a farm that the farmers offered out to hikers. There was no idllyic Swiss countryside living--with no other buildings in site and a 5-7 hour walk to town, this was real mountain (dare I say wilderness?) living. Life was rough there--the faces of the farmers reflected that. Their role as hosts was a mere economic exchange. I got a handshake and then they went back to work. The older couple merely offered a cot in a mud brick hut--the room across from their own room, in fact. Tiny windows with misshapen wooden shutters offered light by day but the warped boards promised to let in the cool air at night. Down the path 200 meters were other farm buildings, the musty cooking hut and buildings that offered protection to the animals. This was just a place to sleep. There was no hot meal at the end of the day made with fresh milk or meat. Just the crackers and cheese we brought from below (of course that is fine for me for one night--it is more the difference with other lodgings for trekkers that families offer that I am highlighting here). There were lots of dogs around - at least six - and I was surprised by the fact that they didn´t try to snatch my food away even though it was on a stool at their level. I only learned the name of one of the dogs. The senora of the farm kept yelling ¨Willy¨ ¨Willy¨ as if that was the only dog that was being mischevious (kind of like our neighbors do with one of their triplets).

I watched the goats and sheep come down the hill for milking near sunset. Most of the cows made it back too, but we could see the outline of a couple cows way up on the hillside, sillouetted in the fading light. The men ran up the hill to round up the cows. I went to bed early, spreading the puma skin over my sleeping back in case I got cold. I made sure that the head was facing toward my feet, so I wouldn´t wake up with a snarling animal in my face.

As it turned out, the night was so warm, I threw of my puma skin during the night. I hung him up properly in the morning, though. Before I left, I watched a calf being lassoed. The usual.

I collected more kirusillas, even better on this day since it was warmer and sunnier. I strapped them to the back of my pack, thinking that was a pretty good look for me (maybe it was, but it wasn´t the best place for the kirusillas--they ended up falling off during my descent in the jungle. oops). We stopped in the afternoon at Manuel´s abuela´s farm. She was a real abuelita-- referring to everything in the diminuitive form. Manuel brought her kirusillas - Ay las kirusillitas! We should sit in the shade (sombra)? La sombrita! She was impressed with out (not so big) packs and the fact that we carried them all this way. I think she takes a horse to go into town. I bid goodbye to the sombrita and the comfortable breeze of the mountainside and descended the rest of the way back to the start of the San Lorenzo reserve. Coming back to civilization meant luxuries like fresh alfajores oozing dulce de leche. Well, that AND musical comedies under the stars. A good day.

I took a long bus ride over the mountains, stopping in Calama for a wonderful peek into Chilean family life. My couchsurfing host Pablo brought me to his house in time for his tia´s birthday fiesta. There were all kinds of sweet goodies on the table, not to mention bottomless cups of rich hot chocolate and birthday cake. Despite all the food, however, what caught my attention was the way the family gathering was not about the food-it was about conversation and just being together. I saw a procession in the streets of the Calama, accompanied by dancers in the flashiest costumes I have ever seen.

Another long bus ride, this time overnight, to Arica and I was much closer to the park I was aiming for. I left my big pack in the bus station luggage storage so I could get around the city easily. I hopped in a colectivo to the center of town and walked around inquiring about trails and transportation in Lauca National Park. Another new CS friend, Christian, made my life so much easier by meeting me (and my bag) at the station and later taking me to the big store to stock up for the trip inland. This morning, he even dropped by La Paloma bus to Putre. I slept the whole way up - 3 hours and almost 3500 meters up. That is as high as Leh in Ladakh. I feel better then when I landed in Leh way back in September, perhaps because I didn´t fly here. But I still decided to take the day slowly in order to get accustomed to the high altitude. I made more inquiries about the trails I can take. I will start by staying in Parinacota and go from there to the refugio by Lake Chungara. This is a parched landscape, dry and dusty, despite the promises of summer rains every afternoon. This is a small city, one story buildings and dirt roads, with no gas station or big grocery store. During the afternoon, the roads were eerily quiet. took a short walk along a dusty trail, passing a kids´ futbol game on the return. It will be an early night then I am off, making my way to Parinacota for a few days.

Happy 24th to Becca! (wow)