Pieces de Peru is an occasional travel column by Cape Girardeau native Matt Wittmer.
On the top floor of the Cafe Andino in Huaraz, Peru, well-to-do Europeans -- not a stitch of natural fiber among them -- lounge like big cats fresh off highland kills. They've come to Central Peru to trek in some of the most regal mountains in the Western Hemisphere, where every August day is picture day and the possibility of bagging a 20,000-footer is merely a weeklong climb, a bit of cash and a donkey away.
Here, where meringue-white peaks stand beaming, are the tallest boys in the class. There are more than 50 summits of 18,700 feet or greater. In comparison, the entire continent of North America has three that size, the contiguous U.S. and Europe none. Clearly, this 112-by-12.5 mile area, designated Huascaran National Park since 1975, is special. It is named for Peru's loftiest mountain and encompasses the Cordillera Blanca, the highest tropical range in the world.
These Italians and Germans and Dutch are fit into their 50s and 60s, with that squint-eyed look like they've spent a touch too much time at high altitudes. They're peak-hungry, looking out these big picture windows with the dreamy intensity of conquerors.
Not that they're ruthless; only focused, their eyes to the sky. They'll pass you on the trail in shorts and short-sleeves; offer you a cup of coca tea if your teeth are chattery, tell you which side trip to take, which laguna to see, which guide to hire and which hostel to avoid.
And that's just what you need when you travel, someone who's been there before, if not to follow their advice, then to make your course by marking theirs. The Andino is also topographic maps, mountaineering books and all-day Western breakfast, the ideal place to plan a glaciated adventure. Ours would be the four-day, 30-mile Santa Cruz trek.
On our first night out, we shared a classic Peruvian dinner of boiled potatoes slathered in yellow aji (hot pepper) sauce, with the men who called a newly built refugio home. The steam from our cooking condensed on the windows. Among themselves, they spoke the indigenous language, Quechua, in hushed tones as sheep intestines boiled in a huge pot on a wood-fired stove.
Afterward, we lie on our backs outside under an IMAX sky. Occasionally a star broke loose and became a satellite, reminding us that, yes indeed, we were still earthbound. The night brought frost.
It's winter at low altitudes in South America, but it's "Andean summer" in the mountains, which means dry, rain-free days, clear and wind-blown. Still, though, the sun at 15,000 feet can feel as thin as a threadbare coat.
You can map the elements in the hands and faces and feet of the locals and feel the climate's drying effects yourself over the course of a few days' hike. The fearless winds slap you chapped and leave cheeks two steps beyond rosy, windburned, in fact, and scabbed.
The women prefer the shoes of office workers, not those fit for these or any other mountains. Up they go though in their colorful skirts with mismatched vibrancy, if not a baby, a bundle of wood slung on their back. Native guides wear the snap-brimmed felt fedoras of our grandfathers and sandals made of recycled tires, not knit hats with ear flaps or Gor-Tex boots.
For us mere mortals, however, the going is rough at these altitudes. Especially before you've acclimated, even days after, a mere 20 escalating paces can leave you swearing to swear off cigarettes, again, even though you already did it five years ago.
The people turn into shepherds way up high and live in circular rock-walled structures with dirt floors and domed roofs of grass. Their dreadlocked sheep bleat and run along on cartoon legs.
And, my, what views! In these distance-defying mountains there is no reference point. Strange how reassuring, how connecting, it can be to feel so small.
Our pass at Punta Union topped out at 15,617 feet, and we felt every one of them. That night, nearing dusk, having fallen like water to a huge meadow of indeterminable size, we met some gloveless boys, all cousins, out to catch a horse put to pasture by one of their fathers. It was tied up in the underbrush, their days work done. I saw the one named Hoop put his hands right in the fire. We ate tiny trout they'd caught in the river.
Later, I thought of words that smiled me straight to sleep: water, moss, lichen, rock, grass, horse, sun, shepherd, sheep, mountain -- Peru.
Matt Wittmer is a columnist for the Southeast Missourian and an avid traveler and cyclist. He is teaching English at the University of Piura in Piura, Peru. Reach him at matt.wittmer@gmail.com.
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