I´ve written before about the possibility that travelling has turned me in to my Mother. Well today I would like to explore whether I am turning in to my Geography teacher. On one school trip involving cagoules I promised myself that, unlike my teacher, I would never wear hiking boots with shorts and I would never buy a fleece.
Well guess what... I did both.
Hiking (or if you want to sound more hardcore, trekking) is the travellers bread and butter. Back in the UK if I asked said to a friend ´Hey let´s go hiking in the Peak District this weekend!´ I´d probably be met with a scowl. Yet here in South America I am regularly comparing notes on treks, enquiring in to those I want to do and advising on how to fall asleep at 4000m with only a three season sleeping bag.
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| Snow-capped peaks and icy blue lakes |
At least once a month out comes the hiking boots, fleece and oh-so-useful zip off trekking trousers and off I wander into the jungle, or down a canyon, across a valley, or up a mountain. Undoubtedly the best, most awe-inspiring scenery has been found whilst hiking. I have stood at the bottom of canyon on the Quilotoa Loop in Ecuador about to cry at the ascent required, climbed to the top and then exclaimed ´Isn´t it a lovely view´! I have frozen to death in the Cordillera Blanca in Peru, stomping along for an hour without feeling my toes and then forgotten all about it at the sight of a particularly blue lake and an especially pointy snow-capped peak.
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| Sin Cola and a happy sister |
My sisters (who have joined me for three weeks) and I recently returned from the Colca Canyon. On day one we hiked in to the canyon, on day two we hiked along the valley floor to the Sangalle Oasis which was unusually and thankfully deserted. On day three we got up at 4.30am to climb out of the canyon (a 1000m ascent) before the sun came up. It was on this third day, in the pitch black with no view to speak of that I found another reason to love trekking. The dogs. The friendly Sin Cola (No Tail) who had helpfully eaten our unwanted rice the night before accompanied us the whole way up. A look of fond concern on his face Sin Cola guided us up the switch tracking path turning what was supposed to be a three hour, uphill slog in to a walk in the park.
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| Challa and a still happy sister |
The dog collecting happened again a few days later on the Isla del Sol in Bolivia. Strolling along the ridge line we were joined by the beautiful Challa (named after the village we poached her from) who guided us all the way south to Yumani. Faithful to the end she tried to bed down with us at our hostel only to be cruelly turned from the premises.
Tomorrow the sisters and I are off to hike the Inca Trail. The fleece is packed, the boots are waiting by the door. The phrases inter-locking spurs and v-shaped valley will be echoing in my head as we hike, although I´ve long since forgotten what they mean, and hopefully in amongst the Incan ruins and the stunning vistas there will be, patiently waiting, another dog eager to go walkies.
