Some curious wind-eroded formations

Marshlands in the high puna


Frozen seepage at 4500m

We left Arequipa at 7.30am in a minibus with eight fellow passengers, though only Bill from the US and Ruben and Ans from Belgium would be doing the 3-day trek with us. The others were doing the classic overnight trip to see the canyon but not to walk in it.

Slowly we climbed this undulating high plateau to reach the highest point of the road; at 4910m, the Mirador de los Andes provided extensive views across a barren rocky landscape to a distant circle of seven volcanoes, some dormant and some active.

From the pass, the road dropped relatively quickly down to village of Chivay at 3630m, set amongst the terraced slopes and patchwork fields at the head of the canyon. It was time for a buffet lunch and a short walk to some 800-year old chullpas (tombs) set into the base of a cliff high above the valley floor, followed by a soak in the local thermal baths and a "culture" show with dinner.

Such displays of culture seem unnatural (unlike fiestas that you may have the good fortune to stumble upon, where the people are obviously enjoying themselves), but who are we, loaded up with tourist dollars, to judge how the people here make an extra sol or two. Still, I felt depressed.

Leaving Maca, our bus continued to follow the edge of the deepening canyon. Across the river, now 800m below us, the slopes were a network of terraces and a patchwork of fields, legacy of the pre-Incan cultures who lived and practiced agriculture in this upper part of the Colca Valley. My depression intensified when we first saw the Cruz del Condor - up to 20 minibuses were already there and the rocky knoll at the edge of the canyon seemed to have more people on it then there were pigeons in the Plaza de Armas in Arequipa.

We duly took up a place on the canyon edge and, not long after, an audible gasp from the crowd was heard. The first condor had taken off from its rocky ledge on the cliffs below and soared by beneath. Almost immediately it was joined by another, then a third and the magnificent spectacle of the condor fly-past began. Up to a dozen of these giant birds were in the air at any one time, their 3m span wings outstretched as they soared by, enchanting the crowd with sweeping curves below and above, sometimes almost hovering kite-like a few metres above our aheads.

The condors themselves seemed to be observing we curious earthbound humans, before soaring off with a subtle flick of one wing and (if condors could smile) a wry smile at all the gaping mouths. For an hour we watched this rhapsody of flight, where even a near mid-air collision became a balletic move, before one by one the birds drifted off on the rising thermals to go about their daily business. Depression had long since been replaced by wonder and I didn't mind how many people I shared this experience with. So sit back and appreciate the flight of the majestic 3m wing-spanned condor.

Above us and below us the rock walls dwarfed us with their height and sheerness, until a series of steep zig-zags led us down another 650m to the river in its orange-walled inner gorge. The geology of the canyon was fascinating, with enormous walls of fluted grey rock adjacent, smooth orange coloured cliffs and thick layers of conglomerate rock.

We crossed the river on a new suspension bridge, where a short steep climb brought us out above 80m conglomerate river cliffs to the green oasis of San Juan de Chuccho. From here we wandered the stone paths alongside tinkling water canals and green grass that rew beneath the shady trees (what a contrast to the exposed north-facing canyon wall) to reach our hostal in time for a late lunch and solar-heated shower.

We followed a canal up into a narrow side valley, before crossing the valley stream and climbing steeply up an agave-lined zig-zagging path to the next village along, Cosnirhua. We wandered through this village to follow the flat path to Malata, the largest and last village of this cluster, with its terraced fields and aesthetic adobe church, listening to Elias' explanation of the history of setlement and social systems of these isolated communities.

As we crossed from village to village, the sun crept up in the sky, the shadows slowly descending down the opposite wall of the canyon and receding to the top of our side. Soon the protection of the high canyon walls was gone and the sun shone hotly as we left the green irrigated fields of the villages and entered the much drier natural vegetation, climbing slowly up a dirt track to a point where we could look back across the line of villages and garden terraces behind us.

From here we traversed an environment of dessicated shrubs, agave and and cacti, slowly traversing the steep slopes of the canyon. Cacti of many types - pear, candlestick, jointed, tiger, dwarf white - dotted the landscape, while the odd flowering bush lent a splash of colour.

The Colca River was once again far below and, across it, a long zig-zagging path led out of the canyon, over 1000m above. We were pleased that we would not be taking that route out. We were once again in full sun on this longish upward traverse, shared with the odd local dog and an old lady on a donkey out collecting tunas (the fruit of pear cactus).

Finally, we reached the rounded dome of a ridge marking the junction of the Colca Canyon with a side canyon, the Huaruro. Ahead lay impressive views of our path tomorrow along the canyon floor far below. However, today we turned north and headed up the side canyon, first crossing a broad and gentle dry slope near its mouth, before starting an undulating and meandering climb across the steep slope and beneath sheer rock walls as we penetrated deeper into the canyon.

Once again, the vegetation began to change; other cacti became rarer and prickly pear more dominant on the slopes in the upper canyon area, while the shrubby plants were less drought-stressed, with occasional heliotropes and lupins covered in scented blue flowers. Ahead the narrowing canyon walls took on an almost glowing greenish tinge in afternoon sunlight. Clearly the microclimates of this complex canyon system change rapidly, both vertically and horizontally.

One last steepish climb on a narrow path high above the valley floor, to cross a stream below a ribbon waterfall cascading down from several hundred metre above, brought us to Fure, a tiny village deep in the Huaruro Canyon and our home for the night. This one of the most isolated villages in the Canyon and permanent home to about 20 families, not so long ago it was more than twice this size, but the activities of the Sendero Luminoso saw many villagers escape to the city, Arequipa. A strange group, the Sendero Luminoso, to terrorise the very people they purported to fight for.