Travel Notes S2 E5: Into the Valley
Originally published on Medium on January 22, 2019.
November 2018
Location: Cochamo Valley, Chile
A “South American Yosemite” I was excitedly told so many months ago on a rainy Devon weekend; “granite walls touching the sky, remote in the extreme, yet a climbers paradise”.
With that description in mind Cathrin, my companion on this adventure, and I acquired provisions for a week and the services of Zero, a local ‘gaucho’ who at 68 years old knew every twist, turn, rut and root of the steep trail meandering upwards at the bank of the Rio Cochamo.
We’d hired Zero’s services, or more accurately the steeds which accompanied him to navigate to the Jura Jura base camp, some 6 hours outside of civilisation. The trail made for incredibly easy work for these scions of Spanish conquistadors, navigating up rock strewn gullys at a pace akin more to a motorbike than our partners gentle nature would suggest.
I don’t recall the last time I’d smiled so intensely, for such a long time, my partner for the day needing no encouragement to stray from the well trodden path through streams, copses and up seemingly impassable rockfaces, our souls seemingly aligned to mis-behave and enjoy the moment.
Our camp and home for the week nested in the alley beneath the granite peaks my climbing friend had so animatedly described. An idyllic meadow shared with gaucho’s hours and rangers livestock. Water, plentiful but alpine cold running off the peaks provided your choice in washing off the trail dust between a cold shower or colder riverbank.
Yet in this simplicity, cut off from the normality of modern life you gain a sense of peace. Reminded of how little we need to live; that hot water, WiFi and light pollution are not necessities it luxuries. That three simple meals (Oats for breakfast, cured eat and trail mix for lunch and pasta/cuscus for dinner) taste as fulfilling as a Michelle’s star in the right space and company. That shared goals and shared tribulations fore the firmest of friendships.
Days hikes from the valley floor have more in common with a vertical obstacle course than a Sunday stroll; most if not all trails being cut from the dense primordial rainforest by intrepid climbers enroute to their first pitch.
Arch Iris is the most extreme example of this, requiring confident rope handling and deft footwork to navigate the upper echelons in search of fairytale views and the ego boosting highs knowing you are a member of the elite few to achieve its summit. The rock here is incredible; shoes sticking to granite faces as assuredly as tarmac on a hot day, enabling you to quite literally run up the lower curvature, dancing 100 metres up and 130 degrees away from the tree lines safety.
Yet mountains have a tendency to retaliate to hubris, a sunrise and set later, our day restricted to a few dozen metres of tent and hut, huddled around the communal fire as the heavens attempted to carry our belongings away in an arc without a ship, the only trail out of the valley, cut off by a river grown thrice.
Yet for us happy few so lucky to be here, marooned from normality it’s just another day of peaceful contemplation.