We have encountered the Andes. Like the raised backbone of some buried prehistoric creature, they form the spine of the continent. Where the blanket of earth has been eroded away, this backbone exposes itself in long chains of stony peaks, interrupted by high altitude plateaus. In other places, the sharper spines penetrate the earth’s skin and thrust skyward until they are wrapped in snowy glaciers. The steep flanks of this ancient creature are dry and dusty where they tilt towards the Pacific Ocean, and clad in thick, green vegetation as they slide into the wetlands of the Amazon. With startling regularity, this creature shifts its body, sending tremors along its flanks or belching plumes of black breath into the air as it searches for its tectonic resting position. The mountains do not understand borders, and yet they form the larger ordering principle for the continent, arranging weather and distributing natural resources. They are the defining image of South America, and I have vastly underestimated them.
To travel overland in South America is to engage in a contest with the Andes. Through much of Peru, it is possible to drive only through the Andes, not along them. These passages through the mountains lead invariably to high passes that cut through at its lowest, most vulnerable locations. Each passage tests man and machine (mostly machine). I have learned to scope out the next day’s drive by digitally walking the route, taking note of the places where straight lines are suddenly bent into hairpins stacked up tightly against the side of a mountain. This is where we will go slowly, taking our time, letting the Duramax fight its way up into the thin air. Driving here has become a full time pre-occupation that requires calculating fuel range and stations, assessing the viability of road networks (paved, not paved, how bad), remoteness, landslide closures and weather. Driving here is a two person job and Daniella and I have developed into a pretty good team. She handles the driving and I look after logistics, route-finding, helping spot any car size potholes and unmarked speed bumps. Despite our itinerary and logistical needs however, the final determining factor to our route always comes down to where and when we can cross the Andes.
We have decided to make some time and follow the Pan-American down the coast of northern Peru. Here the highway delivers four lanes of dead flat straightness that we haven’t seen since we left the I-5 in California. The landscape is anything but inspiring. Shifting dunes creep towards the coastline and sandstorms sweep the road. There is garbage everywhere. Not just the odd plastic bag caught in the brushy shoulder, but mountains of it. The landscape alternates between garbage dunes and sand dunes. Between the dunes are vast, half started housing developments. Acres and acres of partially built mud brick walls laid out along surveyor’s lines in the sand. Large billboards depicting picture perfect families standing in front of pretty single-family homes make empty, desperate promises about what might never take place here. The families in front of the pretty houses are white skinned, clearly not Peruvian. Later we discover that developers buy these large tracts of empty land and are forced to demonstrate within a certain time frame that they have improved the land, or it will be taken away from them. This is a modern version of the squatter’s rights we are familiar with in Canada. Here in Peru the time table for the dreams has run out, and they are slowly being erased from the landscape by the relentless progression of the shifting sand dunes. This not a good place to be. There are numerous warnings on our Ioverlander app for theft, robbery and assault along this stretch of the road. When we leave the highway, it is on a beeline for an established campground, where we can park behind high walls and find safe haven.
We follow the golden rule of overlanding, which says no driving in the dark, and so these are long days. We start early in the morning after a big breakfast. Somehow the kids have become custom to a father who makes them pancakes, oatmeal or eggs every morning (they seem to have forgotten the world where cereal or toast would suffice). Coffee is made in a quantity that will leave enough left over to fill the Yetis for the road. Then, after a quick vehicle and engine check we are off. We rotate the kids so that one of them is always in the camper, until they have all served their sentence and rejoin in the back seat for a movie. Lunch is snacks on the move, or hot empanadas from a roadside stand if we are lucky. Every so often, we need to refuel on liquids – diesel for the Duramax and Coke Zeros for Daniella. When late afternoon rolls around, everyone starts to get a little cranky. It feels like the songs on our playlist have hit repeat for the hundredth time, and we can’t seem to find the right podcast to suit everyone’s taste. At this point we start looking for home for the night. If we are lucky, we roll into a camp and we can kick the kids out for some fresh air while Daniella and I cook dinner in the camper, wind down from the day’s efforts and enjoy a glass of wine. If we aren’t lucky….it all gets a little more interesting.
After several days of cruising the coast, we hang an enormous left turn and head for the mountains. The Cordillera Blanca is the highest mountain range in Peru and is a mecca for trekkers and climbers from all parts of the world. They come into view as the Duramax crests the last hill, an ice clad crown that rests on the horizon and catches the golden shafts of light from a setting sun. They are steep, serious, and magnificent. There is something about seeing mountains at a distance that fills the space between with great expectation and we feel it there as we climbed back into the truck.
The road descends into Huaraz, the largest town in the Cordillera. Huaraz is not a pretty place. It looks like a giant dump truck back up, dropped the tailgate and backfilled the valley with a load of dusty, red brick rubble. This chaotic heap has few redeeming features. The cold, clean rivers we had crossed at the mountain’s summit have been choked off and tinted by human debris by the time we encountered them in the valley bottom. This would be a consistent theme of Peru. Magnificent natural treasures like the Cordillera, carefully held aloft so as not to be discolored by the stain of growing civilization that slowly creeps up the valleys.
We had come to the Cordillera to hike and to acclimatize, and we based ourselves out of the Lazy Dog Inn, a small B&B for trekkers run by a Canadian couple. From here we made forays into the surrounding valleys on long walks, then small hikes as we struggled to get our bodies accustomed to operating on thin air. We also managed to get ourselves well stuck on a small gravel road, which cost us a smashed running board by the time we were able to dig ourselves out. Despite the idyllic setting, there was a growing tension settling in as our bodies fought with the altitude. The truck was feeling it too, coughing abnormally black smoke and complaining about the hills. When I pulled out the air filter it was completely mangled and black as charcoal. The lack of good campsites and the security risks around the larger towns were getting frustrating. As the boys put it, we needed to put a “W” on the board.
In an effort to turn things around, we set our sights on Laguna 69, a small lake at the foot of a glacier accessible by a 4 hour long hike. The road to the trailhead did not start out well…90 kilometers of bone-jarring gravel washboard that threatened to discard any loose bolt from our truck and knocked the dishes loose from the cupboards. We have grown wiser now - every time we open the cupboards after a rough ride, we do so in the volleyball player’s ready position, ready to field whatever item has decided to launch itself at us once the door is opened. More than once I have been caught off guard and received a can of corn to the face.
After miles of hard travel and a couple of weeks of dodgy camp sites, we pulled up into a spectacular valley bottom which we had almost entirely to ourselves. Here we could finally let our guard down, and despite the stiff wind, the kids hurried outside and quickly disappeared, pocketing a lighter, the axe and a bag of cookies on the way out. As shadows slowly slid the cover of darkness over the valley, a light emerged from the edge of the woods. The boys had built themselves a fire, glad to finally be out of their parent’s earshot and on their own. Daniella and I enjoyed the silence.
The next day we wound our way up the trail to Laguna 69. As the boys settled into their hiking stride and found their conversation partners, the trail took us higher and higher through some of the most incredible scenery we had experienced. Glaciers so close we could feel the cool air they blew our way. The daytime sky was so blue it was almost dark, and at the foot of the glaciers lay a laguna so turquoise it looked like it was straight out of a pantone catalogue. This was liquid dye poured into a granite vessel. The colour of the water changed with its depth profile, so that one could experience the entire chromatic spectrum of a single colour from the middle of the lake to its edge. It remains the single most profound application of colour that I have ever experienced.
We had made it up to the Laguna before the late-rising Instagram influencers and had the place to ourselves, so I slipped the idea of a cold water dip quietly into Elias’ ear. I have fallen into the bad habit of convincing my boys to do crazy things purely for entertainment’s sake, and usually the most willing conduit is Elias. That way, if Elias does something, at least one of his older brother’s must follow suit. The ploy works, and in short order Nathaniel and Elias have jumped into water that is barely above freezing and are both standing back on shore, yelling and shivering and once again questioning their father’s motivations in life. I wrap them up quickly in their puffies, enjoying the stealth hug that parents of growing kids seem to get less and less frequently. A little further up the lake we stop and embrace a time-honoured Fast family tradition – Gatorade cocktails mixed with chunks of ice lopped off from the glacier itself.
Our return down the trail always takes longer than it should. It’s downhill, and the boys are in a mood to talk, so we pair up, slow down the pace and discuss world events, what everyone is reading and answers to embarrassing questions that only boys will ever ask under very certain circumstances. We arrive back at the camper. It’s been feeling a little cramped lately, but today’s hike has magically enlarged it and it’s feeling like a home again after a day outdoors. We all pile in for an evening of dinner and board games. Road travel has its ups and downs. There are good days, and then there are days we would rather not repeat. Today was one of the good days. The “W” is up on the board.
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