Sufficiently Soaked: Chapter 4

Morning found us more or less warm, and pretty dry so we took our time. Stacking calories, stretching our legs and loading our packs, we were mentally preparing ourselves for the days climb. If yesterday was far, today we would walk high.

At the head of the Santa Cruz valley lies Punta Union Pass. At 15,600 feet, we had our work cut out for us. About 2,500 feet above camp, switch-backing up a steep and rocky mountainside, we resolved to take our time and enjoy the climb. 

Vertical climbs and huge mountains, venturing further and further away from home, and yet somehow it seems the smaller the world gets. As we watched a guided group descend from above, we first passed a team of mules carrying everything we had decided to put on our own backs. A few switchbacks later, I was elated to literally run into an Austrian friend who I had worked with on a farm in a tiny town in Ecuador. We hugged and exchanged some travel stories from the previous weeks then said our goodbyes. Even though the trail continued tosteepen  towards the pass, the excitement from coincidentally having encountered a friend in such a remote locale kept my spirits high.

With calm and measured steps, we reached Punta Union at high noon and sat to enjoy the view. It was some sort of raining but not quite snowing. We smiled, looking back down the valley, with fond memories of passing each specific landmark below. Nibbling on our snickers, we turned to look down the other side, the Harishampa Valley. The descent seemed more gradual than the ascent that we had just made, causing us to realize the reason why most people do it the other way. However, it was more than just the grade of the trail that caught our attention. While the Santa Cruz Valley held the characteristics of a high-alpine, wind-swept landscape, this new valley seemed more lush, with more trees and more lakes. With this realization, we couldn't help but wonder if this was the reason French momma seemed so overwhelmed by the rain.

One thing was for sure, we were soon to find out.
We made our way down the pass and were not yet an hour into our descent when the rain started to fall. We quickly realized this was a different type of rain too. This was a constant rain. This was a soaking rain. This was the Andean wet season rain.

Just as in the other valley, the trail was well marked, however there was one marked difference. In the Harishampa Valley, there was no trail. There was only a creek. The rain fell and the water flowed down the valley on all sides. Enormous waterfalls cascaded over the thousand-foot cliff walls and collided with raging rivers.

So this is what French momma was talking about. This is exactly what she was talking about. It was the kind of wet that made you even question the possibility of drought. The kind of wet that made you wonder if you would ever be dry again. We marched on towards camp. 

Squish, squish, squish.
We found high grounds to set up camp where we thought we would be protected from any rising waters. As luck would have it, while we pitched our tent it was only raining, as opposed to the deluge we had experienced previously.Once again, it would be a tent-bound dinner of ramen, and while the day had been wet, it hadn´t been all together too challenging. With still a bit of light left to the day, we played some cards and listened to the pattering symphony of rain overhead.