It’s hard to overstate quite how spectacular the Colca Canyon is when you first look down into it. You squint down into the depths and seea little ribbon of water which you know is the river that made this enormous thing. You spin your head round like an owl trying to take in the whole view at once. The vastness and the quiet, and the light bouncing off the canyon walls, make you walk around with your mouth open like a gasping fish. Incidentally, you’re already gasping like a fish because for some reason, you’ve caught altitude sickness off your boyfriend even though you were fine on Cotopaxi, which is a bit of a drag. But the view is certainly worth it.
Of course, it’s (literally) all downhill from here. The first few hours walking were just wonderful, although being terrible at heights makes the experience just a little bit stressful. There are some serious big plummets (like, a kilometre) into Colca Canyon and the ground is rocky and sort of slides out from under you. Chris had to coax me over several tough bits with biscuits. But after three hours we reached the bottom and- joy of joys!- a swimming pool, an oasis with mango trees, and a bar. We had a rest and some snacks and a refreshing dip and I uttereds the foolish words ´I am having a brilliant time’.
Clever types will have spotted the big downside of climbing into a canyon and that is, of course, that you have to do it the wrong way round. Three hours of picking your way over rocks downhill while trying not to become a giant splat is quite tough going, especially in the heat. But of course you have to go back up again before you can have the beer and alpaca steak you promised yourself. Still, we had six hours of light left and the book said it took four so no worries.
The writing was on the wall after twenty minutes when I had a panic attack. This is not usual for me, and was kind of inconvenient, as breathing is generally required for climbing and suddenly I couldn’t do it. Eventually it subsided but the tone for the next few hours was set. Generally I walked for five minutes and then rested for six. I pleaded with Chris to let me lie down in a nice warm patch of dust and die. (Because of course it would take more than this to cure me of chronic melodrama). I had a plan all figured out. I would sleep the night in a cave I had found, having made a fire with twigs. Then I would ambush an early morning hiker, steal their breakfast, and go back down to the nice oasis and live there forever.
Of course it didn’t end that way. Just as I really was starting to get frightened that we would run out of water and actually get stuck, a boy with a mule arrived. The cost was as much as our hostel room but at that point I would have paid anything and Chris, who had bravely forced me onwards for the last three hours, decided that enough was enough and let me get on it.
The mule I named Barry. The guide boy was called Gilda (Or something. I had stopped listening. I was crying into the mule’s neck with relief). We set off at breakneck speed up the canyon with Chris still on foot. Once I stopped crying I realised two things. One, being on a swaying mule is really bad if you don’t like heights. Two, I have no idea how to ride a mule. Barry was a good mule, but he didn’t like stepping on stones so he sort of tiptoed along the edge of the ravine for an hour while I clung to his saddle blanket and didn’t look down.
Next day we went to Cruz del Condor in a bus with all the other tourists. We saw a condor and some lizards, and browsed some stalls looking at striped trousers. We had alpaca for dinner. Woman, know your limits.
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