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| Hiking through the Santa Cruz Valley |
A couple of weeks ago Kaeli and I left Huaraz with the intention of climbing the north face of Quitaraju, a moderate 6,100m peak in the Santa Cruz valley, which is a few hours north of Huaraz. Strangely, however, as we crawled out of camp at 4am on summit day, we found ourselves trudging up the base of a very different mountain. Here’s the story.
Our plan was to shoot for something a little longer, a little steeper, a little more technical. We’d already done easy peaks, we’d done pointy peaks, we’d done high peaks (including the highest in Peru), but we hadn’t yet done anything truly long and technical (even if only moderately so), so that became our goal. Quitaraju seemed like the perfect fit: 1,500ft of 55-65 degree ice to a beautiful summit ridge. Best of all, it's not often climbed, because even at 6,100m the mountain remains in the shadow of its famous, shorter neighbor Alpamayo (a short walk in the other direction), which back in the ‘60s zee Germans the most beautiful mountain in the world. Now, because Alpamayo is at the top of the tick-list for every mountaineer visiting the region, climbers on Quitaraju often get the joy of having the mountain all to themselves.
Per usual, we spent the day before our departure making runs to every grocery store in town to pick up all the necessities. Unlike Safeway, you never know what is going to be in stock, so you alway have to hit them all to finish off the shopping list. And one in particular, Novaplaza, specializes in “safer” cheeses and meats, but charge a premium to keep the refrigerator on all night.
By this point in our trip, having spent over 50 days in the mountains, we are absolutely sick of nearly every climbing-suitable Peruvian food, a list which for us has included: instant potatoes, oatmeal, granola, ramen, nuts, almost every variety of Peruvian candy bar, Casino cookies, powdered milk, Kraft mac & cheese (no, the last one isn't Peruvian)--to name a few things. As a consequence, the shopping cart now quickly becomes filled with things like Nutella, Nutella-esque stuffed cereal, chocolate, Manjar (Peruvian caramel sauce), expensive American imported cereals, expensive American imported candy, and expensive imported Italian pesto sauce. Apparently, the solution to extended-exposure-food-repulsion for us has become more sugar, better sugar, and some pasta. So far it has been working.
The Approach
After a 1.5 collectivo ride to the smaller, more relaxed northern town of Caraz, we headed directly to Pony Expeditions, where we stopped for breakfast and arranged an arriero (donkey driver). The approach up the Santa Cruz valley to Quitaraju/Alpamayo base camp is relatively long, requiring 2 days instead of a few grueling hours, and with our heavy packs we felt that donkeys here (and a driver to drive them) were especially justified. After all, we wanted to have energy left over for climbing. We later found it out, not only had we hired a donkey driver, but he was a trout fisherman too!
And so the adventure began on some day of the week around 11:30am on from Cashapampa
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| Our furry friends |
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| Cashapampa |
We’d done this hike before on the Santa Cruz trek. Nothing much had changed except that the hills were now a bit drier and browner and there were now two stalls at Llamacorral selling beer, soda, and snacks! Hmm… we wondered what they did with the trash. Hopeful that the lure of deposit would eventually bring the empty bottles home, we bought two Peruvian beers to drink later in camp.
But rather than camp at Llamacorral, as we did on our previous jaunt through the valley, our arriver insisted we go an hour further to the east side of the first lake. Looking back, he wanted to do this in part, I think, because we were already walking with his arriero friend who was planning to fish for dinner, but also because it gave him a chance to show off his fishing skills (a common treat for tourists) and earn a bigger tip! And so as darkness approached, and while the mountain air became evermore frigid, the two spent the evening scurrying in and around the icy riverbank, makeshift fishing poles in one hand, a string of dangling trout in the other. He returned later with 20 fish, 8 of which were for us, cleaned and ready to cook. After being boiled in chicken broth and combined with a huge pot freshly boiled vegetables and garlic mash potatoes, the trout proved to be an overwhelming--and high-protein--success.
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| Teaming up on the fish, our arriero and his friend as dusk approaches |
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| Boiling trout for dinner! |
The following day we continued an hour or so up the Santa Cruz Valley before venturing left (north) to follow a faint series of switchbacks leading up to Quitaraju/Alpamayo base camp. Like I said, we’d done the Santa Cruz trek before, so we’d already seen it all--or so we thought. Heading left on the Alpamayo trail, however, involves climbing a rather steep hill up to the opening of Quebrada Arhueycocha (Quebrada = Quechuan for “valley”), which is about 300 or 400 meters above the main valley floor. From this vantage point, we were finally able to see the surrounding mountains that had been obstructed the previous two days by the steep valley walls. Only here did I get a real appreciation for the sheer mass and proximity, not to mention the beauty, of the peaks surrounding the us. Wow.
Let that be advice to anyone venturing on the Santa Cruz trek: be sure not to miss the side-trip to Alpamayo Base Camp (!). They are the undoubtedly the best views on the entire hike (and some of the best in the range, from a trekking standpoint anyway). The first time around, we didn’t know what we were missing, plus some low-lying clouds had rolled in and Kaeli was feeling sick, so we went directly to camp in the valley, but we sure were glad to have a second opportunity with clear skies and warm weather. We arrived at Quitaraju/Alpamayo camp about 1.25 hours from the turn-off in the lower valley.
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| Alpamayo |
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| Quitaraju & Alpamayo with the Col in the middle |
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| Hiker resting in the Arhueycocha Valley w/ NE ridge of Artesonraju in the background |
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| Our tent behind a giant boulder, Quitaraju/Alpamayo base camp |
Arriving at 11:30am, thanks to our fuzzy little helpers, we had all day to relax and eat popcorn. The approach on day two was a bit (a lot) shorter than we expected. We realized that the entire thing can definitely be done in one long day (6-8 hours) from Cashapampa, assuming you have donkeys and have made arrangements with the arriver to go the whole distance (they often want to be paid for 2 days, even if you do it in one). Alternatively, it can also be done in a very, very long and grueling day without donkeys, depending on the weight of one's packs. In any case, though I felt a bit guilty wasting 3/4 of a beautiful day sitting on my butt, we really couldn’t go any faster because we had to wait for weather to further stabilize, as well as for the snow from a recent storm to consolidate. Fortunately, this ended up being one of our favorite camps of the trip, so the downtime enjoyable--and we had it nearly to ourselves.
One pot of popcorn, a bag of Dorritos, and one cheese and salami sandwich later, I decided to walk up to Laguna Arhueycocha, a few minutes from camp.
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| Quebrada Arhueycocha on the way to the Laguna |
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| NE ridge of Artesonraju from the trail |
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| Laguna Arhueycocha |
With the exception of our new South African friends, only other (uninhabited) tent in camp belonged to mysterious group of climbers, who we eventually discovered descending late in the day from moraine camp. Curious about weather and snow conditions, we talked them up for some beta when they arrived in camp. They were a group from France, who had just summited the French Direct of Alpamayo--fitting! Reports by all accounts were excellent: 2 pitches of steep snow, 6 pitches of ice, easy route finding, easy bergschrund crossing, and the max angle was about 65-70 degrees. Well, hey, that sounds fun! Plus, they said, there was no one else on the mountain, except an altitude-sick Italian team of two already on their way down.
And so it was then that our main reasons for categorically rejecting Alpamayo as a climbing objective, i.e., it being dangerously crowded (falling ice), having an insane bergschrund crossing (requiring a ladder), and the mountain itself looking, well, scary, began to vanish. The route didn’t seem so bad. Besides, the majority of the French group were old men. Man, if they can do it, we can too. So out of the blue, despite not having brought a route description or as many screws (just 6) as I would have liked, Alpamayo was suddenly on the table. We decided to wait and take a look at things when we got to high camp before getting too excited.
The next day we went to moraine camp. It was another very short day, only about 3 hours, but again we had to burn some time for weather--or did we? The weather was good, a group has just summited… Maybe we should move more quickly, so we don’t lose our window? The last thing we wanted was to sit in a storm at 18,000 feet like we did on Caraz I. But skipping moraine camp and heading to high camp would have been a full day with full packs, plus it wouldn’t have allowed to us to eat through (food & fuel) weight and stash some gear, which had been part of our go-light plan. So we decided to camp, and I spent part of the afternoon fortifying our rock wall.
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| Moraine camp (4900m) with Laguna Arhueycocha in the background. Note our new tent (and the rock wall) :) |
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| Artesonraju (again) - N face |
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| Approach to col (route in red) |
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| On our way to high camp! |
It was now day 4 of the trip, time for a bit of easy ice climbing to the top of the col, which is formed by the east and west ridges of Quitaraju and Alpamayo. The first few hours was just a nice stroll on the glacier between gargantuan crevasses. In the final 100 or so meters we encountered some steeper climbing, which wasn’t more than about 55 degrees, but with full packs and 3 days worth of food it was steep enough. We encountered a fixed line that we chose not to to use (until the descent), unsure of the quality of its anchor. Kaeli put in two pickets and climbed to the top.
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| Alpamayo from the col |
And BOOM, the first glimpse of Alpamayo.
After setting up camp in the basin formed between the two peaks, we had lunch and then took a stroll to the base of Alpamayo to scope out the route and the bergschrund. Still somewhat skeptical of the icy megalith, Kaeli walked over reluctantly. But once we got there, the conditions really looked superb; the schrund was wide but passable and the route looked amazing. We giggled. Having this route to ourselves and not attempting it would be sacrilegious, right? We knew it was. The weather was clear and calm. Right then and there we decided to change our objective to the French Direct.
And yet again, poor Quitaraju was cast in its famous neighbor’s shadow.
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| Camp! :) |
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| Scoping the route |
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| Sunset |
The Climb
We planned to get moving at 4am but it took us about 45 minutes longer than expected. We didn’t arrive at the bergschrund until about 5:30. The crossing as well as last-minute bathroom duties took us about 30-45 minutes. I think we made it to the first belay above the bergschrund around 6:15 or something, as the first rays of dawn began to light our way. Kaeli led the first pitch with pickets (55-60 degrees). It was solid neve the whole way, just fun, easy climbing--oh, and it was freezing cold!
From there, I took over the next 6 pitches. The second was just like the first, solid neve, before transitioning into a long, narrow runnel of patchy alpine ice. Luckily, the V-threads from previous parties remained, enabling us to climb from V-thread to V-thread and use just one back-up screw at each anchor--this was the critical condition that allowed us to climb on just 6 screws; 2 for anchors and 4 for lead pro.
More on conditions: It was cold, it was windy up top, which caused a near constant flow of spindrift to rain on us for the first few pitches, a less constant but thicker flow on later pitches. The snow and ice in places was kicked to a patchy mess. Good screws, at times, were hard to find. Huge ice blocks hung from the summit cornice over our heads.
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| Kaeli following high on the French Direct (see the 3 little tents at the bottom of the large vertical crevasse) |
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| An alternative view, with Quitaraju in the background |
The climbing wasn’t particularly difficult, which allowed me to run out the pitches. BUT at one terrifyingly memorable moment, a giant snow block/plume let loose from high up on one of the right-hand runnels feeding into the route. I looked down, 30 feet or more above my last piece, to see Kaeli get absolutely clobbered by snow. In fact, all I could see was snow, no Kaeli. And then I thought about my precarious stance. I guess I would have already been pulled off balance and fallen had there been an issue, but I dug my tools in anyway and waited. As the view began to clear, a black maroon poof of Feathered Friends jacket appeared. Phew that was close. “Everything alright down there?! Yea!!” Luckily, despite being huge, the block hadn’t been solid enough to do any damage. Nonetheless, it was a stark reminder of the dangers of the route (google Alpamayo and read about all the school-bus-sized blocks of ice that have fallen down). We were soon to clear the point at which these runnels emptied out in ours, and the route looked clean and slightly less susceptible to objective hazard the rest of the way, so we continued on.
The going was a bit slower than ideal. The combination of frozen hands and slow changeovers hurt us on the clock--not to mention our late departure from camp. And because I was leading, we had to swap gear and re-flake the rope each time--not huge issues, but, especially in the cold, every minute adds up.
A few more pitches after the snowfall incident, we’d arrived about a pitch or a pitch and a half from the summit cornice. It was 11:20am. I figured, given the altitude and our pace, it would probably take us another hour or hour and half to top out. I looked down. The sun was shining bright and warming the route below, and I thought about the 8-9 rappels we’d need to do in order to get down. Let’s see, summit around 12:30 or 1pm, rap down to our current point, be here sometime around 1 or 1:30pm, rap the rest of the route… In all likelihood, I guessed, we probably wouldn’t make it off the route until 3 or 4 in the afternoon, but we really didn’t know how long the descent was going to take. It wasn’t really something we wanted to do in the afternoon. I mean, it’s one thing to walk off Mt. Rainier in the afternoon; it was a very different thing to rap off a 6,000m peak in the warm, afternoon sun, especially considering the dangling ice “decorations” above us and the fact that we’d already been hit by debris in the morning hours. The longer we stayed on route, the more we risked another debris event, and despite the fact that we were having fun, the climbing was easy, and we’d already passed the crux of the ascent, the real crux was going to be do get down safely, and I felt a lot less comfortable about that than I did about the actual climbing. Every kick and swing increased our exposure.
After Kaeli arrived at the belay, a very sad and heart-wrenching decision was made to begin our descent. In the photo, you can where we bailed, just as the route dog-legs right the angle begins to ease off toward the top. The french told us the remainder was only about 50 or 55 degrees.
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| Rapping just below the summit |
The decision haunted me for the next several days. I wondered if we’d made the right decision. We easily could have made it up and down. The descent took a lot less time than we expected. The conditions were perfect, we should have made it, we could have made it. We came all this way and didn’t make it. WTF? Inches from the most sought-after peak/route in the range. Ahh!
But with our relative-inexperience climbing at this level, we erred on the side of caution. From our position on route, we could have never known if conditions were safe, if something else would fall, if our descent would take us into the evening hours--no clue. Furthermore, the mountain had granted, if you will, our passage on a challenging route, and something just didn’t seem right about continuing to climb into the afternoon hours--reckless? Maybe. If we wanted it that bad, I guess we should have gotten up earlier. All we knew was that we made it to 5,875 meters, and we’d given it our best, especially since it had been so spontaneous. We didn’t really know how long the ascent was going to take; after all, we hadn’t really mentally prepared either--we just saw it and went for it.
The Descent
We cruised down the face in about an hour and a half, which didn’t help ease the pain of turning around. We made it back to camp around 2:30pm, had a snack, and chatted with the South Africans, who had also turned around, albeit on the second pitch.
More
Despite backing down, the climb was still undoubtedly a huge accomplishment. We pushed our own limits on a mountain (and a route) that we felt, at least initially, was potentially beyond--or near the fringes of--our ability. I think we overcame a our of fears, built some solid confidence, and realized that, with a little focus/preparation, the climb would have easily been in the bag. We were a great match. The greatest sense of accomplishment, I would say, comes from our own realization and redefinition of what’s possible.
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| Our route - French Direct |
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| Close-up of the French Direct after our descent |
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| Artesonraju (again...) - N Face |
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| On descent - below the col |
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| The hike out - Santa Cruz Valley |
