So, with the dream of independently hiking the Colca Canyon, we made our way to the colonial city of Arequipa - which greatly excited Danielle because of the rare Starbucks that make their home there - organized our gear and set out on a local bus to the village of Cabanaconde, perched on the rim of the canyon. After staying overnight, we ventured down into the canyon with our tent, sleeping bags and all our supplies strapped to my back.
We had the trail almost entirely to ourselves. As we weaved our way down the dusty trail that lead to the bottom of the canyon and breathed in the cool morning air, we revelled in the natural beauty that surrounded us…and began to realize that it was a long, long, long, long, long trek back up again.
We pushed those thoughts to the back of our minds and scrambled down to the bottom. We spent half our trek down gaping in awe at the rocky crags, the pale-turquoise river and condors floating lazily through the sky above us. The other half we spent trying not to stumble and disappear over the edge of a cliff. Danielle tripped and almost fell to her death on a few occasions but, other than that, the journey to the bottom was uneventful.
I don’t remember much about that afternoon except for distractedly trying to prevent a herd of fire-ants from building a home in my leg hair as I tried to read Alistair Reynolds under the shade of a tree.
We trekked over more dusty trails through scenery just as stunning the next day. We paid for a campground in Sangalle with showers and, to our chagrin, a beautiful pool. We had left our bathing suits at home and our clothes were far too dirty to warrant diving in. At least we slept well that night.
What goes down must come up. When you’re hiking, the old physics adage works just as well in reverse! On our third morning in the canyon, we woke early, rid ourselves extra food and garbage, purchased four litres of water – “because that’s way more than we’ll ever need” - and began the approximately 3,000 meter climb to the ridge of the canyon.
Crawling out of the depths of the Colca Canyon made scaling Katahdin in Maine, trekking the hill-stations of Nepal and bouldering up Gross Morne in Newfoundland feel like climbing ant-hills by comparison. It was tough! We don’t have many pictures of that day because we were so focused on breathing and putting one foot in front of the other that we never thought to break out the iPhone! As I laboured up the canyon walls, I began fantasizing about removing my thirty-five-pound pack from my shoulders and heaving it over the edge of a cliff. Our four litres of water had disappeared by the time we were halfway up. The second half of our ascent marked the first time in my life where I was so physically exhausted, I actually pondered how pleasant it would be to collapse in the shade by the trail and die. At least I wouldn’t have to keep climbing that hill!
After what felt like an eternity but was really only four hours, we crested the ridge and, to our delight, saw the village of Cabanaconde shimmering in the distance. By that point, I was dangerously exhausted and dehydrated. I may have been hallucinating about small, six-legged purple fur-balls peering at me from behind rocks and screaming “WALLLALLALLAHOOOPAAA!” Or maybe not. The point is, I was thirstier than I’ve ever been in my life.
When I stumbled into the first run-down store we could find, a wrinkled Peruvian Goddess of Hydration pointed to a rusted fridge stacked with bottles of cold Gatorade. We ordered five. I sat down and guzzled three, barely pausing to breath. I ordered two more and downed those a little more slowly. All told, I chugged five bottles of Gatorade in less than ten minutes. The purple fur-balls dissipated (or did they?) and, as we trudged to the Arequipa-bound bus, we began to appreciate how great the views had been on our climb out.
The final day of the Colca Canyon trek may have been brutal but the scenery there is stunningly beautiful. I’d hike the trails there again in a heartbeat, although, I just might carry more water next time!
 Just kidding about the “to her death” thing, but not about the stumbling!