Author’s Note:

Most of this article was originally published in the May-June 1986 of Great Expeditions, Adventure and Travel Magazine, a small Canadian publication that is, like many of it’s kind, no longer in business. No one writing articles then could have foreseen sharing our work on something called Hubpages. Those who have spent hours pounding on manual typewriters know the immense, if comparative, joy of writing with fingers flying on a keyboard and publishing to a worldwide audience almost instantaneously. To suit our speedy cyber age, I’ve decided to present this article in three parts. Information and the impetus for the trip came from the 1980 publication Backpacking in Venezuela, Colombia and Ecuador by Hilary and George Bradt, written with the sort of dry humor that comes from hiking for days in foul, wet weather, and which is still available from places like alibris books. Lastly, unlike say fashion trends or economic theory from the 1980s, backcountry experiences seem to remain, to some extent, relevant, regardless of the decade, thus my desire to share. Having said that, I wonder if the glaciers have receded, if the small towns have grown, if the people are still so friendly. So I would love to hear from anyone who has recently visited the Sierra Nevada del Cocuy.

Part I

To John Zavgren and me, the 18,000 foot mountains of the Sierra Nevada del Cocuy seemed a worthy quest, so we made lofty plans to climb a few of the high peaks. We had, at best, novice experience, having scaled Mt. Fremont in Wyoming and Mt. Rainier in Washington, both by the "easy" routes, and we convinced our new partner, Eric Hahn, to come along. He only had about six month’s rock climbing experience in Missouri, but we assured him it didn’t matter.

Our hike began in a small town called Guican at 9,600 feet in the northern Andes. Getting to Guican was an adventure in itself. We paid about 600 pesos for a 13-hour bus ride on Trans Bolivar, leaving Bogota at 6PM, and we received a wild, torturous night journey over unpaved, narrow, mountain roads. Careening around every turn, we peered into deep canyons, the bus tilting over sheer cliffs of crumbling rock and loose dirt.

Up the aisle, at the front of the bus, the driver, flailing hand over hand, turned the absurdly huge steering wheel first in one direction, then the other, like a mad wizard following his own bus lights up the side of a mountain. Dust and fumes drifted in windows and floorboard cracks.

Passengers appeared on the side of the road at all hours of the night. Maybe, John said, they don’t sleep. These campesinos, or peasant farmers, are more rugged than the English translation implies. Typically, they wear cloth shoes, ruana, and hat. The ruana is a wool garment that drapes over their shoulders and is similar to the Mexican serape. Their hats, worn by men, women, and children, bear a striking resemblance to 1930’s Chicago gangster hats. They are not gangsters, however; they are good, generous people.

Not so much of what occurred on the bus ride was unexpected, but we made a few mistakes that are worth noting. For only two-hundred pesos we could have ridden a significantly better bus. We could have taken the trip during daylight hours and spent the night in Guican before hiking out. Guican is a beautiful town nestled in green pastures with rivers and steams. We saw many potato fields and campesinos with potato laden mules.

Our bus arrived at 7AM. We dragged ourselves and our gear out and stood, bewildered, in the town square, over-anxious about getting "on the trail." We gave hard candy to the children gathering around us and cigarettes and candy to the adults. (Note: We heard they loved Marlboros and, in 1984, it seemed a kind gesture.) We asked where the trail started, unnecessarily explaining the obvious, that we wanted to do some mountain climbing. We explained that we wanted to follow the trail through the mountains to the Grand Valley and possibly climb from the east.

Five campesino boys offered to lead us up the stone street to the start of the trail but first we had to go to the church. With overloaded packs, we knelt awkwardly. The boys took a few pesos and ran, returning quickly with candles. We set our lit candles among the many on the floor before the altar.

Then, finally, we began the slow, laborious hike up. The trail rose sharply, past homes, into the green pastureland where cattle and sheep were grazing. The boys ran ahead again and waited. A half-hour later, I stumbled off the path, sidestepping donkey dung, stripped off my pack and fought to keep from vomiting. The boys were curious. Why was I sick?

Eric came up behind me and told me to breathe normally. With that sound advice, I was able to regain some physical composure and continue, at a slightly slower pace. Assured we were going in the right direction, we gave the boys about 20 pesos apiece. They thanked us and ran full tilt toward town.

The Andes are old mountains and the trail is badly eroded, full of loose rock. We hiked past several neatly constructed homes, combinations of mud, stone and wood, usually with thatched roofs. Guican suburbs. We passed many people. All of them greeted us pleasantly. Buenos dias, adios. Some stopped and chatted. Usually, when there was a long pause after an easy talk about the weather, or anything in general, they would ask rhetorically, Que mas? What more?

At noon, we were on a road just outside of Guican, overlooking the town. We hadn’t gone far but were understandably exhausted. The trail was across the road, lined by a stone wall, heading north. Another four campesino boys joined us. We asked them where we could camp. Camp? Why, right here. We, of course, didn’t need to ask. Their land was ours. One boy pointed at a carabiner and an ice screw and asked what they were. In my brilliant Spanish, I responded, Este es cosas escalamos montanas, which translated something like"These are things we climb mountains with."

The spot was perfect, flat, enclosed by stone walls, with a nice view of Guican. We gave them postcards of our hometown, St. Louis, MO, and hard candy. An old woman named Rachel Blanco stopped to talk. She lived nearby and was on her way to Guican. I joked that we were crazy people who wanted to climb mountains. She laughed readily and enjoyed watching us set up camp. We gave her postcards and cigarettes.

Sometime during the night I woke to the sound of a horse galloping along the road, hooves clopping rhythmically into the distance and, before dawn, the steady sound of rain. We woke slowly. The sun returned and we dried our tents and gear. We headed north on the trail, rising over a hill, down briefly, then up for the rest of the day, toward a 13,616-foot pass. We camped just below the pass on a perfectly level spot, with mountains seemingly forever in sight. Late in the evening a lone campesino, leading his mule, hurried by. I asked where he’d come from. A long way, he responded.