A Pilgrimage to Peru
March 2021
by David Grinsfelder
(This article was selected as the winner of the 2022 Palisadian Post Travel Writing Competition)
“Face it, we’re lost!” pant Sam and Danae, doubling over as they gasp for breath.
“It’s just over that next peak. C’mon!” I reply, struggling to sound optimistic while the thin mountain air saps my energy.
Four hours into a one-hour hike outside the mountain city of Huaraz, Peru, my new friends and I are utterly, hopelessly lost. What was supposed to be an uneventful, pre-work adventure to a mythical highland lake in the Huaylas valley has become an arduous, near vertical climb. To make matters worse, we packed no food and only a small water bottle between us. My thinly-veiled optimism is rapidly dimming.
Sam, Danae, and I first crossed paths during the Pandemic while working remotely in Lima, the capital of Peru, and quickly struck up a friendship. As 20-somethings with a zeal for travel, we developed a routine of working in our AirBnBs from Monday through Thursday, and then hopping on an overnight bus to remote regions of the country to explore new sites for 72 hours.
In our current sojourn of Huaraz, the local “Huareños” speak of a legendary place called Laguna de Wilcacocha, a freshwater lake located 12,000 ft. above sea level. We are told it has mythical healing powers and is almost impossible to find. When we ask a local shopkeeper how to get to the lake, he laughs in our faces.
“No creo que unos gringos puedan llegar al lago,” he quips.
I don’t think some gringos could make it to the lake.
We wouldn’t be so easily dissuaded. Peru is three hours ahead of Los Angeles. That would give me and my travel buddies plenty of time to stumble off our overnight bus and conquer the lake, all before morning meetings.
At the start of the climb, there are no trail signs directing us. The reason most tourists never see the lake is not just that it is difficult to find, but because it sits atop a mountain peak. And the only way to get there is by climbing, hand over foot, up one of nature’s most intimidating staircases.
Despite the forty-five degree vertical incline, and razor thin air, we are in high spirits. The early morning sunlight peaks over soaring mountaintops on the opposite side of the valley as we traverse a path undisturbed by the usual raucous crowds of gringo tourists.
After an hour of arduous climbing, we come upon a mountain village roughly a mile up the hillside. We are greeted by smiles and inquisitive stares from the locals, none of whom are taller than our shoulders. I walk past doorways a foot shorter than my chin, another reminder that this California kid is a long way from home. When I ask a local campesino (farmer) where we are, his response is a gurgled mix of Spanish and what sounds like quechua, an ancient Incan language. This town, which he calls Caserios Chilca (“Chilca farmhouses”), feels like it was frozen in time 200 years ago. Earthen huts lined with mud cement are covered by wrought iron roofs, and chickens squawk as they scatter ahead of us. But it bustles with the activity of an ancient Caruso Palisades Village.
As we leave Caserios Chilca, our climb becomes steeper by the minute. The 12,000 ft. elevation starts to exact a heavy toll on us, exacerbated by the discouragement we feel when two grandmothers carrying massive bundles of grain on their backs speed past us.
In the end, Sam was right. We are lost, and we never actually make it to Laguna de Wilcacocha. Instead, we content ourselves with a quick dip in a smaller, less legendary pond before heading back down the mountain. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because despite our frustration that the mythical Peruvian lake evaded three city kids from Los Angeles, we walked away feeling thankful to have explored a corner of the world that not many people get to see.
And, we are equally thankful that we weren’t fired when we got back to our work stations!