The crux of our journey was fighting our travel fatigue and crossing the border into Ecuador at a small town called Tumbes. Tumbes is like many other border towns in that it seemed lawless, remote, and dangerous. This town is not without significance, it is the location where Pizarro and his Conquistadores first landed in South America in 1532, marking the beginning of the end for indigenous people living on the continent. It was hard for me to imagine, as our bus crossed the vast lifeless desert that comprises most of the northern coast of Peru, how Pizarro was able to traverse this area with relatively few men and go on to determine the fate of millions upon millions of people. It took us nearly 8 hours to cross the most hostile landscape that I had ever seen, almost completely void of anything but rocks, sand and the Pacific Ocean.
I had crossed the border at Tumbes several times before and it was never a pleasant experience. This time it would be worse. After a total of 16 hours on a bus we reached Tumbes early in the morning. The bus station had high walls and no one dared leave the safety of the bus terminal. After an hour we were able to arrange transportation to the actual boarder crossing which is a few miles away from the actual town. Once we reached the customs office we got our exit stamps from the Peruvian side and made our way to the Ecuadorian customs office. It was here that we learned there was a transportation strike in Ecuador and the whole area was paralyzed. At this point we had two options, either wait in Tumbes for the strike to resolve itself, which could take days or run the strike. I was less than enthusiastic about our choices but that is the reality of travel in developing nations. I had a reoccurring fantasy of lying on a beach in the sun sipping a LARGE cocktail. We would have to run the strike in order to make this come to fruition.
Outside the Ecuadorian border office we ran into two gentlemen who offered to take us through the strike and into a town called Machala. It was against both of our better judgments but what choice did we have, so off we went on foot. In the distance we could see the smoke rising from burning tires and large mounds of dirt and rocks piled on the road in order to barricade traffic. As we walked my brother and I discussed strategies in the event the situation went south. We have both been the victims of violent muggings and we were not excited at the possibility of repeating those experiences. In reality, if they had decided to rob us there was very little that we could have done, I suppose we only talked about what we would do to make ourselves feel better about the potentially perilous situation we were entering. We crossed the first barricade to find several trucks waiting, shuttling people between obstacles set up by the strikers or in some cases taking dirt roads into banana fields or the scrubby tropical growth that had replaced the bleak desert. We repeated the process of jumping in and out of the backs of trucks, bouncing along back roads,and walking at times for a few hundred meter in between earthen barriers toped with burning tires. Through the entire process we were hypersensitive to changes in the body language of our companions, trying our best to predict any trouble that might be awaiting us around the next bend. It was cloudy, very humid and at times raining. At this point we had not slept for more than 24 hours and the environment that we found ourselves in was made even more surreal by our sleep deprivation. I recall as we walked seeing the enormous carcases of snakes that had been hit by passing vehicles. Our companions informed us that these snakes are very common in the banana fields that surrounded us.
The rain set in as we crossed yet another barricade, I notice small stones littering the area around the earthen mound from what I can only assume was from clashes between the protesters and police or possibly the strike runners such as ourselves or our new friends. It has been my experience in Latin America that small stones were the preferred weapon of unruly mobs of protesters. It began to rain with more force now, the rain drops stinging slightly as they hit my face. There were no trucks to give us a lift so we continued to walk, soaked to the bone. I observed Semi trucks with loads of gasoline waiting for the strike to break so they could deliver their cargo. Apparently, the strike had persisted for days and gas stations tanks had run dry in the effected areas. After walking for approximately 3 or 4 miles we reach a round about in the road and a few waiting pick up trucks, after debating price for a bit we found a driver that would do it for a reasonable price considering the circumstances. After reaching Macala we walk around for a bit looking for suitable accommodations, once we found someplace that was to our liking and had been shown to our room we called the front desk and had them bring a few beers up for ourselves and our companions. Cheers! here's to earning it. I'm not even sure it was much past noon but hey we were on vacation right.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Observation
This past Friday I came to the conclusion that a bit of exploration was in order, I had decided to try and hike up a drainage called Hogum Fork. This canyon cuts a deep gash in the south facing aspect of Little Cottonwood Canyon. Its most impressive feature is the canyons west slope, a massive buttress of white granite shooting, what seems almost vertically, from the “u” shaped canyon bottom, “u” shaped from thousands of years of glacial abrasion. I only knew the canyons approximate locaton but had no idea as to the actual trailhead location. I parked at a pull off a little down canyon from the mouth of Hogum Fork. I knew that there were quite a few trails running up and down Little Cottonwood Creek. My plan, if you can call it that, was to simply make my way up the initial steep slope at the entrance, then I thought once I reached the upper valley the actual trail would become apparent and I would have an easier time getting back down, a fairly sound plan by my measure.
I got out of the car, threw my pack on my shoulders and began walking down on a wide trail from the road toward Little Cottonwood Creek. After about a hundred yards this trail joins another trail, this one is also nice and wide and almost runs the entire length of the canyon. This trail is popular with mountain bikes so it is important to keep an ear out for riders charging down the trail at ridiculous speeds. I didn’t really feel like becoming road kill to a mountain biker so I quickly took the first exit. The small trail I chose meandered its way through a forest of towering Douglas Fir and White pine interspersed with smaller Quaking Aspen. The trail was headed in the direction I wanted to go… sort of, so I continued on for 15 or 20 minutes until it reached the creek’s edge. I sat there a bit and looked at the water. It seemed an unreal blue, almost turquoise. This time of year the majority of the water in the creek is spring feed as opposed to run off from melting snow. In the spring the creek is difficult and dangerous to cross but it being late summer I was easily able to find a spot where I could leap from boulder to boulder, crossing in just a few bounds. The smooth granite is slippery and crossing wasn’t completely uneventful but for the sake of my pride I won’t elaborate. Once reaching the other side the trail greatly diminished, fortunately I was able to hear the stream that ran out of Hogum Fork and I followed the sound now on what could only be game trails. As I followed these slight trails cutting through the under brush to my surprise I began to see more wild life and signs they had left behind. I startled a small fawn or rather it startled me or I guess you could say we scared the shit out of each other if we’re going to be honest. Upon reaching Hogum Creek, I followed it for a time as it rose ever steeper to the mouth of its origins. I saw a garter snake along its banks. I stopped for a quick break to graze on some wild raspberries. Soon the creek became too steep to follow almost becoming a low angle waterfall. From the crest to the confluence of Little Cottonwood creek, Hogum creek must drop, I’m estimating of course, a solid 1000 vertical feet or more. At this point the going got a lot tougher. The under growth was extremely thick and it all seemed to be consciously conspiring against my forward progress its branches grabbing at my clothing and Prime Rose thorns clawing at my face. The only viable route through this jumble were the faint paths blazed before me by what seemed to be deer, elk and possibly mountain goats, although mountain goats usually leave a little bit of white fur here and there, of which I saw none. These paths at times were nothing more than tunnels through the dense brush. I heard thunder overhead. I could also feel the humidity rise. I began to sweat profusely as I struggled onward and upward. Any time now I felt certain that the angle would relent and I would come to the crest of this steep treacherous incline. No…not even a bit. In fact the terrain became even steeper and the thick brush started to give way to bands of coarse granite cliff and long talus fields. My progress slowed even further as I picked my way through large boulders and loose rock, stopping frequently to scout the best route. I flushed a snowshoe rabbit from its hidding place. This time of year their fur is a modeled brown and gray but with the arrival of winter it will soon turn white. After a few hundred yards I could tell by looking at the tops of the pine trees that finally the angle of the slope was relaxing, still no sign of the trail.
I struggled over the long sought after crest there were large talus fields of granite boulders red with oxidation. These fields of stone were surrounded by thick old pine and Quake Aspen. I sat down on one off the larger boulders, thoroughly soak with sweat. There was a cool breeze and it felt good to take off my pack. My heart was still pounding in my chest I could clearly feel my carotid arteries in my neck pulsating to the extent that it felt as though they may burst at any moment. After catching my breath I took out my binoculars to see if I could spot the trail from where I was. The canyon was narrow at this point and if there was a trail I should be able to see it at some point. I could not even see a hint. It was getting late and I wouldn’t have time to get down before dark if I went much higher. I could see just a hint of the beautiful valley late lay just a short distance ahead but the majority of my view was obstructed by trees. It was looking like I would have to go back down what I just came up. The area was, needless to say, very rugged and riddled with jagged towering cliff. If I tried to find an alternative descent the danger was that the slope in some areas may have continued to steepen until it rolled off a large cliff, in that case one would have to back track up the steep slope of loose debris above a cliff, not a fun place to be. I decided I would try and descend areas with less vegetation trying to stick close to the assent route and using the trees as a gauge for the slope in front of me. I again found numerous game trails that I followed although at times they ended at the edges of small cliffs or zigzagged in strenuously tight switch backs.
At certain points the vegetation was so thick it was hard to even see the ground, there were several occasions where I started to walk off the edge of car sized boulders before realizing the ground had droped away beneth my feet. I had made good time on the descent half walking and half sliding down game trails. I was hopping from one boulder to another when I felt my leading leg give way and a warm searing pain shot through my lower right leg. I fell to my side and just lay there for a few seconds assessing the seriousness of my injury. My ankle had rolled to the outside and I could feel blood rushing to it as it began to swell. Although initially painful and requiring a minute or two to recover I began to limp slowly down this treacherous terrain I had gotten myself into. Luckily I was more than half way down. Even given my somewhat injured state my descent was still much faster than the assent and I soon reached the wild raspberry patch and a bit later relatively flat ground. This time I found a stout dead branch to aid my crossing of Little Cottonwood Creek, once again taking time to reflect on the surreal hue of the water and the adventure that had just taken place.
I got out of the car, threw my pack on my shoulders and began walking down on a wide trail from the road toward Little Cottonwood Creek. After about a hundred yards this trail joins another trail, this one is also nice and wide and almost runs the entire length of the canyon. This trail is popular with mountain bikes so it is important to keep an ear out for riders charging down the trail at ridiculous speeds. I didn’t really feel like becoming road kill to a mountain biker so I quickly took the first exit. The small trail I chose meandered its way through a forest of towering Douglas Fir and White pine interspersed with smaller Quaking Aspen. The trail was headed in the direction I wanted to go… sort of, so I continued on for 15 or 20 minutes until it reached the creek’s edge. I sat there a bit and looked at the water. It seemed an unreal blue, almost turquoise. This time of year the majority of the water in the creek is spring feed as opposed to run off from melting snow. In the spring the creek is difficult and dangerous to cross but it being late summer I was easily able to find a spot where I could leap from boulder to boulder, crossing in just a few bounds. The smooth granite is slippery and crossing wasn’t completely uneventful but for the sake of my pride I won’t elaborate. Once reaching the other side the trail greatly diminished, fortunately I was able to hear the stream that ran out of Hogum Fork and I followed the sound now on what could only be game trails. As I followed these slight trails cutting through the under brush to my surprise I began to see more wild life and signs they had left behind. I startled a small fawn or rather it startled me or I guess you could say we scared the shit out of each other if we’re going to be honest. Upon reaching Hogum Creek, I followed it for a time as it rose ever steeper to the mouth of its origins. I saw a garter snake along its banks. I stopped for a quick break to graze on some wild raspberries. Soon the creek became too steep to follow almost becoming a low angle waterfall. From the crest to the confluence of Little Cottonwood creek, Hogum creek must drop, I’m estimating of course, a solid 1000 vertical feet or more. At this point the going got a lot tougher. The under growth was extremely thick and it all seemed to be consciously conspiring against my forward progress its branches grabbing at my clothing and Prime Rose thorns clawing at my face. The only viable route through this jumble were the faint paths blazed before me by what seemed to be deer, elk and possibly mountain goats, although mountain goats usually leave a little bit of white fur here and there, of which I saw none. These paths at times were nothing more than tunnels through the dense brush. I heard thunder overhead. I could also feel the humidity rise. I began to sweat profusely as I struggled onward and upward. Any time now I felt certain that the angle would relent and I would come to the crest of this steep treacherous incline. No…not even a bit. In fact the terrain became even steeper and the thick brush started to give way to bands of coarse granite cliff and long talus fields. My progress slowed even further as I picked my way through large boulders and loose rock, stopping frequently to scout the best route. I flushed a snowshoe rabbit from its hidding place. This time of year their fur is a modeled brown and gray but with the arrival of winter it will soon turn white. After a few hundred yards I could tell by looking at the tops of the pine trees that finally the angle of the slope was relaxing, still no sign of the trail.
I struggled over the long sought after crest there were large talus fields of granite boulders red with oxidation. These fields of stone were surrounded by thick old pine and Quake Aspen. I sat down on one off the larger boulders, thoroughly soak with sweat. There was a cool breeze and it felt good to take off my pack. My heart was still pounding in my chest I could clearly feel my carotid arteries in my neck pulsating to the extent that it felt as though they may burst at any moment. After catching my breath I took out my binoculars to see if I could spot the trail from where I was. The canyon was narrow at this point and if there was a trail I should be able to see it at some point. I could not even see a hint. It was getting late and I wouldn’t have time to get down before dark if I went much higher. I could see just a hint of the beautiful valley late lay just a short distance ahead but the majority of my view was obstructed by trees. It was looking like I would have to go back down what I just came up. The area was, needless to say, very rugged and riddled with jagged towering cliff. If I tried to find an alternative descent the danger was that the slope in some areas may have continued to steepen until it rolled off a large cliff, in that case one would have to back track up the steep slope of loose debris above a cliff, not a fun place to be. I decided I would try and descend areas with less vegetation trying to stick close to the assent route and using the trees as a gauge for the slope in front of me. I again found numerous game trails that I followed although at times they ended at the edges of small cliffs or zigzagged in strenuously tight switch backs.
At certain points the vegetation was so thick it was hard to even see the ground, there were several occasions where I started to walk off the edge of car sized boulders before realizing the ground had droped away beneth my feet. I had made good time on the descent half walking and half sliding down game trails. I was hopping from one boulder to another when I felt my leading leg give way and a warm searing pain shot through my lower right leg. I fell to my side and just lay there for a few seconds assessing the seriousness of my injury. My ankle had rolled to the outside and I could feel blood rushing to it as it began to swell. Although initially painful and requiring a minute or two to recover I began to limp slowly down this treacherous terrain I had gotten myself into. Luckily I was more than half way down. Even given my somewhat injured state my descent was still much faster than the assent and I soon reached the wild raspberry patch and a bit later relatively flat ground. This time I found a stout dead branch to aid my crossing of Little Cottonwood Creek, once again taking time to reflect on the surreal hue of the water and the adventure that had just taken place.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
