Attentive readers of this blog will know that I recently spent a few days in the Andes, researching for a novel in which my hero, James Burke, makes a crossing rather later in the year than was wise. He's accompanied by his valet, William Brown, and Apala, his guide.
I've just been rewriting this bit in the light of my own experience. My travelling companion read it and says that Burke's trip bore uncanny parallels to ours. (I have to say that we turned back before the pass and spent the night in a stone hut rather than under canvas. But we know exactly how Burke felt.)
Though the trip across the mountains promised to be an
adventure, he still found himself reluctant to leave Mendoza. Magnificent as
they were, the Andes were unmistakably hostile. The days remained reasonably
warm but there was already a nip in the morning air that reminded James that
winter was on its way. He put off their departure for one last day of civilised
comforts, and then the expedition set out.
As they left the town, they were hardly aware of making
any sort of ascent at all. The ground seemed as flat and featureless as it had
for days before, but, as their horses trudged onward, Burke was aware of a
slight, but steady, gradient. Nothing, though, prepared him for the sudden
change from the plains to the mountains. For hours they had moved across the
flat, if gently sloping, countryside. Now, suddenly, they were in the hills. The
hills, to be fair, were not that high, but the contrast between the plain they had ridden on for so long and
this new mountainous terrain was dramatic.
Apala struck out confidently along a valley which
twisted and turned until they were surrounded by hills on all sides. There was
enough grass for cattle and horses to be grazing but there were cacti too,
yellow and red flowers bursting from their green fleshy bodies.
After only half an hour, they were at the head of the
valley, and in front of them, they could see the towering heights of the Andes. The track that their guide followed rose more steeply, angling up slopes
covered with tumbled rock. For a while, they followed the course of a stream
carrying meltwater that would feed Mendoza's irrigation channels, but then they
struck off, zigging and zagging up a track that was little more than a dusty
trail on the bare rock of the mountain. The Andean peaks closed around them. Facing back down the track, sheer walls of red rock
blocked off their view, while ahead they saw the ominous white of the early
snows already covering the mountain peaks. The sense of isolation was
reinforced by the sight of the condors, circling in the brilliant blue of the
sky.
"What do they eat?" asked William.
"They scavenge the dead," Burke told him.
"They're following us."
"We'd best remember not to die, then."
It had been hot in the valley, but, already, Burke was
noticing the chill of the air. He called to the guide to stop, so that he could
unpack his greatcoat from one of the bundles of baggage hanging precariously
from the mules' saddles. Apala, though, insisted that they press on.
"Soon we must stop. We cannot wait for the cold
and dark before we make our camp. We will stop in less than an hour. There will
be time for you to dress more warmly then."
For another mile, they climbed still more steeply, the
track doubling back on itself as they made their way up the mountain. At last
it levelled off and, rounding a rocky ridge, they saw a patch of level ground
with a shallow stream splashing across the rocky surface.
"Here we will camp," their guide announced.
Their porters set to unloading the tents, unused on their travel across the
plains. Soon, the sound of mallets on tent pegs was echoing from the rocks as
they did their best to secure their guy ropes in the stony soil.
Burke had freed his greatcoat from one of the baggage
rolls but, as the sun vanished below the peaks, he felt himself shiver.
"We need a fire."
Apala shrugged. "Of course, senor. But first I
will have to collect something for us to burn."
Burke looked about him. There were no trees, not even
any shrubs. The only greenery in sight was occasional clumps of what looked
like moss clinging to some of the rocks.
He watched, astonished, as Apala strode to the nearest
of these mossy clumps and tugged at it. Beneath the green coating some straggly
wooden stems grew down into cracks in the stone. Burke heard them snap and
realised that they were dry and brittle.
"They will not burn for long," said his
guide. "We will need a lot. Do you want to come and help me collect
it?"
Though he was tired from his day in the saddle, Burke
was more than happy to explore the area around their camp. He remounted and set
off with Apala, leading one of the pack mules with them. Every time that they
saw any of the mossy shrub, they would dismount. The young bushes were no use
to them but most had at least some older, dry parts that could be ripped from
the ground and roped onto the mule's saddle. Each clump was small, though, and
protected by sharp thorns that tore at their hands. It seemed to take forever
to collect enough and it was almost dark when they turned back toward their
camp, the mule almost hidden under a great pile of brush.
The brushwood needed no kindling, burning fast and
brilliantly. For several minutes they all huddled round the fire, enjoying the
blaze. But, all too soon, the fierce heat was dying and they threw on more wood
to protect themselves against the cold of the night. In less than an hour, what
had seemed like a huge pile of fuel was almost exhausted. Reluctantly, they
abandoned the fire. They took the sheepskins from their saddles to spread on
the ground inside their tents and, wrapping themselves in blankets, lay down to
sleep.
James did not sleep well. Several times, he woke and
lay shivering in the thin mountain air. At last, the sky began to lighten
and he heard the crackle of the flames as porters relit the fire to brew coffee
and warm themselves before they started that day's ride.
When he left the tent, it was to find that it had
snowed during the night. There was only a thin scattering of white on the
ground, but it was a reminder of the dangers of travelling this late in the
season.
"We must push on hard," said Apala. "We
have to cross the pass before nightfall. It will be too cold to camp up
there."
The porters were already packing away the tents while
James and William sipped at their coffee. Barely an hour after sunrise, they
were back on the horses and pushing on up into the mountains.
There was no snow falling now but, as they climbed, the
snow lying on the ground grew thicker. The path rose steeply and, after an
hour, the landscape was distinctly wintry. As they neared the pass, the wind,
moving through the gap in the mountain range, grew stronger and the snow
covering was blown about. In some places reddish or black rock lay bare to the
sky while, in others, the snow was banking to the point where the horses would
stumble, unable to see their footing beneath the white covering.
"We can't stay on the track," Apala said.
He was right. The snow was drifting off the steeper
rocks at the side of the track and banking on the path to the point where there
was too much danger of a horse falling and breaking its leg. They urged their
reluctant mounts from the apparent smoothness of the path onto the ragged rocks
alongside it. Though these were steeper and, under other circumstances, would
have made for more difficult riding, the snow lay thinly here and the horses
could pick their way in comparative safety. Inevitably, though, leaving the
path slowed them down and Burke saw Apala casting increasingly worried eyes
upward as the day progressed.
Looking in the same direction, Burke could see nothing.
Mist covered the top of the mountains and merged with the snow to make it a
blank wilderness of white. He was astonished that their guide could navigate
confidently through this emptiness but Apala push them on with no hesitation as
to their route. His sole concern was that night might fall while they were
still too high on the mountain.
The horses struggled as the snow grew thicker.
Sometimes they would stumble in the steeper drifts and everyone would dismount
to lead their beasts, which were less likely to fall when relieved of their
weight. Climbing through the snow, even for short distances, was exhausting,
though. The damp began to leak into Burke's boots and he found himself panting
for breath in the thin air. He longed to rest and make a fire to be warm and
dry, if only for a few minutes, but Apala drove them on.
Now the mountains closed around them and they were
struggling through deeper snow, against a wind that howled through the gap between the peaks ahead of them.
Then the wind fell and Burke was aware that the path
was dropping beneath them as steeply as is had been rising before. They were
through the pass.
