Duelling Llamas & Drop Knee Corners: Bolivia 2024

High Camp perched atop a small col on the spur of Sajama’s northwest ridge, Bolivian Andes.

Maps, guidebooks, notebooks, and coffee mugs lay strewn across our table in the small artisanal cafe between the historical and administrative centres of La Paz. A blank canvas on which we can sketch out an itinerary for our four weeks in Bolivia. I am nervous and excited as I want to embrace this opportunity. We hope to climb smart. Cautious but progressive acclimatisation, seeking adventure in the less frequented corners of this popular range, and linking up with Anna and Shauna, whom we plan to meet at Condoriri base camp in two weeks’ time. I also want to use this month to prepare for an upcoming expedition to Pakistan just a few months later.

For an initial acclimatisation trek, Karen and I settle on a 4248m camp at Laguna Liviñosa in the Zongo valley, a less frequented area near the midpoint of the Cordillera Real, in the eastern corner of the Condoriri massif and accessed from the small village of Botijlaca. Three hours from La Paz by 4x4 and only briefly mentioned Yossi Brian’s Trekking in Bolivia. Everything looks set to go, and we long for the wilderness. After an early start, we bump along dusty tracks and hug tight switchback bends with precipitous drops to the valley floor below. A hydroelectric project we didn’t know about now dominates the landscape. Dams, pipes, and buildings litter the hillsides, and I realise the remoteness we sought may not be so forthcoming.

Ascending westwards through pines and vibrant flora, we find solitude save for the occasional llama herder and the odd building made from stone and earth. Anna has decided to join us, and on 6 June, we reach the laguna after several hours in the midday heat. Seeking flatter ground and noting that Anna has had less time to acclimatise to the altitude, we decide on a lower camp in the valley at 3923m. The following day, whilst Anna rests in the small single-skin tent, Karen and I follow a faint and partially eroded path to a high point of 4792m, having tentatively aimed for the 5200m Condoriri Pass.

We perch atop a small knoll in a broad, shallow basin at the head of the valley. Ridges, spires, and ill-defined peaks of loose rock form a semicircular wall behind us in the near distance, impenetrable save for the few high passes into the adjacent valleys. This place offers solitude, adventure, and a chance for smiling introspection. We pause to rest and refuel before it is time to return to camp. On the way down, we narrowly dodge a pair of duelling llamas, one ousting the other from the herd.

Relaxing by the Rio Zongo after descending from the valley, I again question why I am doing this. Yet as soon as we put down our packs, unfurl onto our mats, and bask in the midday sun, the only thought that occupies my mind is of our next venture to the valleys of the Rio Pauchintani, some 20km to the northwest. I get a profound sense that these places are simply unique. We are the only Westerners in this small village and likely the only travellers for some time. I wonder if we gave them such weighted meaning through their complexity and difficulty of access. Or by how the otherwise separate lives of different individuals are woven together by a desire to be in these wild lands.

After returning to La Paz and keen to keep acclimatising, Karen and I dig into the guidebooks for our next outing. We should camp at approximately 4300m and summit close to 5500m. We opt for Cerro Jankho Huyo and the Hichukhota valley, another three hours from La Paz, by jeep or truck. Our planned base camp on the shore of Lago Jankho Khota will give us several days of acclimatisation climbs at the altitudes we need. Reaching out to our local fixer, Enrique, we book a jeep for the following day and spend the evening packing our duffle bags.

Seeing a small collection of tents at our planned campground, we ask our driver to continue further up the valley to a camp perched on the edge of a pequeño lago not marked on our maps. The lake at 4888m is nestled half hidden in a small basin beneath the southwest flank of the 5244m Cerro Wila Llojeta. Our only company is the occasional motorbike, which saunters along the rough track heading eastwards, the low bubbling exhaust note gently resonating around our little fiefdom. A single cloud is the worst weather we experience.

We feast on jawita in the warm afternoon sun, a delightful type of empanada from the Yungas region, meaning painted in Aymara, referring to the glazing of achiote, and filled with Tiwanaka cheese. Mindful to stay hydrated, we filter and purify water from the small lake as a test of the superb Guardian Purifier kindly provided by MSR. I lie on my mat listening to The Gene Machine by Venki Ramakrishnan, totally engrossed in a riveting account of the race to decipher the molecular structure of the ribosome. The setting sun casts an orange hue over the east face of the 5368m Mullu Apachita, mullu meaning a coral-coloured stone and apachita meaning an Andean stone cairn in Aymara. I take a moment to reflect on our time here.

These are adventures quite simply unlike anything else. We are self-sufficient save for a return 4x4 journey to base camp and live in complete solitude. While the climbing is not technically challenging, the terrain is unforgiving; it is baking hot during the day and has a cold that grips as the sun sets. We must look after ourselves, eat and drink sufficiently, purify water, and manage our small base camp, respecting this beautiful yet hostile natural environment we have temporarily made our home.

On 11 June, Karan and I reconnoitre the start of the 5512m Cerro Jankho Huyo; we are keen to understand where on the imposing southeast ridge we must transition from rock to glacier. Karen then returns to base camp whilst I continue for a quick traverse of the rocky summit of Cerro Wila Llojeta, which commands superb views southwards down the Hichukhota valley. The following day is summit day. I enjoy hiking up the dusty road to Paso Mullu Apacheta at 4990m before turning west and scrambling over a broken granite ridge line in the cool predawn air. We meet at the spot we visited the day before, where the glacier meets the ridge.

Taking our time, we don crampons, hydrate, and layer up. We want to start on the glacier just as we have sufficient light not to need our headlamps. Karen leads off, setting the pace. I saunter behind, keeping a gentle swing in the rope. The sun rises behind me, bathing our glacier in hues of purple and orange. I feel the warmth on my back, and my heart lifts. We summit just before 8.30 am to a grand panorama of the cordillera; our peak lies in the centre of the Keakeani group, flanked by Cerro Jankho Laya to the north and Cerro Jiskha Pata to the northeast.

On 14 June, after a quick return to La Paz, we depart for a small settlement 4 km north of Laguna Tuni and meet our mules for the approach to Condoriri base camp by Laguna Khellual Khota. My main objective is to climb the 5648m Cabeza del Condor with Anna and Shauna, who have recently arrived from Edinburgh. At 5315m, the rocky Pico Austria makes for an enjoyable acclimatisation day on 15 June with Karen before we meet the Scottish pair, the three Cholitas, and their young translator and fixer Benjamin on our return to base camp. They plan to climb the 5410m Pequeño Alpamayo the following day. We settle on the 5320m Pico Tarija. A local guide talks me through the Cabeza route on Condoriri. The mountain is lean of snow, the ice is thin, and the rock is loose. The mixed couloir is dangerous with frequent rockfall. In good conditions, this route is meant to be fantastic. Right now, it sounds completely unjustifiable. We decide to keep open minds for another day. Besides, this afternoon, Karen and I wish to check the approach to the glacier before tomorrow’s predawn start.

Pico Tarija is a strange affair. Being perhaps overly cautious, we set off at 3 am on 16 June and summit before sunrise, in the cold and the dark. We move slowly as Karen leads the final snow slope before the cumbre. The sunrise and cloud inversion are breathtaking. However, the climb takes what feels like an age, and my body temperature drops rapidly. By the time we summit, I am shivering nearly uncontrollably. I had made the mistake of layering for my own pace and let Anna borrow my down jacket for their successful attempt of Pequeño Alpamayo that same day. I wished I had it with me, but I felt their need was greater, so I had been happy to lend it out. Whilst Alpamayo has suffered in recent years from the effects of climate change, it is still a striking mountain and justifiably sought after in the region. With Karen struggling to acclimatise, we had decided we would not go further than Tarija. We turn around quickly on the summit and descend. Retracing our steps down the steep, dry glacier. By 10 am, I am lying on my mat in the morning sun, with noodles on the go and tea in hand.

I am frustrated not to have climbed Pequeño Alpamayo, but I still feel a warm contentment in simply being here. Although basic and cheap, I had mixed feelings about using a commercial base camp. It was a wonderful community, and I was grateful to sit on a wobbly plastic stool, share coffee with the Cholitas and other climbers, and get to know Anna and Shauna better. Still, I prefer my camps to be wild, remote, and uninhabited.

The ascent of Tarija felt mechanical. Lacking technical interest, the summit felt like a minor topographical feature on the way to Pequeño Alpamayo, which held greater significance and excitement. Still, it is a valuable exercise in layering, hydration, and nutrition. My pack is light, and I feel efficient and well-fuelled. I have everything I need and nothing I don’t. I reassure myself that this is still good preparation for September in Pakistan.

I am restless and keen for an attempt on the Cabeza of Condoriri with Anna and Shauna. After Tarija and Pequeño Alpamayo, we bundle into the Scot’s base camp tent with Benjamin and one of the Cholitas and discuss our options. We have maybe 36 hours of good weather before it gets too changeable, and we need a rest day tomorrow. Snow and high winds are forecast, so we make the call to bail based on what we know of the route's condition. We leave for La Paz the following day, arranging for the mules to meet us after breakfast the next morning. Frustration briefly settles in, but we have made the right decision, and this is soon replaced with renewed optimism for the rest of our time here.

I was drawn to Chachacomani, referred to by the nineteenth-century explorer Sir Martin Conway as ‘Chisel Peak’. At 6074m and with difficult access, it is one of the least climbed 6000m peaks in Bolivia. Perfect. With a technical element, striking aesthetics, and some logistics to think about, this was just what I was looking for. We planned to travel overland from La Paz via Peñas and the Hichukhota valley northwards to the small settlement of Lloco Lloconi, also known as Janco Lacaya. We could then use pack animals to establish a base camp at the 4500m Laguna Leche Khota, giving access to the mountain's spectacular southern and eastern aspects.

I spend the morning on WhatsApp with muleteers and 4x4 drivers, piecing together a delicate web of logistics support in Spanish (a language I do not speak) and hatching a plan that may well collapse as soon as we put it into action. Nothing is happening quickly, and I begin to worry. Perhaps there is a good reason why this peak is so rarely climbed. Still, it wouldn’t be an adventure if there was any certainty of getting there. We wait patiently.

Later that day, most of our team of three are struck down by some delightful Bolivian pathogen and near incapacitated in their hotel room. We need another two days to recover, and any hope of climbing Chachacomani has evaporated. Anna and I later meet in a café to rethink our options. We have five climbing days remaining and desperately need a suitably adventurous outing to wrap up this trip. We decide on Bolivia’s highest peak, Nevado Sajama at 6550m, in the Cordillera Occidental, some 200 km to our south and tantalisingly close to the Chilean border.

I go straight back to Enrique, who connects me with his contact, Eliseo. A minibus to Sajama Village at 4200m is hastily arranged, a 4x4 to get us to base camp, and three porters to carry our packs to a high camp at 5676m on the northwest ridge. We depart La Paz at mid-morning the next day.

We arrive in the early afternoon on 23 June. Sajama village has an enigmatic frontier town feel; dusty and partially abandoned, I wonder what the history of this place is. A beautiful Spanish colonial church made from mud brick, a quaint stone courtyard where a few inhabitants had gathered, some in traditional dress and some in down jackets, with views of volcanos forming the border with Chile. A stone archway frames a distant snowcapped Nevado Sajama. We enjoy sundowners in all our layers. Friendships and lasting memories are made.

Fireworks light up the night sky, and locals gather around small fires on the edge of windswept streets. Children running with sparklers. I sense something is happening. Walking back to our hostel, we are greeted by a young boy. With a beaming smile and rapid Spanish, he hands us each a wooden stick and gestures for us to join his family around their pequeño fuego and gives us each a marshmallow. An annual festival celebrates the night the mountain rock was split by the cold. Or so we can interpret. Mugs of a traditional hot drink liberally laced with singani are offered to all, I think called Sucumbé, and we toast our new amigos. A sweet tea follows. I stare into the glowing embers, cherishing this small moment of privilege and kinship that transcends our great divides of language, culture, and economic means. Perhaps this is what draws me to the wild places.

In the morning, I wonder in pursuit of coffee. Unsuccessfully. I wildly oscillate between craving more of this madness, planning the next trip in my mind, and wanting to pack it all in, still unsure why I’m doing it.  I realise now what matters more than anything is the people with whom I share these moments. I feel a great privilege to be out here, living this subjective experience, one so far removed from a habitual daily existence. I know I am frustrated with not having climbed a technical objective so far. I also see the priority should always be adventure, friendships, and coming back alive, but this doesn’t lessen the gnawing sensation of not doing what I’m supposed to do out here. Yet I have had experiences on this expedition, which have nothing to do with climbing whatsoever, that I would not have missed for the world.

We establish a base camp at 4886m on 24 June on a flat, arid spur beneath the west face of Nevado Sajama. A panorama of towering scree bands and snow slopes stained a burnt red with windblown dust. A parched landscape scattered with stubby trees. We read, write, and drink tea. The setting sun casts Sajama in hues of purple and orange. As the first stars appear, we finish our tea, crawling into our tents as the temperature suddenly drops. I think of Pakistan. How cold will it be up there?

I wake naturally at 7 am after a mixed sleep; I still feel chased by demons. I enjoy the morning, making tea and breakfast and packing the last items for the next two days. My pack for the porter feels light and well thought out; I have everything I need and nothing I don’t. Progress. The weather is good, but the wind is up. We take three and a half hours to reach high camp on dusty trails. Sometimes compact dirt and sometimes loose rubble. Arriving just before noon, my porter has already dropped my pack off, so I take 20 minutes to myself before the others arrive.

We make noodles at midday and drink more tea in our little world perched on a small col on the spur of Sajama’s northwest ridge, enough space for perhaps four tents. Melting snow is bliss. Wonderfully simple yet so vital to our survival. These big mountains give the smaller things at home a new importance. Climbing weekends in the Lake District, evening bike rides, and coffee with old friends. Perhaps there is a richness here that I can overlook too quickly. After all, if how you spend your life is how you spend your every day, then every weekend is precious and must be made to count for something.

Midnight alarm. We set off at 1.20 am on 26 June. What a route. Leading this climb was a joy, a little technical challenge, and a hint of what I craved. Firm snow slopes of perfect névé and a high Alpine ridge on rock of occasionally excellent quality. A short stemming corner of loose rock and pieces the size of breeze blocks slide away in my hands. With a dropped knee for stability, I do my utmost to direct them away from myself and the rope. They plummet away in a cloud of dust illuminated by my head touch. I feel a complete task engagement. This feels genuinely adventurous. Alpine climbing in the Andes just below 6000m. It felt wild, and I felt at home. I hope we can find this in Pakistan, save for the loose rock.

The ridge leads to a steepening field of nieves penitentes, and a broad snow slope follows. Soul destroying in its uniformity and lack of interest. We are behind schedule, and our turnaround time of 7 am is soon upon us. We are a vertical 250m from the summit. Admittedly, I don’t now care much for summiting. After the excitement of the first half of the route, the mediocrity of this upper section has rendered me indifferent to completing the climb. At 7.05 am and 6292m, we turn back and descend to the ridge. We spend 30 minutes on a small flat ledge of rock and dust. Exhausted. We must move to meet our single return porter at high camp, 600m below. We make one abseil from a snow bollard and negotiate several sections of mixed down climbing. High camp is now busy with other porters and a guided group. We feel blessed to have had this wild place all to ourselves only hours and days earlier.

We continue our descent to base camp. The following day at 9 am, we have our 4x4 pick up with Eliseo. A 30-minute drive and a 45-minute walk later, we are submerged in the natural hot springs just a few kilometres from the mountain. The smell of salt and sulphur is mildly intoxicating. How quickly one’s world can change. I am mentally preparing to leave Bolivia, knowing I will probably never go back. We walk for an hour on a dusty track back to Sajama village. Soup for lunch. A four-hour minibus back to La Paz and the end of quite an adventure.

During this trip, I learned much and refined many of my systems to work more effectively. It was brilliant to test the water filters from MSR and Platypus Hydration, and I now have a layering system that will work well above 6000m on future expeditions. My sleeping system is suitable for high camps like those we plan to use in Pakistan in a few months, and this was the first time I had used porters on a climbing trip.

Still, I needed more technical challenges. This meet had been an excellent development opportunity and another great adventure of its own merit, but moments of authentic technical engagement again remained elusive. I will have to rethink my approach to these big trips if I want to climb at a level which demands my ability be genuinely tested and my potential to be realised.

However, I still feel immensely privileged to have spent a month on this incredible journey. I have made many new friends and have had beautiful experiences I know I will never have again. There has also been the opportunity for reflection, where I have enjoyed great moments of just being and feeling alive in the wild places.

Mountain Safety Research, Platypus Hydration, Expedition Foods, Precision Fuel & Hydration, LifeJacket Skin, and FATMAP kindly supported my participation in this Alpine Club Greater Ranges Meet.

La Paz, Bolivia, June 2024