The Roof of Colombia- El Cocuy National Park

After a gruelling 10 hour hike starting before sunrise, exhausted we stood on the roof of the Colombian world. Surrounded by gleaming white snow that even angles would have seemed dulled. As we admired the scenery and bathed in our achievement of making it, titanic clouds started engulfing the landscape. The weather was closing in. It suddenly dawned on us that we had to go, quickly. Or face being trapped on the mountain. And never being seen again. Alive at least.

The (mis)adventure had started many days earlier for me. In a hostel in Medellin, an American friend had heard about a mystical place in the mountains, where only the hardiest travellers ventured. So, after too many beers, I agreed. Although little had I appreciated that it was on the other side of the country…

Our first bus was at 7am, destination: Bogota (the capital). Seem an indirect route considering our destination. But the alternative actually proved to be more expensive, time consuming and complicated. Pleasantly there was only a few hours wait until our second journey. Out of Bogota.

It was a night bus, so not much to see. But we awoke as the sun broke through the darkness exposing a stunning landscape of rolling green mountains, small villages clinging to its sides, cows looking up from their morning feed and the air so fresh I wouldn’t be surprised if they export some of it to China.

The roads are narrow and windy. And the driver makes no apologises for taking them at speeds akin to NASCAR or Formula One. At our stop we gingerly swayed off the bus as if drunk. The cool air brought us around to find we were standing at the edge of the village’s main square. Decorated with an artificial tree which acted as a waterfall, a beautifully carved statue of an eagle and a basket ball court. All overlooked by a simple but elegant church.

My friend Cameron said he knew where he was going. After thirty minutes of walking the street with heavy rucksacks and the ever increasing heat I suggested we ask someone. He agreed.

A little way down from the square we found the hostel. No five star but with our own room, en-suite and a reasonable price it was perfect. The mission then became to reach the national park.

Many people said we needed a guide. So after adding the price of the park entrance, the mandatory insurance, guide and transport (no accommodation), for the two of us it came to over $150/each (€140, £100). But we were told that if we could get a group together it would be cheaper. This was ‘high season’ so how hard could it be?

Impossible. We could not even find another tourist in the town. Let alone one that wanted to go to the Park. Then Cameron started to have shortness of breath, headaches and hallucinations (we hadn’t even had a beer!). As such a local doctor said that this was problems he had with the altitude and should consider going to a lower level. Cameron ignored the advice.

Then awoke me at 3am to say his head was ready to explode. As such he was taking the next bus to Bogota. In a haze I wished him luck. Awaking many hours later to find I was alone in the town. However, before he left, Cameron and myself had hatched a plan. Time to put it into action.

First to try and find a group of tourists in the village to go with. Failed. Next go to the neighbouring town and try the same. The local town folk thought this was not a great idea. But hey, off I went on the local bus, a journey of 30 minutes.

I then found an even more beautiful village. The main square had a model of the national park. Complete with small streams flowing through it. With grass that was used by the children for soccer/football and a basketball court. The houses are of a colonial style, coloured in cream and green. Overlooked by the obligatory church.

The people are incredible friendly. Everyone greets you and even sometimes stops for a conversation or invites you to drink with them. It gets cool at night but otherwise the temperature is pleasant. And it is reasonable. Finally, I felt like I’d found the real Colombia.

But the mission was to find a way to the national park. As luck had it I met an Italian who was keen to go. In the tourist office they again recommended a guide. In typical Italian fashion, my new friend waved his arms around and frustratingly asked if we really needed one. The office then said to certain parts it was mandatory but others it was a ‘recommendation’. To which the Italian turned to me and said ‘Let’s not bother’. With that we paid the park entrance and made preparations for the following day.

Life starts early in the town. At 4am there was a marching band that played loudly as it paraded through the street. Ordinarily I’d have been annoyed, but as I was getting up at that time it worked well. We then walked the short distance to the main square. Where, loudly blasting out of the main church, seemed to be Colombian rock and roll. Blurry eyed tourists starred in confusion.

There are several routes to get to the park from the main square. Either you can get a 4×4, probably the most expensive option; a bus leaves the around 10am or finally, and possibly the earliest to go are the milk trucks. You are invited into the back of the vehicle and then have to balance in between the massive milk container and any goods that they may be taking up into the mountains. Walking it is not recommended.

On reaching the destination the milk truck speeds off leaving plumes of dust and us at the start of the route. It was around 5.30am and the sun hadn’t yet broken the horizon. Many of the fields still had a sprinkling of frost. It was cool but didn’t feel cold.

With the slowly awakening sun the temperature rose. Still feeling pleasant. The initial section is reasonably flat and easy walking. There were stunning views across the green landscape to the snow covered peaks. Remember your camera. 2-3 hours later we found ourselves at the foot of one of the mountains. I felt quite good so arrived with much enthusiasm. Little did I know what was coming next.

A gruelling 3 hour climb ensued. The gradient had change from being flat to about 70 degrees at points. We were presented with boulders and bare rock to clamber over. The path had vanished along with any signs or shrubs. The sun scorched the landscape. My sweaty shirt clung to me like a small child, my legs felt like an entire rugby team hung on them and the dehydration wanted to split my head like a melon.

Finally, at the top of the slope we glimpsed the glacier. It appeared to be only another 20minutes away. We felt pleased… Until we met some other trekkers who told us not to be fooled. It was still at least another hour away.

Thirty minutes into it, I collapsed. Told the Italian to go on alone. But he refused and said I must continue. A mini row ensued, but he won. Fortunately. So I dragged my weary body up the slope which seemed to keep increasing in gradient.

Every muscle was screaming at me, but finally we stood at the snow line. Jubilation briefly over took the pain. We had done it.

In the tourist office we had been warned that the latest we should descend was 1pm. It was now 3.30. Turning around from the snow we noted that our route had been engulfed in cloud. Visibility was down to a few metres. We looked at each other. Nothing needed to be said. There was only one option- to leave, now. And hope that the Gods of faith were with us.

The bare rocks had become slippery with the moisture from the cloud passing over them. Not a place or time to slip. Decisions had to be taken quickly. Time wasn’t with us. Which was the best route down?

The poor visibility meant we would stubble through ponds formed from the melting glacial. The cold water soaked into our boots. Making grip difficult and a squelchy walk even more unpleasant. Loose stones littered the ground. Each acting as a mini mine, jostling to be the one that made us fall. Jagged rocks scrapped my ankles as we rushed passed. But the adrenaline kept me from noticing.

Suddenly the landscape became clear. We had passed the cloud line. Although from the dehydration my head pounded which affected my concentration. And as such I made poor judgements of routes to take down. Thankfully the more experienced Italian was quick to signal me in the right direction.

In theory we should have been getting nearer the end. But it just seemed to be moving further away. Were we ever going to make it? Beautiful turquois lakes glistened in the afternoon sunshine besides us. With dancing dragon flies, swaying reeds and crimson coloured rocks that proudly flanked the water. Exhausted and hungry, I didn’t care. Just keep going.

Like a mirage. No camels, sand, palm trees or oasis. But the path to our hostel. I could have dropped to my knees and kissed the ground before me. But with other trekkers milling around outside the hostel thought they might have me committed. So resisted.

No extravagant celebrations, alcohol or parades. I just collapsed into bed. Mission complete. I’d done it.

Colombian Cloud Forests- Cocora Valley, Salento

Another trek, another misadventure. This time with a group of locals. Overlooking the cloud forests of western Colombia. Mountains covered in thick green vegetation, with a cloud which seem to dress them like thistle encircling a Christmas tree and gently flowing clear waters which added to the mystic of the area. But my issues started in the descent. It was three hours back to the road, however the sun was rapidly setting. The last hours would have to be done in the pitch dark. While we would still be in the thick under growth.

On the advice of a Colombian man I briefly met on my travels I took the three, often long, uncomfortable bus rides across the country. Described as a sleepy village in the tour guide books it had taken on a fuller life. Christmas.

It was obviously a favoured haunt of the Colombians from the bigger cities. Set perched on a hill top. It had stunning views either way over grassed valleys, streams that carve through the landscape and brutal mountains ridges that seem to form a protective cloak around the village. A pretty main square is currently bustling with life as small make shift stalls sell artisan products, chocolate, fruit, ice cream and chorizo. Families photograph themselves next to the church with its imposing spire and couples take in the sunshine on the grass.

Interesting at 9pm each night an alarm sounds thoughout the village. Like you could have expected to hear in Europe during WW2 to signal a immanent bombing raid. The first time I heard it I was in a restaurant and expected to watch the locals dive under their tables. Nobody moved. So I asked the waiter what was going on. He explained that it was to signal to all the children under 16 they needed to go to bed. Genius (?).

The region is famous for its coffee. A number of shops sell tours. But there is no need to take one as the route is simple and clearly marked. Different families have opened up their houses as outdoor cafes. Were you can sample the hot black nectar while overlooking the captivating landscape.

You can then carry on the walk to the waterfalls. Choosing to go it on foot or by horse. Note that it takes about three hours on foot and there are a couple of points where you will need to wade through the river. There seemed no other obvious route. Then the path takes you past a single storey house. Signs alert you that you are trampling through ‘private property’. The lady owner then comes out and demands COP3000 ($0.90, €0.85, £0.60). You have no other choice. Capitive market. If you want to go on you have to pay it.

The walk then takes you along a dusty path that clings to the side of the mountain. Through dark tunnels (with a statue of the Virgin Mary who seems to bless you as you pass). Then it gentle winds down to a stream with a wooden bridge to cross it. Shortly after this point you find the end. A water fall that sends cold refreshing liquid on the weary travellers who reach her.

Close to the village there is a national park known for its cloud forest. You can catch a 4×4 in the main square known interestingly as ‘willies’ that will take you up there. It drops you at the entrance and you are greeted with a choice of two routes. Although the map suggests that they do not form a circuit. So pick one or other. I went right.

There is the option again to walk or take a horse. The problem is that being Christmas the trail is very popular. Lots of people taking horses. So you do spend much time trying to avoid dung.

The first hour is relatively flat. Vegetated mountains rise either side of the path. One of the trees adorning them is the national symbol of Colombia (a wax palm tree called ‘Ceroxylon quindiuense’). And apparently only native to the region. It looks like a very tall palm tree as you would expect to see on a Caribbean coast. But, along with the other vegetation, gave it a tropical feel. As such I felt like I was in a Vietnam movie. A raw recruit with my unit, expecting the enemy to emerge from the jungle any minute. Apocalypse Now?

Then the path enters the forest and begins to gently rise. Small birds with bright yellow and green plumages dart in between the trees, briefly examining me before quickly flying on; red and black butterflies tangoed with each other along my path; small lizards spread themselves on the rocks to soak in the sun, blissfully unaware of the tourists snapping photos of them; crickets sung to one another across the undergrowth like a mini-opera; streams with small waterfalls meandered through the scenery. A tropical paradise.

On my walk I met a Colombian group of older teachers. One who was keen to try his English. This didn’t last long before we reverted to Spanish. We swapped questions about each other’s countries and had a cheerful walk to the highest point (3200m). They interestingly pointed to structures erected in the ground. These they explained were ancient Indian tombs, which had since been ransacked. There was a small lodge at the top. Where we had lunch. A mix of rice, lentils and chicken washed down with hot sugar cane water. Then enjoyed the view together. Until someone highlighted the time and they made an estimate for how long it would take to get off the mountain. It was woefully inaccurate.

As we descended so did the sun. Twilight made the steep down hills on the dusty and stony path more challenging. We all slipped over, walked into overhanging branches, nearly lost our boots to the streams or got spun off the feeble and shaky wire bridges. But apart from bruises and stifled laughter no one was hurt.

As we reached the base of the mountain it was as if someone had spilt a black paint across the landscape. There was no light. The clouds prevented the moon from helping us. The path was flatter but plagued with small rocks. One sent me heading towards the fence. Wooden poles holding up barbed wire. This was not going to be a pleasant experience. And still an hour to go.

Then one of the Colombians turned his mobile phone into a torch. The dim light didn’t prevent further falls but did seem to adequately light the path to give us some confidence. Horses shot passed us sending us hurtling towards the sides of the path. Cows called out in the darkness. And flying animals rush over our heads.

Slowly the lights of the tourist office grew brighter. We heard people’s voices and could smell food being prepared. We appeared like Indians emerging from the forest for the first time. Although we probably looked like swamp monsters out of a Scooby Doo show. Covered in mud, soaked, twigs in our hair and hunched over in tiredness. But we all made it. Unhurt.

The Colombians then gave me a lift back to Salento. I thanked them for the interesting experienced. Then hurried off for a well deserved beer. And straight to bed.