Condor Census

It was hot. And dry. I was sweating, but you wouldn’t have known because either the sweat evaporated in the hot sun or was soaked up but the dust that blew onto every exposed piece of skin. It was impossible to keep myself separate from the surrounding dust – it became an integral part of my skin. Even with thick socks and hiking boots, the dust would creep between my toes, under toenails and cake my cracked heels. I applied sunscreen about every 20 minutes but still felt confident that no amount of white lotion, no matter what SPF could compete with the intense rays of sun. Common sense told us to stop walking and sit in the shade, yet we continued trekking in full sun. Sometimes conversation kept our minds off the heat, sometimes we trudged on eagerly looking up every couple of minutes for a glimpse of the light green of the willow – a sign that water was close. Fortunately the valley through which we walked was spectacular. Bits of volcanic rock rose above the brown slopes, forming faces of monkeys, witches, ancient gods or goddesses.

There were three of us in this enchanted valley: myself and two of the volunteers on the expedition, Emily and Rich. The only other visible animal life was the horses that seem omnipresent in the steppe landscape. It is unclear to me whether they are wild, feral or domesticated. But there are horses everywhere – never corralled and rarely accompanied by any hint of human presence. So it was just us three, the horses, the rocks and their mystical formations, the sun, the big blue sky and the expansiveness of the steppe. When we arrived in the valley that houses “Roca Chica” we immediately took off for the river where we were told there was a swimming hole. We wandered down a small path that led us through prickly and spiny bushes, peeking through willow tree branches in search of the famed swimming hole. After contemplating bathing in a small knee-deep pond and finally deciding to continue on, we found ourselves on a piece of volcanic rock overlooking a large pool with a waterfall pouring into it. We stripped down and jumped in, loving how the shockingly cold water took our breath away.

As the day wore on the sun and the rocks seemed to play tricks on us - the rock formations seemed to subtly change as the sun moved: the monkey rock turned its head slightly to the east and the witch rock seemed to lift a hand ever so subtly. We sat looking at one rock in particular – Roca Chica, “Small Rock”. It wasn’t so small. In fact, it was quite an impressive mound of volcanic rock, left exposed after years of erosion. We watched that rock ever so closely, scanning with our binoculars for any signs of Andean condors (Vultur gryphus) that might be resting on one of its many ledges. The most popular ledges were very visible due to the white droppings covering them. Unfortunately, the few condors that passed over Chica decided to continue on to a new location for whatever reason, but we continued scrutinizing the rock, searching for anything that might be a condor. I have never before observed the changes of light on rock as intimately as I did that night or the next morning. Sometimes the light allowed us to see the intricacy of the textured rocks and other times they appeared completely two-dimensional. And these changes seemed to occur within minutes of each other. I would look away for a couple of minutes, turn around again and see a different rock, lit up in a distinct new way.

We found a lovely little spot to camp for the night and settled in, creating our bedrooms, kitchen and making a home for the night. Except for the hour we spent making a simple dinner of rice and veggies, our time was dedicated to watching “Roca Chica” and wondering at the tricks the light was playing on our eyes. About a half hour before the sun disappeared, the whole valley seemed to light up with millions of different colors. There was a patch of white crumbly rock in the distance that seemed to have a ribbon of blue that made a wave through the rock. And the hills that had appeared to be a dull brown earlier in the day were suddenly filled with shades of reds, oranges, browns, greens and yellows. The valley floor was aglow with the yellow flowers of the dominant bush. The band of light green willows that lined the weaving river was suddenly fluorescent and the sky turned a deep, dark blue. Rays of sunlight crept through angulated rock protrusions and cast eerie shadows onto the other side of the valley. We were awe-stuck and enchanted by the display of beauty.

Sunrise the next morning offered a similar display, but we watched with more anticipation, perhaps a bit impatient for the sun’s warmth to take the early morning chill out of our bones. We carefully studied the patches of light and made guesses as to where the sun would rise. As soon as the light hit the top of Chica, a draft of cold seemed to wash over the valley, as if the light on the rock was displacing any warmth left in the valley. Without any sort of rational explanation, patches of light appeared on our side of the valley and it seemed impossible to figure out when the patches would move toward us. The patches of light danced along the pine trees and shrubs until one of the patches of light finally touched our rock. The chill disappeared and we had about a half hour of perfect temperature before we were again reminded of the intensity of the sun’s rays in the open, dry steppe.

After hiking to the base of Chica and collecting condor pellets and feathers, we reluctantly turned our backs on the valley that housing Chica and headed back towards the road. We didn’t see many condors, and none of them shared the valley with us for the night, but the display of beauty was more than enough reward.