Ucumarí (or Up The Valley)

Ranchland at 10,000 feet

Hoe them taters!

A chiva (traditional Colombian transport)

La Pastora

A few days ago I left Manizales with a sassy Atlantan named Marydale. We'd shared a few beers and philosophical ramblings and are headed in the same direction, so we formed a little team. We were headed to a Parqué Ucumarí to do some exploring via Pereira, another city in the Coffee Zone. I had the window seat on the bus out of Manizales, and laughed out the window as she was hit on by a drunken local across the aisle. Poor guy had very few teeth and kept slurring the word hermosisima (very beautiful) over and over again. Not sure why, but she didn't find it as funny as I did. We stopped in Santa Rosa de Cabal and took another bus up to some hotsprings, which were amazing. Arriving in Pereira that evening, we caught a cab to a hostel, owned by friendly Juan who filled us in on everything involved in visiting the park and staying at the refuge there. Here are a few excerpts from my journal:

3/15

Into the valley of the Río Otún. Woke up excited and not just for the coffee. Marydale whipped up a nice omelet with broccoli, onions and cheese. Supermarket for some snacks and a bottle of rum, then the chiva up the valley to El Cedral, beyond the pretty village of La Florida. On the mirror of th bus was a simple message: If you're going to sleep, do it in the back. At the end of the road started hiking up the valley through birdsong. . . to the red refuge at La Pastora. caretaker Rainer is a fantastic host. . . we followed along as he showed us the way to a waterfall across the valley. . . picking huge blackberries along the way in a stony pasture where cows grazed under blowing clouds. He was on his way to the river to catch trout - we'd shown up without a reservation and he was improvising dinner. . . the meal was one of the best I've had in Colombia. . .

3/16 "Up the Valley"

After an early breakfast and a bowl of hot chocolate we struck out up the valley. . . climbing up up up. Dense, humid forest gradually gave way to small, isolated trees as the valley opened and we ascended through pastures. Here, five hours' walk from the nearest road, small farms appeared. We had entered the world of potatoes and cattle, where hardy homesteaders scratch out a living raising beef and hoeing the hillsides. The wind blew down from the páramo, hidden behind high cliffs, as clouds charged up the valley. Cascades cleaved the mountains and water rushed and roiled everywhere. . . dozens of tributaries feeding the froth of the Río Otún, falling away dwon the valley.

After almost five hours we settled for a rock, enjoying a few breaks of sun during lunch. . . a view over pastures and streams. . . content with a great day with laughed about nothing and sang a little Rolling Stones as we stumbled back down the rocky trail. I stopped for a few "macro moments", trying to capture a few of the dozens of flowers brightening the landscape. Fifteen minutes from home, the sky opened up and we got a genuine soaking, threading our way through wet rocks and horseshit to the shelter of the refuge and another delicious dinner.

3/17

Breakfast and farewell. Rockhopping down a trail in a forest of simple composition: wet, brown earth, colored here and there by rust-orange seeps; a dark green tangle of fat leaves and branches dripping moss and ferns; a milky gray sky whose luminescence hinted at a star burning somewhere above the clouds. Over a carpet of fuscia-tinged petals washed fom the canopy, we hurried to catch the bus. . . arriving just as the clouds let go and rain ran in rivers across the dirt.

Back in town, drinking a strong coffee after lunch, we met Alvaro, a businessman from Bogotá. He described his condition with one word: bored. He was waiting for his wife and gestured disgustedly towards the downpour: "Nothing to do." We told our story and explained we were on our way to the Éxito to buy some vegetables and rum. "Here," he said. "Try this." His drink tasted like cherry Kool-Aid and cheap vodka. What was it? "I don't know, I told them to give me something strong. I'm really bored."

In the taxi, our driver mentioned the recent elections for the house and senate, asking us "Do you have corruption in the United States like we have here in Colombia?" Yes, we said, but it's different. We'd heard of politicians buying votes and were curious about the price. "About fifteen dollars." Wow. His next remark revealed a divide: "If you sell your vote, you sell your conscience."

Back at the hostel. . . we celebrated our return to dry clothes and a bathroom with and impromptu cocktail. I heated water and lime, pouring it over local rum and a dash of sugar. Stir and serve. How civilized!