I’ve always been drawn to Latin America. The joyful chaos, the colours, the flavours. The sound of Spanish, a language I’ve always found fascinating. In my mind, these places have always conjured up images of warm climates and tropical landscapes. And yet, here we are, packing our ski bags for La Paz, Bolivia. Even booking the flights turned out to be an adventure. Travelling with skis is fairly straightforward when flying to Nordic countries, but the same can’t always be said for some Latin American airlines. Getting to Bolivia was a journey in itself. It all started with an idea that was far too ambitious for our first experience at high altitude, before turning into a search for wild, remote places where we could ski. We spent hours researching online, until Marco came across a website where a mountain guide had shared an account of his trip to Bolivia some ten years earlier. This time, we’re not travelling alone. Joining us are Mike and Rafa. Mike is American and has known Marco for 15 years, ever since Marco was his ski instructor in Verbier. From skiing on piste to the park and eventually freeriding, their shared passion for skiing has evolved over the years. Mike has since moved from England, where he was living at the time, to New York. His interests have shifted too: baggy trousers and twin-tip skis have given way to ski touring and the satisfaction of earning his turns. Rafa is Peruvian and has been friends with Mike since college. They’ve shared university life, an apartment in New York and one of their greatest passions: ski touring and the desire to seek out new adventures.
It’s hard to say which of them is more excited. Two years ago, they climbed Mont Blanc with Marco. Until this trip to Bolivia, that summit marked the highest altitude either of them — or any of us — had ever reached.
Our goal is to ski in the Cordillera Real and the Cordillera Occidental. We have two weeks ahead of us and an ambitious plan: five summits to climb. For Marco, it’s his first time in South America. For me, it’s my first time above 4,500 metres. Even before setting off, our excitement is mixed with plenty of questions. How will our bodies cope with the altitude? What conditions will we find? What will these mountains be like? And, perhaps most importantly, will our skis actually make it to Bolivia? We get an answer to the first question almost immediately. It’s 3 a.m. when we land in La Paz, dragging our bags and ski gear through the airport. I assume I’m out of breath from the long journey, until Marco checks his watch: “We’re at 4,000 metres, and you can definitely feel it.” Before we finally get our first glimpse of the Cordillera Real, we’ll spend two days in La Paz, acclimatising, recovering from jet lag and meeting up with Mike and Rafa.
La Paz is chaotic, bustling and red. Red because most of its buildings are made of exposed brick, known locally as ladrillos. We wander through its streets, fascinated by a city and a way of life so different from anything we’re used to. After two days, we’re eager to leave the city behind and head into the mountains. Finally, we make our way to the small village of Peñas, home to just 400 people and offering incredible views of the Cordillera Real. The noise and bustle of La Paz give way to the vast, open expanse of the Altiplano, with the peaks of the Cordillera Real rising in the distance.
Only a handful of dirt roads lead into the mountains. Our first objective is Jisk’a Pata, at 5,500 metres. It’s one of the more accessible peaks in the area, making it a promising choice for our first adventure. The approaches are long: an hour and a half to two hours of off-road driving before we can even start hiking, skis strapped to our packs as we make our way towards the snow. I reach a new personal altitude record before we’ve even left the parking spot: 4,700 metres. The hike in is long, our pace slow. My heart rate shoots up almost immediately. The scenery helps, but only so much. A few curious llamas watch us as we follow a stream uphill. Everything is new to us, and it’s incredible. After almost two hours, we finally put on our skis. We’re on the glacier. The sun is intense. We move together, roped up. The crevasses are hidden beneath the snow, so caution is essential. Mike and I start feeling strangely off-balance and light-headed. Rafa’s heart is racing. Together, we decide we’ve done enough for the day and turn back. The snow is beautiful, with perfect spring-like conditions. But as we descend towards the valley, instead of feeling better, I develop a splitting headache. By 1 PM, we’re back at our hotel in Peñas, where I fall asleep and don’t wake up until 6 the following morning. Rafa and I decide to take a rest day and head down to the lower part of La Paz, at 3,300 metres, while Marco and Mike set off for Kasiri III, a 5,600-metre peak in another part of the Cordillera. I follow their progress on the inReach and see their photos the next day. The glacier is surrounded by reddish slopes, creating a striking contrast with the white snow. They’re thrilled. Their first summit, a great ski descent and a place unlike anywhere else.
The weather forecast for the coming days doesn’t look promising, so we change our plans and head south, bringing forward our journey to the Cordillera Occidental and Sajama National Park. Seven hours on the road take us into volcanic territory. Perfectly shaped mountains, their pointed cones rising into the sky, all overshadowed by the majestic Sajama. We have two objectives here: Acotango, at 6,052 metres, and Parinacota, at 6,350 metres. The village where we’re staying is even smaller than Peñas. Sandy ground, brick houses and traditional buildings with thatched roofs. We’ll be sleeping in two of the latter. Denis is our driver. He’ll take us wherever we need to go, navigating in the darkness along tracks barely distinguishable from the surrounding landscape, marked only by gaps in the bushes and tyre tracks left by those who came before us. The starting point for Acotango is at 5,300 metres. As I take my first steps, I feel as though I can’t get enough oxygen, almost like I’m suffocating. I quietly wonder whether I’ll ever make it to the summit, or whether my body simply isn’t made for this altitude. But slowly, with the first light of dawn behind us, something begins to change. My lungs, or perhaps my mind, start to adjust, drawing energy from the beauty of the place around us. Not a single cloud in the sky. Parinacota, Pomerape and Sajama catch the morning light, one after another. We keep moving, slowly but steadily. I’m overcome with emotion before we even reach the summit. It’s also my 40th birthday, and I couldn’t have wished for a better way to celebrate. At the top, we embrace. My and Rafa’s first summit in Bolivia, and the first 6,000-metre peak for all of us. One word we’ve learned to embrace in Bolivia is patience. Patience to give our bodies time to acclimatise, patience to recover, and patience to listen to what our bodies are telling us. So, the day after Acotango, our biggest effort is a short walk to the geysers and natural hot springs. The sky is overcast, perfect for a rest day. In the distance, we can see steam rising from the pools. The volcanoes are dormant, but something is still bubbling beneath the surface. We have to remind ourselves not to stay in the water too long or use up too much energy.
Parinacota.
From the very beginning, it had been the main objective of our trip. The summit we’d dreamed of, the one that was supposed to make it all worthwhile. The day starts incredibly early. We have almost 1,300 metres of elevation gain ahead of us, and at this altitude, you feel every single metre. At 3:30 AM, Denis navigates unmarked sandy tracks beneath a sky full of shooting stars. We start hiking earlier than planned, at 5 AM, from an altitude of 5,000 metres. Underfoot, a mixture of rocks and black volcanic sand. We’re on the slopes of the volcano, once again greeted by an incredible sunrise. We move slowly, keeping a steady pace. When we reach the snow, we don’t even bother putting on our skis. We go straight for the crampons. The slope is steep and the snow is hard. We’d been warned: “You can see the summit, but it never seems to get any closer.” And that’s exactly how it feels. Rafa hands me an energy gel. Marco notices I’m slowing down and, at one point, takes my skis onto his pack as well. I have two more gels and keep putting one foot in front of the other. Clouds drift in and out, giving way to patches of blue sky. The summit crater is right there, yet somehow still out of reach. Above 6,000 metres, everything changes. We knew it would. Our pace slows dramatically. We all feel fine, but the sheer effort is hard to describe. Heat, passing clouds, shortness of breath. Then, finally, we reach the summit and look down into the enormous crater. Behind us, the volcanoes. To our left, the vast desert. The descent turns out to be another unforgettable part of the journey. On a typical ski tour, it’s usually the easier part. But at this altitude, it becomes a challenge of its own. Ten turns, and I have to stop to catch my breath. We finally reach the car, our ski boots covered in black sand. A reminder of our time on Parinacota. Or rather, of the mark Parinacota has left on us. We’re exhausted. And couldn’t be happier.
For the final summit of our adventure, we set our sights on Ala Derecha del Condoriri, at 5,580 metres. A lower peak, but a more technical one. To add a little more adventure, we spend the night in a mountain hut at 4,700 metres. By now, our bodies have adapted to the altitude, and we manage to get a good night’s rest even up here. The hut sits on the shores of Lake Janko Kota, completely deserted. Inside, there’s nothing more than the essentials: a table, a camping stove and mattresses laid out on the floor upstairs. Mike and Rafa spend most of the afternoon trying to get a fire going. The little wood we’ve managed to find is damp, and lighting a fire at this altitude is no easy task. But persistence pays off, and eventually we find ourselves sitting by the fire, watching shooting stars streak across the sky. The next morning, we set off by headtorch. The approach is long, and the first light of dawn is just breaking as we reach the glacier. A towering wall of ice, dozens of metres high, drops into a lake dotted with tiny icebergs. We make our way around it and put on our skis. It’s a beautiful day, but Ala Derecha proves more challenging than expected. Crevasses and a final steep section of hard snow, where we need ice axes and crampons to reach the summit. The perfect combination for one last Bolivian mountain adventure. From the top, we can see all the way to Lake Titicaca. On the descent, the steepest section offers firm snow and some rewarding, technical turns. Further down, we’re treated to pure spring corn snow. The perfect way to end our journey.
At the end of a long journey, there’s often a feeling that you could have done something differently. But not this time. Perhaps a little more patience with acclimatisation would have helped, but beyond that, I wouldn’t change a thing. Every moment has been incredible. As we make our way back to the hut, a hailstorm catches us by surprise. It almost feels as though the mountains are telling us it’s time to head home, to take it all in and appreciate everything we’ve experienced. As if Bolivia itself is saying goodbye. But this isn’t goodbye for good. The raw beauty and authenticity of this place have already left a lasting impression on us, finding a special place in our memories and our hearts.
