We were welcomed at Estancia Cristina as heroes. Well, not quite, but they gave us a couple of puddings while we had our celebratory beers. I stayed on at the estancia for two nights, while the others continued on their separate ways.
A barhop told me I was the only guest that season, who had arrived on foot (the estancia is reached by boat as there are no roads); that felt satisfying, and sufficient reason for another beer. The “Way of the Condor” – the name I eventually decided on, even if the route remains officially title-less – was not easy, not for me anyway as we broke in – and beat – the route and that treacherous undergrowth.
I had swollen feet, badly bruised toes, dead nails, sprained wrists from two falls and pressure on the walking poles, and my skin was cured like a gaucho’s. But the hike is doable by anyone in moderate health. It could be a six or seven day hike.
It could be combined with kit-rafting, lake crossing, or horses perhaps. It could really do with a few rangers being employed to cut a proper trail on the day-two section. But the ‘Way’ is wild and wonderful and it has none of the backpacker folklore or tick-box appeal that’s led to the W circuit becoming oversubscribed.
It has mountain views to rival any in South America and its plains and valleys offer an unfiltered, panoramic window onto some on the continent’s hardiest and least appreciated flora and fauna. It allows you to camp anywhere, to find your own path, to make it as hard or easy as you wish. I see a bright future for this shortish, steep, road-free route.
The next time, I’ll slow things down even more, perhaps climbing a few of the mountains en route, taking a diversion on to the ice-field, maybe learn to ice-climb. For now, though, I was just glad to play a small part in helping to open up this stirring trail. For any keen walker, that’s a buzz almost as high as the walk itself. And in that moment I was Eric Shipton, not Chris Moss.