Keith and I enjoyed a couple glasses of wine over dinner Saturday night, but the kids got bored, so we allowed them to return to the SnowMansion next door on the condition that they take showers (NOT in the puppy breeding room inside the hostel, but in the showers reserved for campers, in one of the backyard outbuildings) and get ready for bed. Fine. Whatever. They did, without complaints, and we tucked them in when we got back.
Perhaps that was not the best decision we ever made as parents. When Keith and I got up the next morning, we made our way (past the patio littered with gnawed-on watermelon rinds and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn) to the showers, where we discovered levels of disgusting we have not achieved thus far on our travels. It was as if everyone who has used the shower in the last six months left something behind. Half-empty shampoo bottles. Mucky razors. Wads of hair. I kid you not, in Keith’s stall, he found a black thong hanging from the towel rack. We had dismissed our kids from dinner the night before and told them to go bathe in this space, and they did, without complaint.
In fact, our children didn’t seem too bothered by the state of the SnowMansion, and I don’t know whether to be alarmed that they seem at home amid clutter and trash, or proud that they’ve become seasoned travelers who will unflinchingly endure less-than-four-star accommodations.
One last thing, and then I’ll move on: Since Keith and I slept in the Teardrop, we stashed all the extra gear under the trailer overnight, like we usually do. In the morning, as we moved everything back inside, oodles of plus-sized creepy-crawly bugs freed themselves from the folds of the stuff sacks and duffel bags and began to infest the inside of the trailer. I had to pick them up, one-by-one, and fling them out the door. I tried, but I’m sure I didn’t get all of them, and they’ll probably multiply into a swarm by the time we get home to Lafayette.
Needless to say, we couldn’t get out of the SnowMansion fast enough.
We drove about 10 miles up the road to Taos Ski Valley, where we met Stuart Wilde, of Wild Earth Llama Adventures, in a parking lot near the Twining Trailhead, which accesses the nearby Columbine-Hondo Wilderness of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. It wasn’t hard to find Stuart. He was the one in the middle of the lot surrounded by heaps of gear. And eight llamas.
We also met three other guests who would go up the mountain with us: Renee, from Albuquerque, and Leif and Robin, from NE Minneapolis. (With a name like Leif, he has to be from Minnesota, right?) (Any Ole friends reading this might be interested to learn that Leif and Robin were in Tony Sexton’s class at Rosemount High School.)
We quickly unloaded our bags from the car and repacked them into Stuart’s specially designed llama panniers. The night before, per Stuart’s emailed instructions, I had organized and bundled up only our necessities, including fleece sweaters, rain gear, hats and gloves, and long underwear. After spending two and a half weeks sweating our bejeezuses off in the hot, dry southwest desert, it was unfathomable that we would need any of that. But then again, Taos Ski Valley sits at 9,200 feet above sea level (fun fact: it’s the highest municipality in the U.S.), and we were aiming to hike up to about 12,700 feet; best to be prepared.
Stuart supplied the sleeping bags and tents, as well as all the other gear we’d need, and we packed all that into the llama packs, too. Then, Stewart briefed us on how to approach the llamas (they prefer to be touched on the neck and the chest, not on the face), listed signs of altitude sickness to watch for, and summarized our itinerary — hike about four miles into the mountains, gain about 2,000 feet in elevation and make our base camp. We each chose a llama to hike with, then set off.
About 20 minutes into the hike, which kicked off immediately with a steep and rugged climb, Charlie started feeling really rotten, complaining of nausea and an intense headache. We encouraged him to drink some water, and Stuart made frequent stops so Charlie could catch his breath. But clearly our usually chipper and upbeat kiddo was suffering from altitude sickness, and it became obvious that he wasn’t going to recover quickly.
If it had been just the five of us on the excursion, we could have altered our plans a bit, taking an easier route or pulling off the trail until Charlie felt better. But with three other paying clients on the trek, we couldn’t hijack the itinerary and undermine the others’ enjoyment. So Keith and I quickly discussed our options and, with Stuart’s consent, decided that Keith and Charlie would back out, head back down to the car and spend the next two nights on their own in Taos.
(As I planned for this trip — and for this llama trek — I was aware of the need to adjust to the altitude. I had been in regular contact with Stuart’s wife, Leah, who booked our reservation and supplied the packing list and logistical details, and she suggested that we arrive in Taos a few days ahead of the hike, so that we could acclimate. While there was no way that I could stretch out our itinerary to accommodate that, I figured we’d be fine, since we spent the last several days slowly gaining elevation; Mesa Verde and Santa Fe are both at 7,000-plus. But apparently it was not enough.)
The fact that Charlie didn't protest the decision speaks volumes about how sick he really felt. An instant after Keith and I made the call, Keith and Charlie turned around and headed back down the mountain; they didn’t even bother to pull their clothes out of the llama packs. Stuart tied the llamas that Charlie and Keith had abandoned to the backs of the llamas that Natalie and I led, and the convoy continued up the mountain: one guide, six guests, eight llamas.
I was deeply disappointed that Keith and Charlie would miss out on the llama trek. I’ve been looking forward to this part of the trip for months, and the kids — animal lovers, all — were so thrilled to have the chance to hike and camp with llamas.
The disappointment lasted, like, a second. I was relieved not to have to drag Charlie up the mountain when he was feeling so awful. That would have been tense and harrowing. I knew that Keith and Charlie would have fun on their own. Heck — after two and a half weeks together, maybe it was better that we split up for a couple of days. I bet the girls that Keith and Charlie found a hotel with a pool and would spend the next three days watching HBO.
About two miles into the hike, we stopped for lunch. Stuart set out a table and unpacked fixings for sandwiches and salad, and we all helped ourselves while the llamas munched on whatever grass and leaves they could reach from their tethers.
We were grateful for the chance to rest. True, we were only a couple of miles from our starting point, but at 10,000 feet elevation, the hike was exponentially more difficult than it would have been at sea level. My heart pounded in my ears, and it was difficult to carry on a conversation as we slowly trudged up the mountain. Stuart remained patient and positive, as he kept the pace manageable for everyone and encouraged us to stop often and drink lots of water.
I have accumulated a short list of my favorite moments on these family trips. Most of them are nothing more than fleeting sensations or impressions — not of extraordinary events, like sailing over the New Mexico wilderness in a hot air balloon, although that was certainly stunning, but of understated and almost ordinary occasions that could happen anywhere, at any time. A cheese-and-crackers picnic lunch at an interstate rest area. The safety and comfort of the air-conditioned van after a long, hot night of camping. The rapt silence as we all get caught up in an especially engrossing audiobook. The kids’ heads bent over whatever craft project passes the time. Most of the time, the rest of the family doesn’t even notice that I’m overcome in the moment with a mixture of peace and contentment and awe and gratitude, quietly trying to wrap my head and my whole heart around it so I can keep this feeling close and draw on it throughout the rest of the year. This is what I’m addicted to. This is what drives me. This is why I keep planning these trips. This is what I will ache for when the kids have grown.
And now I have one more sublime sensation to add to the list: A llama’s soft, warm, steady breath on my shoulder. I led Zephyr up the mountain that first afternoon, with K2 tied behind him, and he followed so closely behind me that his lips grazed my ear and if I stopped suddenly, he tumbled into me. For a short time before lunch, Clare led Zephyr, but we switched after she complained about his breath, which truly is nauseating and smells like nacho farts. I didn’t care; he was so sweet and gentle and close.
At one point, as we slowed down to catch our breath, Zephyr stepped in front of me to grab some leaves from the other side of the trail, and accidentally stepped on my foot. Have you ever had a 300-pound llama step on your foot? It is exactly as painful as a Nerf ball landing on your foot, which it to say it doesn’t hurt at all. Llamas don’t have hooves; they have two toes, two toenails, and soft soles, like baseball mitts. In fact, llama feet impact the trails less than hiking boots worn by humans. Indeed, at a couple of places along the trail we had to scramble over fallen logs or up over a steep cascade of boulders, and the llamas stepped — or in some cases leapt — over the obstacles as lightly and as nimbly as ballet dancers.
About two miles beyond our lunch stop, we came to the wide meadow where we would set up camp — just as the dark clouds that had been gathering opened up and unleashed pea-sized hail. The humans found shelter under trees until the storm passed, and the llamas waited patiently nearby while piles of ice accumulated on their wooly backs.
As the hail gave way to drizzle, Stuart expertly strung a tarp between two trees as a shelter, and we piled all our gear under it.
In the mountains, of course, the weather changes in an heartbeat, and after the rain stopped, the skies cleared and we enjoyed a sunny afternoon. When the ground had dried a bit, we set up our tents, taking care to avoid the cow pies that littered the meadow, though it was very difficult to avoid them; Stuart explained that a local rancher is allowed to let his cattle roam the area. Then we spent time changing into dry clothes and collecting firewood while Stuart prepared a delicious dinner of salmon and sautéed asparagus and the llamas lounged in the sunshine on 25-foot leads.
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