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The morning sun was bright, but the air was still cold when Martín, Valentina, and Diego left their small hostel in Putre. Their backpacks were light, but each carried water, coca tea leaves, and layers of clothing. They were going to spend the day on the trails near Acotango Volcano, inside Lauca National Park.
“Look at the volcano,” Valentina said as they drove along the dirt road. Its snow-covered summit rose into the deep blue sky, more than six thousand meters high. “I can’t believe people actually climb to the top.”
“We’re not going that far,” Diego laughed. “We’ll just walk the trails around the base. Even that will be high enough.”
When they parked near the trailhead, the silence of the altiplano surprised them. Only the sound of the wind, and the occasional call of a bird, broke the stillness. A small group of vicuñas ran across the plateau, their thin legs moving gracefully.
Martín checked the trail map. “This path goes to a small wetland. Let’s start there. We might see flamingos.”
As they walked, they felt the effects of the altitude. Every step was a little slower. “I’m used to hiking,” said Valentina, “but here it feels like my lungs are smaller.”
“That’s why people chew coca leaves,” Diego replied. “Locals are used to it, but for us it’s harder.”
The trail reached a lagoon where pink flamingos stood in the shallow water. The reflection of Acotango was clear on the surface. The friends stopped to rest and drink tea, amazed by the view.
On the way back, they decided to visit a small community nearby. The road passed through a cluster of adobe houses with brightly painted doors. A hand-painted sign read: Artesanía Local. Curious, they entered a little shop where a woman was selling woven blankets and small carved llamas.
“Buenos días,” she greeted them warmly. “Do you want to see alpaca wool products? Everything here is handmade.”
Valentina touched a soft scarf. “It’s beautiful. Did you make this?”
“Yes,” the woman smiled. “My family has worked with alpaca wool for generations.”
Martín asked, “Do many tourists come here?”
“Some,” she answered. “They can see the volcano, but they also learn about our traditions. For us, it is important that visitors respect the land. The volcano is not only a mountain; it is part of our culture.”
Later, they walked to a small marketplace, where stalls displayed potatoes, quinoa, and herbs. Diego bought roasted corn from an older man, who explained how families in the highlands farm at such altitudes.
“You must be strong and patient,” the farmer said. “The land gives food, but only if you take care of it.”
By the end of the day, the friends were tired but full of new impressions. As the sun set, Acotango’s snowy summit turned pink and orange.
“This was more than a hike,” said Martín quietly. “We didn’t just see nature. We also met people who live with the mountain every day.”
Valentina nodded. “That’s why I like traveling. You think you’re just going to walk a trail, but you end up learning stories you never imagined.”
