Rain came during the night washing away our earlier enthusiasm and much of the campsite. Christi and I are awake by 6 am and only Ricardo remains unfazed by the conditions and still exhibits undiluted happiness. We struggle into our waterproof clothing and brave the inclement weather. First up is crossing the Tek River. It’s easy to wade across in Teva’s, my boots strapped to my daypack. Not so the Kukenan River, a little further up the trail. On a pleasant summer’s day (i.e. not today) we could almost skip across using a series of stepping-stones. But rain had bloated the Kukenan River into a raging torrent, 100-feet wide. The ever-industrious Ricardo and his colleagues sling a rope across the river, and we struggle across, gripping the rope as tightly as we can to avoid being washed away. While Christi and I barely manage to cross without drowning, Ricardo glides effortlessly back and forth ferrying our daypacks to safety. Our Canadian compatriots, Dan and Keith, struggle a little, but they do insist upon carrying their own 30-pound packs “just to make it interesting!” Personally I think these guys are nuts.
Rivers are also the favored hunting grounds of the evil, near-invisible, biting insects known as puri puris. Within the space of an hour this morning we’re exposed not only to a flood of near biblical proportions, but a plague of biblical proportions as well (and I’m only slightly exaggerating here!)
It’s another 9 km to our second camp at the base of Roraima. The first part of the trail is reasonably flat, but then becomes increasingly steep and challenging. Christi and I struggle up the slick and slippery slopes, while an impromptu river rushes down the trail to meet us. At the same time sheets of horizontal rain hit Christi and I in the face, soaking us and everything we’re carrying in our daypacks (with the exception of my camera). Even the massive bulk of the Roraima and Kukenan tepuis have disappeared beneath the low, black clouds and torrential rain.
Christi and I arrive at our camp site (a single, overwhelmed hut) about 4 hours after leaving Tek River. It’s 1 pm and we are completely drenched. We shelter in the hut for a while relishing the hot tea our porters have brewed for us. We can’t stay in the hut for too long, though, as other groups which arrived before us have claimed dibs. As soon as our over-worked yet still smiling porters have erected our tents we scuttle inside and remain there (the odd pee-break aside) for the next 18 hours. Our guide, Ricardo, who seems immune to the grim conditions, continually plies Christi and I with all manner of hot drinks and snacks, but this does little to assuage our discomfort. We are literally confined to our small, damp tent for hours on end, while the rain pours down and forms streams around and beneath us. Call me a wimp if you wish, but, seriously, where is the nearest Four Seasons?
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching story.
Speak Your Mind