Parque Nacional Lauca

Most folks who travel to Chile, fly in to Santiago and immediately head south to the much-touted Patagonia. Few travel north into the Atacama Desert, and fewer make it to far north-eastern Chile, hugging the Bolivian border. What a shame! This area of Chile was one of the most interesting, least-touristed, and photogenic places we visited on this trip to South America. The big draw of this region is the Lauca National Park. National parks in South America are not like national parks in the US. Denali, here in Alaska for example, is all about crowds: crowds on the buses, standing in line for tickets, and the "Glitter Gulch" hotel strip outside the park that caters to its crowds. National parks in South America are quiet: they don't get many visitors. In Colombia, where I lived a short while, it was obvious why: guerrillas claimed the parks as their own land, so a visit to nature would end up in a kidnapping ransom. But in the rest of SA, who knows? Lack of public transport to visit the parks is probably one reason, but whatever it may be, for the visitor they're a wonderful break from the chaotic cities and from crowds. We spent two days visiting Lauca and only saw a handful of other travelers.

The village of Putre was our resting stop for our two days in Lauca. When we arrived in the evening in a dense fog, our first task was to find the local gringa resident: Barbara Knapton, an ex-Alaskan who operates a birding and nature tour company called Alto Andino Nature Tours. We hoped to stay at her bed-and-breakfast but she had run out of propane to heat the apartment, and even these Alaskans needed some heat that night: it wasn't 30 below, probably 40 above, but that cold, wet high Andean wind seeps into your bones and heat was going to be necessary. However, we spent a good few hours with Barbara, hearing her life story and her path to an isolated Andean village, and getting good tips on what to see in Lauca the next day. 

As we were checking into our hotel, we realized we were almost out of pesos and learned that the bank was only open on Monday, the day we were to head back to the coast. Gathering all our pesos together, we ate at the cheapest restaurant in town and had our first cup of mate de coca (coca tea) to ward off the altitude sickness we could already feel coming on. We knew we were in a very different part of Chile. It felt very Bolivian and people were speaking Aymara, a far cry from the tango bars of Valparaiso. That night we slept under 3 thick wool blankets, and woke up early to begin our adventure in Lauca.

And what a fantastic time we had in this altiplano paradise! Here are some scenes:

Such a spectacular landscape! Lauca is situated between 10,000 and around 21,000 feet. Snowcapped volcanos, altiplano scenery, lakes dotted with flamingos, highland villages, and some pretty strange animals:

The vicuna, of which there were thousands! We asked Barbara if we had a good chance to see any vicuna when we visited the park, and she guaranteed us there would be no problem. We were surprised, because as nature guides in Alaska we certainly can't "guarantee" that someone will see a moose or a caribou. But she was right! The vicuna are wild relatives of the llama and have a very inspiring history. In the early 1970s there were barely a thousand left in Chile, so the Chilean government stepped in and now there are over 25,000. They were everywhere, so much so that I stopped taking pictures of them. They're beautiful, delicate animals, and we certainly hope their success story continues.

And then there were these:

Viscacha! A most unusual creature, of which there were also thousands, and almost so tame you could pet them. Darn cute little things. Something I would expect to find in Tolkien's writings. Perhaps like a three-year-old's imaginative and over-the-top drawing of a rabbit, come to life. Except, it isn't a rabbit. Not even a member of the rabbit family. Its closest relative is the chinchilla. They would pop in and out amongst the rocks, or just sit, meditatively, in the middle of a field, three feet away from me, posing for pictures. 

And then there is this plant! Once again, nothing is as it seems in northern Chile. So what is it? At first glance, I thought it was some kind of exuberant lichenous growth on a rock. Upon inspecting it, above, I was sure I was correct. The plant formed quite a dense mat, as hard as rock when I knocked on it. They were scattered here and there in Lauca, fairly abundant. The viscachas would hop on them in the various rock piles. I was drawn to the fantastic color and the sensuous curves: the plant made quite a striking presence in the high altiplano. Later that evening over dinner as I was relating my love of this lichen to Barbara, our Alaskan naturalist friend in Putre, she corrected my presumptuous lichenous assumption. The beautiful green bulbous mass is not a lichen suffocating a rock, she informed me. The plant is called a llareta (Laretia compacta) and is a member of the….carrot family! If you break it open, which you need a mattock for as it’s so hard, you see a mass of very dense stalks. Apparently the Aymara use the llareta for fuel.

And we made lots of new friends! This is Loli, who said hello to us every day as we entered and left the park. 

On the last day, we finally realized why she was so friendly: she wanted chippies! We'd roll down the window and yell "Chippies!" and Loli and some of her friends would come running up to the car. I know, I know: you're not supposed to feed wildlife. But these guys aren't wild; they're domesticated llamas and alpacas. Some farmers continue to have grazing rights in the park. Chippies!


As we got out of the car to snap some pictures, this young feller came tearing down a hillside with his lady friends. Leaving them on the other side of the road, he raced across to our car, right up to Audie who was standing outside. After a few minutes of manly-man posturing and strutting, as well as leaping on Audie’s back trying to mount him, the guy realized Audie wasn’t a threat to his harem and allowed a quick nose pat.


Hey, we could be out on the Denali Highway! The contrast from our prior days in the Atacama Desert is extraordinary. That’s definitely one thing I love about travel in South America, travel in the Andes: the extremes that one can encounter from one day, or hour, to the next!

Where else can you find flamingos and snow, together, in the same picture??!!

And here we are at the top of the world! Lago Chungara at 15,000 feet, one of the world’s highest lakes. And behind it, the most perfect looking volcano, Volcan Parinacota. Bolivia is just on the other side of the lake….I was tempted to cross the border. We’d been hearing wonderful stories about travel in Bolivia, but suddenly, this struck:


Saroche! I was having trouble breathing myself, but Audie got hit hard by altitude sickness. We'd been doing a lot of hiking, but still trying to take things easy. However, 15,000 feet is awfully high. As we were resting by the side of the road, a Bolivian man stopped and gave Audie some rubbing alcohol to inhale. Didn’t work. So we slowly trundled back to our village, Putre. After a few hours of rest in the hotel room, Audie was still in really bad shape, so I ventured out to find Barbara and ask for her help. She said he needed oxygen, so I walked Audie to the local clinic. Every village has a dog pack, as did Putre, and this pack had attached themselves to us during our stay here. The dogs followed us through the streets and even into the clinic. Inside, a cadre of young, bustling, pretty Chilean nurse interns fussed over Audie: taking his temperature, rubbing his forehead with cool rags, and administering oxygen. I’m not sure if it was the fastidious attention of all the pretty young ladies, or the medical oxygen, but shortly he was feeling better than ever!

We loved the quirky, beautiful world of northern Chile!

To the altiplano

Our long bus ride through the endless Chilean Atacama ended in the fairly pleasant seaside city of Arica, where we enjoyed outdoor cafes while being assaulted by wandering musicians who refused to take their screechy accordion and out-of-tune guitar from our table until we paid up. By this time we were pretty excited to leave the brown, sandy vistas of the prior days and head into the high country. Arica was our base for renting a car and escaping to the altiplano. After filling our lungs full of air, we steered our way towards the high peaks of Lauca National Park.

Leaving Arica, we drove through a surreal landscape:

A contemplative spot

There is effectively no vegetation here as we travel away from the coast and up to the highlands. We’re still in the dry land, where it just doesn’t rain. So no vegetation to admire, except these big guys! About the same size as your average saguaro. They’re called the candelabra cactus. There’s no rain, so how does it grow? With this:

Fog. What the Chileans call the camanchaca, that rolls in from the ocean and cloaks the hillsides. These candelabra cacti get all the moisture they need from fog. Pretty amazing adaptation!

Both of us love rocks, Audie especially, with his background, so when we started to see these, we pulled the car over to investigate. What causes this erosion?

I'll just quote Audie on this one: "Wind ablation, per se, wouldn't suffice to cause these peculiar shapes. Nonetheless, with all the rocks in this area showing erosion oriented in this direction, something like that must be occurring.  

What has happened is that these rocks all contain minute quantities of sulfides. When the fog-bearing camanchaca rolls in from the Pacific, and condenses on the west-facing rock surfaces, a small amount of sulfuric acid forms. North-, south-, and east-facing surfaces receive less fog and thus remain relatively less degraded by this acid.  So: we can call this fog erosion!"

As we climbed higher and higher in elevation, the roads got really crazy:

And because this particular route to Lauca National Park just also happens to be Bolivia's only access route to the sea, we shared the road with half-suicidal Bolivian truckers who like passing on curves, dense fog be damned. There is a Spanish saying "Si Dios quiere" or "God willing....I'll make it around this curve. God willing I'll pass these stupid gringo drivers without slamming into the front of my compadre's rig." There were also the usual traffic jams:

Before we arrived in the village of Putre, our night's destination, we took a side trip to the village of Socoroma, population 15, if even that. This place was a mystery for us: a fairly good-sized village, many streets, with enough buildings to comprise a population of a few hundred, but something wasn't quite right.

As we entered the village, we had glimpses of our first terraced hillsides, these covered with oregano. Two farmers were busy in one field as we stopped to observe a hummingbird. But as we entered the village proper, this is what we saw:

Dead streets. Boarded-up houses. No stores. Nothing but more surrealism.

As we continued to drive around the empy streets, we eventually came to the town square, where two children and their mother were playing soccer. These three, plus the two farmers, and another man herding sheep were the only people we saw. The children waved and smiled at us, friendly enough, and then disappeared. The town square, below, looked well-maintained and cared for, but where were all the people? What happened to them? We asked people in Putre when we arrived, but couldn't get a straight answer. It's a mystery. A pretty little village, with a few resilient residents surrounded by silent streets.