Llama Drama in Valle Vidal

By Patricia Lee Sharpe

Oh, ye who are totally dependent on instant cell phone connection with anyone anytime, read no further. Valle Vidal is cut off from the world: 100,0000 acres in the middle of the Sangre de Cristo range, south of the Colorado line, east of Taos, west of Raton.  Little Costilla Peak, a 12,500 mountain that tops out 1000 feet above the tree line, presides over pine and aspen forests, grassy meadows sprinkled with little flowers, enticing trout streams and meandering  little brooks too remote and insignificant to attract fishermen. Ten of us camped at one of these idyllic spots barred to motorized transport, at 10,700 feet, this past week.  Six adults. Four boys. And did we luck out!  No rain packing in.  No rain at all—until we’d packed out and were saying goodbye to our fellow campers—and to our llamas.                                                                                  

Yes, we were llama trekking.  I love to walk, to hike, to trek, but I do not take kindly to carrying huge loads on my back, so I am always happy to have any means to transport to get my gear from point to point.  I’ve trekked with van back up, with sherpas, with horses, and this time I got to have my stuff carried by llamas.  You know: yamas, not lamas, who are Tibetan Buddhist adepts.

To get to the trailhead for this hike my grandson and I had first to drive 70 miles north to Taos, then 40 miles trending northeast to Questa and Amalia, and finally mostly east and mostly on gravel, gravel—with billows of dust!  If we ended up following another vehicle, that is, which always seemed to happen, despite the dearth of traffic, probably because I drive—um!—confidently on bad roads and always manage to catch up  to dust raising pickups.  However, even before we hit the bad stuff, the stuffing had fallen out of my car: a plastic protective thingumajig came unfastened and began sweeping the roadway, making a horrendous noise.  Other drivers gestured.  Pedestrians pointed.  It was very dramatic.  This happened, of course, after 6:00 pm the night before our morning appointment with the llamas.  First aid involved duct tape to hold the gizmo in place—applied by grandson, of course.  Surgery with B & B scissors followed.  Also performed by grandson.  Good kid. Next week: a consultation with people in the know.

Meanwhile, the essentials of the car were in fine shape, so we reached our meeting point: Clayton Corral, elev. some 9500 feet, where eight llamas and a trip leader were waiting for the clients. Llama names: K2, Matchu, Pitchu, Rusty, Onyx, etc.  Some all white; some—yep! rusty, some mottled brown and white, some almost black.  Some sporting dread locks, some with nice curly coats, all with up-pointing, in-curving ears, on swivels. One ear could listen forward while the other focused on some person’s attempt to be friendly—or commanding.  All of the llamas were standing around and humming, almost inaudibly, at different pitches. Well, they were hitched, by short leads, to their carrier truck, so they had to stand around, and singing may have made the boredom more bearable.                                                             

Eventually all clients arrived and all gear got lashed to one llama or another, crammed into weight-matched panniers filled with about 30 pounds each of clothes, personal effects, tents, sleeping bags, sleeping mats, food—including a clumsy-looking pair of coolers K2 had to carry, utensils, water for the first night, etc., etc.  The llamas took it all very patiently—as if they had a choice. 

But then, I’m told llamas have been carrying loads for people in the Andes for some 6,000 years, so I suppose they’re resigned to the servitude.  As are their very remote cousins, the camels and dromedaries of Asian and African deserts.  Llamas fold their legs like camels when they are resting and they have the same  herky-jerky three stage process for getting back onto their feet.  Note also the head carriage.  The disdainful nose-in-the-air look.  And the eyelashes. 

And the sensuous lips.  Also shared: the footpads instead of hooves.  Excellent for desert travel, and very easy on the landscape in non-desert terrain.  Want a green trek?  Get a llama.  Now, it’s true that pack horses can carry more gear and can even carry people in a pinch.  But if you have to choose between slogging along a trail clogged with horse manure or following a path sprinkled with llama beans, your nose will guide you: llama dung is practically aromaless.

Which, of course, I did not know as we started off, up hill, along a seldom-used  horse trail, roughly following a nameless creek, over grassy slopes, through wooded areas, across meadows—up, up, up.  Why do hikes always ALWAYS (well, almost always, it seems) begin on the up take?  Actually we didn’t have far to go.  Only three miles, with the last portion  essentially downhill, and this was a good thing, because by the time the train got into gear, it was well past noon.  We had to reach camp, unpack all the llamas, wrestle our tents up and organize our base camp before it got dark—all of which would have gone off perfectly, had it not been for one not so little complication, which I will describe later.

First, about what it’s like interacting with llamas.  It doesn’t feel much like interaction, actually, unless the humans do a lot of projecting.  Before we started off, we were encouraged to scoop out a palmful of an oatmeal-like mix with which to seduce “our” llamas.  A bonding exercise, essentially. The critters ate enthusiastically, with more lip and less tooth than horses usually manage, but none seemed particularly grateful.  Not even when I looked mine—Onyx—in the eye.  Never in the eyes, of course. Llamas don’t have front-facing, stereo vision, as predators do.  Two human eyes have to focus on one rather beautiful and very alert llama eye, which seems a little unbalanced for proper warmth of feeling.  At any rate, once this ritual was over, each of us grasped a lead, coiled excess rope as if we were experts, and led our llama according to its assigned order, across the road, through a gate and straight up hill one.

Ah yes, order.  Llamas, it seems, have a strong sense of precedence and dominance, and they work more cooperatively if humans respect their sociological preferences.  My grandson got to lead K2, who is the current llama numero uno , a position K2 achieved by not always non-violent means, vis-à-vis fellow llamas.   My Onyx had two torn ears, for example, thanks to the Mike Tyson of the llama herd, and was perfectly happy to bring up the rear, often pausing to graze, which meant I had to tug him along, from time to time.

Re grazing: llamas are grazing and browsing machines.  If it were up to them, their noses would always be lost in the meadow grass.  They also nibble at bark and most anything else that’s organic.  Leave out meat and they could be called omnivores, which makes them particularly nice as pack animals.  Except for the occasional treat, their loads don’t have to include llama fuel.  At one point or another along the trail, there was always one llama trying to grab a bite to eat.  For the llamas, as soon as we reached camp, it was heads down, gobbling grass, and then it was heads up, ruminating, aka chewing the cud.

And here is where the little problem developed.  The drill for the llamas at the end of the day was properly a matter of fifteen minutes or so of free browsing followed by a lead change: short lead replaced by long lead attached to tree.  The boys, of course, had fallen in love with the llamas, who never seemed to reciprocate, though they allowed all sorts of hugs and caresses, like patient old dogs.  And the boys loved taking care of the llamas.  So there were lots of people, adult and non-adult, more or less involved in llama tethering, but no one person totally tethered to llama security.  Result: whoops! only seven llamas in sight!  K2 had gone AWOL.

Fortunately, we were relatively close to the trailhead, so the loss of a llama wouldn't have been catastrophic, but we clients were as desolate as the trip leader.  A search was organized.  Some of us went up trail.  Some rushed back toward Clayton Corral.  Others searched along the banks of the creek, upstream, downstream. Lucky me, I got to hold the fort in camp.

Two hours later: getting dark and  K2 still missing.  Not good.  And mystifying. Llamas are herd animals.  Our trek leader figured K2 would have slunk into camp by the time he returned from his own wide-ranging search.  Meanwhile, the clients, though worried about K2, were also getting hungry, and with dusk the boys had rediscovered the joys of pyromania—they just had to play with fire.  But safely, our leader insisted.  We certainly didn’t want to burn down the forest. 

It was a glum dinner.  The camp fire conversation was subdued,  too.  As we headed off to our tents, we were all trying to think cheery thoughts: K2, of course, would be back by morning.  And what was our first concern as we crawled out of our sleeping bags and converged on the cook site?  Is he back?  Is he back?  No.  No.  No.

After breakfast: more searches.  On trail.  Off trail.  But this time success.  K2 turned up at Clayton Corral, hoping (I assume) to be reunited with the herd, which happened.  Joyously,  so far as the human element were concerned, but the llamas didn't break out in a gloriously hummed chorus of welcome back. Maybe K2 had bit too many ears during his climb to the top.  K2 himself seemed rather subdued, chastened, like a funny-looking dog with afro-like tail not quite tucked between its legs, though I could be wrong, given the absence of easy-to-read expressivity among the eight llamas I've ever been close to.  Even the trek leader didn't  receive nuzzly-slobbery affection from his animals.  No one got spat on, however.  This may or may not be a sign of good will. 

Still,  llama reticence didn’t prevent me from feeling absurdly proud of myself (Hey! Look at me!  Coolly leading a llama!) and very fond of Onyx by the time we were  tromping back to Clayton Corral on day three.   I was also very grateful.  Onyx and six of his companions had carried all our stuff without balking or shirking.  Meanwhile, I caught a glimpse of my grandson hugging K2, whose grave mid-trek dereliction had evidently been forgiven or already forgotten.  Time to say goodbye.  For now.  "I'd like to do this again," my grandson said, as we drove away, and he said the same, once we'd reached home.  "I'd like to do this again." 

As for Valle Vidal.  Sensational.  Well worth the political battle it took to preserve it from mineral extraction. I hope the photos manage to suggest the attraction of the site and the llamas, all of which I found very difficult to capture digitally.