As the car bounces along a dirt road high in the Peruvian Andes, I notice several figures scampering on twig-skinny legs alongside the vehicle. Behind them a massive volcano emerges like a pointy hat from the arid landscape. My driver explains that the orangey-brown-and-white mammalian oddities are vicuñas, the smallest of all American camelids, prized for their fine -- and very expensive -- wool, and that the safe haven of the Salinas and Aguada Blanca National Reserve, where they are roaming, has protected the animals from near extinction. To me the bizarre creatures look like art-directed props signaling the unfamiliar land that lies ahead.
My journey began earlier in the day in Peru's second-largest metropolis, Arequipa, nicknamed the White City for its churches made of eggshell-hued sillar, a volcanic stone. The city is also the departure point for Peru's Colca Valley, a sixty-two-mile-long Andean region freckled with active volcanoes, therapeutic sulfur hot springs once used by the Incas, and Spanish colonial towns. Considered southern Peru's breadbasket, the Colca Valley is a colorful patchwork of vegetables, wheat, barley and potatoes that grow along stepped terraces carved into the hillsides. But the food and hot springs are only sideshows. The main attraction is the Colca Canyon, a crevasse twice as deep as the Grand Canyon and renowned for its resident condors, which soar overhead in the thermal winds and dazzle bird lovers with their aeronautical precision. As a culturally rich region (the rugged landscape is still inhabited by two pre-Incan tribes, the Collaguas and the Cabanas), the Colca Valley has for decades been a refuge for altitude-immune backpackers. Yet this so-called Lost Valley of Peru has remained mostly off the radar for less wash-and-go travelers. On the heels of a worldwide surge in ecotourism and the recent addition of a new luxury hotel, however, this southern slice of Peruvian countryside is about to hit the globerati map.
Eventually, the car turns onto the narrow road leading to the Orient-Express's Las Casitas del Colca and its twenty casitas, which are made from natural woods and handcrafted tiles. Out the window I can see the meticulously manicured grounds; I count more gardens than guest rooms. Recently churned potato fields, lumpy with dark soil, stretch into the horizon. Nature, fresh and raw, is all around me.
I stop by my casita, one of nineteen similarly designed accommodations that are chock-full of elegant dark-wood furniture sourced from Lima's upscale Canziani and Exportino design boutiques. (An additional Presidential Casita suite, near the spa, has a separate living area as well as its own infinity pool.) Soaring ceilings heighten the nearly 1,300-square-foot space, whose massive windows allow for the valley's steady wind to breeze through. The bathroom has enough amenities to keep me relaxed for days: indoor and outdoor showers, a bathtub under a glass roof for optimal stargazing and radiant stone floors that warm toes year-round.
Weary after the two-hour journey from Arequipa, with the spring air still a dreamy seventy degrees Fahrenheit at six in the evening, I take a quick soak in my private patio's hot tub. It overlooks a sliver of the valley that is dominated by a stepped terrace and towering eucalyptus trees. I sip a glass of barley water (an altitude-sickness remedy, a staffer tells me) delivered from the front desk and glance up at the sky as the sun's last rays wash over a quilt of crops. A hawk zigzags between cascading leaves rustling in the wind. I'm beginning to settle into the valley's subtle rhythm.
Food is an essential element of Las Casitas' experience. The resort's twenty-one acres supply its kitchen; in addition to endless gardens, it has five greenhouses growing everything from aji chiles (a Peruvian staple) to huacatay, an herb related to the marigold, with a gently sweet flavor. Las Casitas' grounds also offer their bounty to the Spa Samay (meaning "rest" in Quechua, the ancient language of the Incas), where you can get scrubbed with ground purple corn and fresh honey before being wrapped in an alpaca blanket. Active guests can ride horseback, fish in the property's pond, even bring vegetables to the needy at Mother Antonia's Mission, in the colonial village of Yanque.
For a crash course on the Peruvian palate, I sign up for a cooking class in the resort's sleek demo kitchen, with a steel Viking stove and a wood-burning brick oven used to bake hearty Andean bread. The menu: chile peppers with minced lamb and herbs; cauche, a local potato-and-cheese dish, served with smoked trout and caviar; and alpaca loin with Cape gooseberries and mint salsa. When I arrive, executive chef Faustino García has already gathered the ingredients for a solterito salad, featuring bright-green fava beans, fresh white Andean cheese and enormous boiled corn kernels, and he's narrating each step. I don't speak a lick of Spanish, so it's a good thing we share the language of lunch.
The resort, of course, isn't the only place to get a peek at the Colca Valley's agricultural heritage. One day I travel to Yanque and the lookout known as Ocolle. After a hotel driver drops me off at the main square, I walk along a dirt path, where clusters of bright-orange chinchircuma flowers lure iridescent-green hummingbirds. Suddenly, Ocolle, a kind of massive theater-in-the-round, comes into view. Every shade of green is represented on the steppes. A lone Collagua woman appears to be harvesting something in the distance, and I try to imagine the valley populated by communities of farmers as it was centuries ago.
The following morning I wake up with the sun in order to catch the one-and-a-half-hour drive to Condor's Cross, where every day at exactly 8:15 A.M. magnificent raptors ride the canyon's winds. As I stand precariously poised at the edge of a viewing area marked by a large cross, nothing separates me from a two-mile vertical drop, something I try to impress upon the German man leaning into me. Just then an "Ohhhh!" rings out from the crowd. A brown dot is making its way toward us. Then another exclamation from our crowd, and several more condors appear, dancing like kites. They are males, ebony with white markings on their feathers; they have ten-foot wingspans and perfect white rings around their collars.
The nanosecond they reach us, the birds swoop into the air just above our heads, as though at the end of a runway, their talons practically close enough to grab onto. But something in their eyes -- a fixed attentiveness -- suggests that curiosity is at the heart of their flight. In a "Far Side" cartoon moment, I realize the condors are not the show; they likely come here to see the bizarre collection of humans that gather at 8:15 every morning. Struck by this symbiotic amusement, and by how effortlessly these birds glide through the deep and unforgiving canyon, my inner zoologist is sparked. I can't recall ever feeling this close to wildlife.
On the return drive to Las Casitas, halfway between Condor's Cross and the hotel, I spot a group of Cabana women in brightly colored clothing who eke out an existence by selling embroidered bags, hats and blouses -- all part of their traditional dress -- at the side of the road. They are eager to sell me goods, and I'm eager to pet their alpacas and llamas, which lurk beside them like pets. We strike a bargain, and I bond with a particularly adorable baby llama before becoming the proud owner of an unneeded alpaca scarf. Our nonverbal communication speaks volumes: these ladies are warm and genuine, but their words are delivered with a strong dose of practicality. I'm an inquisitive, amusing foreigner, but more important, I'm a source of survival. Travelers may have been coming here for years, but their deep pockets have not altered the economics of the area significantly.
Back at the hotel, I sit on the patio, sipping a Colca sour, made with pisco (a Peruvian brandy brewed from distilled grape must), lemon juice, sugar, cactus, egg whites and ice. Inhaling the warm air, I think about how one day this sleepy region will be a requisite stop for travelers. But for now, I take another sip, watch a hummingbird disappear deep inside a fiery-red cantuta flower and enjoy the solitude. Tomorrow I'm off to Machu Picchu.
Mid-May through October is dry and the most popular time to visit, but it gets cold at night. In the wet season, November to mid-May, fields turn green and flowers bloom. For less rain, warm temperatures and fewer crowds, try a shoulder season: April through June or September through November. Casitas from $500 a person, all-inclusive. Las Casitas del Colca, Parque Curiña, Yanque, Arequipa; 011-51-1-610-8300; lascasitasdelcolca.com.
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