My First Solo Climb: Nevado Sirijuani in Peru's Cordillera Urubamba 5359m
If you’ve passed through Cusco or wandered the Sacred Valley, you’ve probably never heard of this mountain, but there’s a chance you’ve seen it. Sirijuani sits just off the popular Lares Trek, visible from the route that passes through Cancha Cancha, Quiswarani, and a few other highland villages. It’s not as prominent as its neighbor, Sahausiray, but the summit offers a wide-open perch with views deep into the Amazon Basin, to Apus Salkantay and Veronica, Nevado Chicon, and across most of the Urubamba Range.
On July 4, 2025, I left my home in the countryside outside Urubamba and began the journey toward this seldom climbed mountain. From downtown Urubamba, I caught a public van for the 40-minute ride to Calca, a quiet town where the Sacred Valley meets the road to Lares. There, I transferred to a second vehicle for 12 soles and continued another hour and a half along a winding mountain road. We eventually reached the turnoff to the small village of Quiswarani. That’s where I got out and continued my journey on foot.
That morning started slowly, likely because I've become accustomed to the relaxed rhythm of life in the valley, and I found myself running behind schedule. By the time I started hiking, it was already mid-morning. The sun was intense, and I questioned whether I packed too much equipment as the weight of my pack hung on my back. Not long after I started ascending the road, Sirijuani came into view for the first time, which gave me an extra boost that I needed to endure the sweltering heat.
By 1 p.m., I reached the village of Quiswarani, a couple of hours behind schedule. From the center of town, I still needed to gain 900 meters and five kilometers, which amounted to another four to five hours of laborious walking. I sat down on a concrete bridge to weigh my options, uncertain about pushing forward. Just then, I noticed a boy chatting with a friend outside a nearby house. That simple moment led me to the Condori Quispe family: Raymundo, Luisa, and their two kids, Mickey and Reyner. I was hungry for lunch, so Mickey, the boy I'd seen outside, kindly offered to ask his mother if she could prepare something for me to eat. Minutes later, he returned with a smile, saying she would cook potatoes, rice, and fresh trout. I didn’t hesitate. Mickey jumped on his bicycle in a flash and pedaled up the dirt road to fetch the fish—Peruvian hospitality at its best.
When I finished lunch, it was clear to me I wouldn't be able to reach base camp before nightfall. I mentioned this to the family, and they kindly offered me a spare bed for the night. Over dinner, we exchanged stories about where we came from, our work, and different aspects of our lives. Reyner, the youngest, was excited to share his favorite movie with me. We ended up watching the whole thing in just 15 minutes because he skipped straight to all his favorite scenes. Who needs plots anyways? Give me the action! The next morning, I had breakfast with Raymundo. And after a final conversation, he sent me off with well wishes and awaited my return in a few days.
I began hiking to base camp around 8 a.m. on July 5. My worry that day wasn’t weather or altitude; it was water. Nate Heald's route description written in an American Alpine Club Journal article more than a decade before described a camp underneath the rocky North Face. Based on the photos he shared, I imagine they had no issue finding water, partly because they climbed in the height of the rainy season, and at that time the face was still covered in snow and ice. The difference now was that I was climbing in the height of the dry season, and the face was completely bare. If I didn't find water nearby, I would've had no other choice but to turn around. Around 1 p.m., I reached 4,900 meters, approximately the site of Nate’s old camp from years before. I removed my pack and began searching the area for any signs of water. To my surprise I found a shallow pool about twenty meters from the only flat spot on the moraine. It measured roughly three meters by three meters and was about one meter deep. Although it was full of dirty specks and other foreign contamination, I was ecstatic. The climb was still on. I dropped some purification tablets into my water bottles and promptly set up camp.
After six hours of solid sleep, I woke at 2 a.m. and left the tent by 3. I scouted the route the day before, so navigating the moraine in the dark wasn’t difficult. Around an hour after departing camp, I reached the edge of the glacier. From photos I'd taken with my drone, I determined that the best route was to the right of the glacier because it avoided risky snow bridge crossings. Well, boy, I was wrong. As I searched for a way around a stretch of slabby rock, a refrigerator-sized chunk of ice suddenly calved off the glacier and crashed down the exact line I had planned to follow. Spooked, I set my pack down and sat for a few minutes to think things through. After deliberation, I decided instead to follow the approach that Nate Heald described in his 2015 article. It turned out to be significantly more straightforward and safer than I expected. I reached the edge of the glacier in excellent time, right as the rising sun started to illuminate the sky at 6 a.m. The route compared to Nate's changed significantly. There was less snow, newly exposed rock, and fewer technical challenges to overcome. On my route, I encountered only a couple of short pitches of moderately steep snow, no more than 55 to 60 degrees, and the rest was easily walkable. Moving light without the added weight of ropes, snow stakes, etc., I cruised up to the summit ridge with ease. At 7 a.m., after a final rock scramble, I reached the summit of Nevado Sirijuani.
From the summit, I stood alone, the stillness broken only by the wind sweeping across the high peaks. I thought about how this mountain, quiet, overlooked, and largely ignored by climbers, had offered a richer experience than others I'd climbed before. Sirijuani may not have the notoriety of Salkantay or the mountains in the Cordillera Blanca, but it gave me something personal: solitude, a sense of self-pride, and most importantly a reminder that the heart of adventure lies on the paths less traveled.
Media gallery by Matt Stacy / Andes Adventure Visuals
