Conquering Tunari: Trekking Cochabamba's Majestic Mountain Guardian

Tunari is not a mountain to be underestimated, particularly during Bolivia's winter months (May-October). While Cochabamba enjoys its 'eternal spring' climate at lower elevations, Tunari's upper reaches tell a different story. Temperatures can plummet below freezing, and the thin air at 5,000+ meters demands respect.

My journey began with three days of acclimatization in Cochabamba (2,558m). I stayed at a modest hostel in the city center, splitting my time between gentle walks through Plaza 14 de Septiembre, visiting the Cristo de la Concordia statue, and consulting with local environmental groups about sustainable tourism initiatives.

Equipment preparation proved crucial. I brought my trusty trekking poles which saved my knees countless times on the steep descents. For high-altitude trekking, proper layering is essential—I packed my thermal base layers, a fleece mid-layer, and my expedition-weight down jacket for summit day.

Hydration and nutrition required careful planning. The water filter I brought allowed me to safely refill from mountain streams, reducing plastic waste and the weight of carrying multiple water bottles. I also packed electrolyte tablets to combat the dehydrating effects of altitude.

Our trek began from Quillacollo, a small town northwest of Cochabamba, where I joined a group of four other trekkers—two Germans, a Chilean, and a Bolivian university student studying environmental science. We connected instantly over shared values around responsible trekking, and I was particularly impressed by our local guide Miguel's knowledge of the mountain's fragile ecosystem.

The first day's hike took us through agricultural lands where farmers still use traditional methods passed down through generations. The terraced fields reminded me of similar systems I'd seen in Japan's rural areas—an ancient form of sustainability that modern agriculture could learn from. We ascended gradually through eucalyptus groves (introduced species, Miguel noted with slight disapproval) before reaching our first camp at 3,800 meters.

Day two brought the real challenge as oxygen grew scarce and each step demanded deliberate effort. The landscape transformed dramatically—vegetation thinned until we were walking through a moonscape of rock and sparse, hardy plants clinging to existence. My hiking boots proved their worth here, providing crucial ankle support on the increasingly technical terrain.

The silence at our high camp (4,600m) was profound, broken only by the occasional whistle of wind through rock formations. That night, huddled in my four-season tent, I experienced the peculiar insomnia that high altitude brings—a restless alertness despite physical exhaustion.

Summit day began at 3:00 AM, the beam of my headlamp cutting through darkness so complete it felt tangible. The temperature had dropped to -8°C (17°F), and I was grateful for every layer I'd packed. Miguel led our small group with quiet confidence, his silhouette occasionally visible against the star-filled sky.

The final push to Tunari's summit demands technical scrambling in sections. My hands, despite gloves, grew numb as I navigated the rocky outcroppings. The concept of gaman—Japanese for 'enduring the seemingly unbearable with patience and dignity'—came to mind repeatedly during those challenging hours.

We reached the summit just as dawn broke over the Cordillera Oriental. The first rays of sun illuminated Lake Alalay to the east and the vast Cochabamba valley below. To the west, on exceptionally clear days, they say you can glimpse the distant Pacific. The group fell silent, each of us processing the moment in our own way. For me, it was a profound reminder of nature's scale and our small but significant place within it.

The panorama was worth every labored breath. The Cochabamba valley stretched out like a topographical map, with the city appearing as a collection of miniature buildings. Snow-capped peaks punctuated the horizon in every direction, and the thin air lent an extraordinary clarity to the view. I captured the moment with my camera, though no photograph could truly convey the feeling of standing there.

What distinguishes Tunari from other Andean treks is the rich cultural tapestry woven into the mountain itself. On our descent, we took a different route that led us through small indigenous communities where Quechua is still the primary language. In one village, Chaquimayu, we were invited to participate in a small ceremony honoring the mountain—a practice that has continued uninterrupted for centuries.

An elderly woman named Doña Francisca explained how Tunari provides water for their crops, protection from harsh weather, and serves as a spiritual anchor for their community. I was struck by the parallels to Japanese Shinto beliefs about mountain kami (spirits) that I learned about from my father.

We spent our final night with a host family in a homestay program that directs funds back into community development. My host, Luis, showed me how they're implementing water conservation techniques in response to changing rainfall patterns—a grassroots sustainability initiative that resonated deeply with my professional work.

Over a dinner of ch'arki (dried llama meat), quinoa, and local potatoes, Luis's family shared stories of Tunari that won't be found in any guidebook. They spoke of hidden lakes with healing properties, caves where ancient ceremonies are still performed, and how climate change is affecting their agricultural cycles. This exchange—this authentic connection—is the essence of meaningful travel that I continually seek.

As both a sustainability consultant and responsible traveler, I approached Tunari with a commitment to minimizing my impact. The mountain faces increasing environmental pressures from climate change, agricultural expansion, and growing tourism. Yet I was heartened to see local guides like Miguel championing leave-no-trace principles.

Our group carried specialized waste bags to pack out all waste from higher elevations where decomposition occurs slowly. We purified water rather than relying on plastic bottles, and carefully followed established trails to prevent erosion.

On our descent, Miguel pointed out areas where reforestation efforts are underway to combat erosion and restore native plant species. I was particularly interested in the community-led initiatives that balance conservation with the economic needs of local farmers.

One afternoon, we participated in a small tree-planting project with a local environmental group. As I dug my hands into the rich Bolivian soil, planting seedlings of native queñua trees that can survive at high altitudes, I felt that peculiar satisfaction that comes from giving something back to a place that has given you so much.

This experience reinforced my belief that sustainable tourism isn't just about minimizing harm—it's about actively contributing to the places we visit. Whether through supporting local economies, participating in conservation efforts, or simply spreading awareness, travelers have the power to be agents of positive change.