A wilde time hiking in New Mexico
Hiking in New Mexico is easier -- and a lot more fun -- with a (furry) friend
TAOS, N.M. -- "Take a llama to lunch!" the brochure read.
I'm a sucker for unusual travel experiences, so this one had me at hello.
(Lori Rackl/For the Sun-Times)
For $89, I'd spend the day hiking near the southern end of the Rockies in the Rio Grande Gorge with my hirsute, slightly pungent lunch date -- a llama -- in tow.
The long-necked pack animal would carry cooking gear and other essentials on its wooly back while I led him through the wilderness on a llama leash. Midway through, we'd stop for a picnic consisting of a gourmet sandwich, salad and cookies (me) and grass (him).
The concept was cooked up by Stuart Wilde, 40, owner of Wild Earth Llama Adventures. The self-proclaimed "little Jewish boy from Long Island" runs the llama excursion company with his wife in his adopted home of New Mexico.
"My 'wagon wheel' broke and stranded me in Taos in 1989," Wilde said. "I fell in love with the area's multi-cultural heritage, the majesty of the southern Rockies and the vastness of the high desert of northern New Mexico."
Wilde owns 14 llamas, which tag along on day hikes, overnight camping trips, fly fishing expeditions, wild mushroom safaris and treks to the summit of Wheeler Peak, the highest point in New Mexico at 13,161 feet. He personally guides each outing, and he's taken kids as young as 5 and people in their 70s.
Wilde was putting the packs on our pair of llamas when I pulled up my rental car at the Big Arsenic Campground, about a 45-minute drive north of Taos. The ponytailed Wilde greeted me with a big smile and a warm handshake and introduced me to my llama Azul, named for his big, blue eyes.
Before we set off, Wilde gave me a crash course in Llamas 101. First, it's pronounced yama, not lama. (Rookie mistake.) I learned that these mountain camels hail from the High Andes in South America, where places like Machu Picchu wouldn't have been built without them. They can carry 35 percent of their body weight. Petting their neck is fine. You can even give them a hug. But they'd rather you not touch their face. Be sure to walk single file. And if they start spitting, don't be offended. It's not meant for you. Llamas sometimes hock a loogie at each other in the way football players elbow their opponents; they want to let the other one know who's boss.
With that, I took Azul's long leash and we were off. We wended our way into a gorgeous canyon on a series of switchbacks that led down to the rushing rapids of the Rio Grande.
Azul, like most llamas, has a lot of junk in the trunk. But his leather-padded, two-toed feet glided over the rocks with the grace of a ballerina while I did the occasional stumble and skid.
While the llamas play a functional role on these trips, their purpose isn't solely to lug gear.
"I use the llamas as a gimmick to get people out here," Wilde said, motioning to the tall ponderosa pines, prickly pear cacti and piles of black lava rock piled up along the banks of the river.
"They're also here as a healthy diversion," he said. "I don't hear kids on my hikes saying, 'My feet hurt' or 'I'm tired.' "
After nearly two decades of exploring this part of New Mexico's wilderness, Wilde clearly has picked up a thing or 2,000. He knows volumes about the surrounding flora and fauna, and he shares that knowledge with the enthusiasm of a keyed-up puppy.
He pointed out medicinal herbs and steered me clear of the poison ivy. We munched on fresh watercress plucked by a pristine spring and smelled the Tanqueray aroma of a smashed juniper berry. He showed me Native American petroglyphs chiseled into the basalt rock more than 500 years ago. He even coaxed a passing tarantula onto his finger -- the true test of a bona fide nature lover.
Before Wilde guided llama treks, he cooked food -- professionally. That helps with the lunch part of the llama hike.
Guests on overnight trips might dine on elk fajitas or salmon filets. We snacked on kalamata olives and devoured thick turkey sandwiches smothered with pesto and goat cheese.
For Azul, the entire hike proved to be a giant buffet table. Rarely did I turn around on the trail and not see him lazily chewing on some grass, eyes half closed, like a stoner with a Domino's pizza.
Wilde and I took our sweet time eating lunch by the river. As we packed up the gear to head out, I could hear a low-pitched humming noise coming from Azul.
"He's getting nervous," Wilde explained. "Whenever they stay somewhere too long, they start to feel like prey."
We untied our llamas and began our trek back up the canyon. The sound of Azul's humming was replaced by the rushing waters of the Rio Grande.
These llamas might be a gimmick. But like a lot of gimmicks, this one works.
