Ancient Vicuna Wool Shearing Tradition Lives on in Peruvian Andes

Vicunas are herded into a catch pen as men dressed as Inca servants standby to capture the animals for their shearing during the national "Chaccu," or annual roundup of vicunas, at the Pampa Galeras National Reserve, in the Peruvian state of Ayacucho, Wednesday, June 24, 2015. (AP Photo/Sebastian CastaÒeda)
Vicunas are herded into a catch pen as men dressed as Inca servants standby to capture the animals for their shearing during the national "Chaccu," or annual roundup of vicunas, at the Pampa Galeras National Reserve, in the Peruvian state of Ayacucho, Wednesday, June 24, 2015. (AP Photo/Sebastian CastaÒeda)
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Ancient Vicuna Wool Shearing Tradition Lives on in Peruvian Andes

Vicunas are herded into a catch pen as men dressed as Inca servants standby to capture the animals for their shearing during the national "Chaccu," or annual roundup of vicunas, at the Pampa Galeras National Reserve, in the Peruvian state of Ayacucho, Wednesday, June 24, 2015. (AP Photo/Sebastian CastaÒeda)
Vicunas are herded into a catch pen as men dressed as Inca servants standby to capture the animals for their shearing during the national "Chaccu," or annual roundup of vicunas, at the Pampa Galeras National Reserve, in the Peruvian state of Ayacucho, Wednesday, June 24, 2015. (AP Photo/Sebastian CastaÒeda)

At daybreak on a freezing cold day high in the Andes, dozens of Peruvian peasants clamber up a mountainside to carry out a centuries-old tradition of shearing the highly-prized wool off vicunas, which are relatives of the llama.

One week each year, the peasants of Totoroma, a village 50 kilometers (30 kilometers) to the southwest of Lake Titicaca, join forces for a process of herding and shearing known locally as the "chaccu".

They trudge up the mountainside and herd around 500 vicunas back down the slope into a pen made of posts and three-meter high mesh -- a necessary precaution to keep the agile members of the camelid family from escaping.

The comuneros -- men and women, some even carrying children -- wrap up against the cold and wear wide-brimmed hats to protect them from the sun.

This year, they're also wearing face masks to protect against Covid-19.

"It's an ancestral activity that has been going on since time immemorial and now we're helping out as a public state administration," vet Jaime Figueroa told AFP.

Jesus Pilco Mamani is following in the footsteps of his father and grandfathers.

"I started working as a comunero in 1986," he told AFP.

The vicuna appears on Peru's national coat of arms and there are an estimated 200,000 of the Andean camelid in the country.

The annual chaccu helps support families in 290 communities in the Peruvian Andes.

Vicuna wool is highly-prized for its soft qualities and is one of the most expensive in the world.

The vicunas live at least 3,500 meters above sea level so getting their wool -- by rounding up and shearing them -- is a difficult task.

The communities in the Peruvian Andes produce around 10 tons of vicuna wool a year.

Unlike llamas and alpacas, amongst Andean camelids, vicunas and guanacos have not been domesticated.

Alpaca wool is far more common, while llama wool can be used to make rugs and carpets but is considered too rough for clothing.

Guanaco wool is also highly-prized, although not as soft as vicuna.

Inside the pen, the comuneros hold each brown vicuna down on a blanket on the ground while an expert quickly shears them using a machine powered by a portable generator.

The wool of each vicuna is collected and placed inside individual plastic bags.

Once shorn, the vicuna is immediately released from the pen and runs at top speed back up the mountain.

A kilogram (2.2 pounds) of unprocessed vicuna wool sells for $400 -- much more than alpaca wool.

But a single sheared alpaca produces three kilograms of wool, compared to "150 to 180 grams" from the much smaller vicuna, Erick Lleque Quisoe, an official in the regional Puno government, told AFP.

He said that in Totoroma the locals "took off 35-40 kilograms" of wool from the 500 vicunas.

In 2019, Peru made $3 million exporting seven tons of vicuna wool, whereas alpaca exports bring in around $300 million, according to official figures.



'It's a Bird! It's a Plane!' it's Both, with Pilot Tossing Turkeys to Rural Alaska Homes

This image taken from video provided by Mountain Mind Media/Alaska Gear Company shows a plane from Alaska Turkey Bomb, which was started by Esther Keim to air drop frozen turkeys for Thanksgiving to people living in remote rural Alaska, flying in November 2024, in Alaska. (Mountain Mind Media/Alaska Gear Company via AP)
This image taken from video provided by Mountain Mind Media/Alaska Gear Company shows a plane from Alaska Turkey Bomb, which was started by Esther Keim to air drop frozen turkeys for Thanksgiving to people living in remote rural Alaska, flying in November 2024, in Alaska. (Mountain Mind Media/Alaska Gear Company via AP)
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'It's a Bird! It's a Plane!' it's Both, with Pilot Tossing Turkeys to Rural Alaska Homes

This image taken from video provided by Mountain Mind Media/Alaska Gear Company shows a plane from Alaska Turkey Bomb, which was started by Esther Keim to air drop frozen turkeys for Thanksgiving to people living in remote rural Alaska, flying in November 2024, in Alaska. (Mountain Mind Media/Alaska Gear Company via AP)
This image taken from video provided by Mountain Mind Media/Alaska Gear Company shows a plane from Alaska Turkey Bomb, which was started by Esther Keim to air drop frozen turkeys for Thanksgiving to people living in remote rural Alaska, flying in November 2024, in Alaska. (Mountain Mind Media/Alaska Gear Company via AP)

In the remotest reaches of Alaska, there’s no relying on DoorDash to have Thanksgiving dinner — or any dinner — delivered. But some residents living well off the grid nevertheless have turkeys this holiday, thanks to the Alaska Turkey Bomb, The Associated Press reported.
For the third straight year, a resident named Esther Keim has been flying low and slow in a small plane over rural parts of south-central Alaska, dropping frozen turkeys to those who can't simply run out to the grocery store.
Alaska is mostly wilderness, with only about 20% of it accessible by road. In winter, many who live in remote areas rely on small planes or snowmobiles to travel any distance, and frozen rivers can act as makeshift roads.
When Keim was growing up on an Alaska homestead, a family friend would airdrop turkeys to her family and others nearby for the holidays. Other times, the pilot would deliver newspapers, sometimes with a pack of gum inside for Keim.
Her family moved to more urban Alaska nearly 25 years ago but still has the homestead. Using a small plane she had rebuilt with her father, Keim launched her turkey delivery mission a few years back after learning of a family living off the land nearby who had little for Thanksgiving dinner.
“They were telling me that a squirrel for dinner did not split very far between three people," Keim recalled. “At that moment, I thought ... ‘I’m going to airdrop them a turkey.'”
She decided not to stop there. Her effort has grown by word of mouth and by social media posts. This year, she's delivering 32 frozen turkeys to people living year-round in cabins where there are no roads.
All but two had been delivered by Tuesday, with delivery plans for the last two birds thwarted by Alaska’s unpredictable weather.
Among the beneficiaries are Dave and Christina Luce, who live on the Yentna River about 45 miles (72 kilometers) northwest of Anchorage. They have stunning mountain views in every direction, including North America's tallest mountain, Denali, directly to the north. But in the winter it's a 90-minute snowmobile ride to the nearest town, which they do about once a month.
“I’m 80 years old now, so we make fewer and fewer trips," Dave Luce said. “The adventure has sort of gone out of it.”
They've known Keim since she was little. The 12-pound (5.44-kilogram) turkey she delivered will provide more than enough for them and a few neighbors.
“It makes a great Thanksgiving,” Dave Luce said. “She’s been a real sweetheart, and she’s been a real good friend.”
Keim makes 30 to 40 turkey deliveries yearly, flying as far as 100 miles (161 kilometers) from her base north of Anchorage toward Denali's foothills.
Sometimes she enlists the help of a “turkey dropper” to ride along and toss the birds out. Other times, she’s the one dropping turkeys while her friend Heidi Hastings pilots her own plane.
Keim buys about 20 turkeys at a time, with the help of donations, usually by people reaching out to her through Facebook. She wraps them in plastic garbage bags and lets them sit in the bed of her pickup until she can arrange a flight.
“Luckily it’s cold in Alaska, so I don’t have to worry about freezers,” she said.
She contacts families on social media to let them know of impending deliveries, and then they buzz the house so the homeowners will come outside.
“We won’t drop the turkey until we see them come out of the house or the cabin, because if they don’t see it fall, they’re not going to know where to look,” she said.
It can be especially difficult to find the turkey if there’s deep snow. A turkey was once missing for five days before it was found, but the only casualty so far has been a lost ham, AP quoted Keim as saying.
Keim prefers to drop the turkey on a frozen lake if possible so it's easy to locate.
“As far as precision and hitting our target, I am definitely not the best aim,” she joked. “I’ve gotten better, but I have never hit a house, a building, person or dog.”
Her reward is the great responses she gets from families, some who record her dropping the turkeys and send her videos and texts of appreciation.
“They just think it’s so awesome that we throw these things out of the plane,” Keim said.
Ultimately, she hopes to set up a nonprofit organization to solicit more donations and reach people across a bigger swath of the state. And it doesn’t have to stop at turkeys.
“There’s so many kids out in the villages," she said. “It would be cool to maybe add a stuffed animal or something they can hold.”