“Anyone up?” I said. It was, after all, six-thirty, and we’d said that we’d roll out by six for an early start. Bodie, the bundle to my right, groaned a bit, and said something that could have been “maybe,” or, just as easily, “muffin.” I wiggled so I was facing Robert to my left. He was still in complete cocoon mode, so I figured he’d still be in La-La Land. I wiggled to face Bodie again. “Not sure Robert’s up,” I said. No sooner had I said it than Robert moaned from my left. Satisfied for the moment, I settled back on my rock and resumed thinking about the suckiness.
“Are we going to get up?” I said, after awhile. Body made non-committal noises, and Robert followed by saying, “let’s just lay here for awhile and we can get up when Matt gets us…” Agreeable. I sat there for a few more minutes contemplating both the suckiness and the extreme cold.
Eventually, I succumbed to my training. In Scouts, I guess, we’re always up and about right after we get up. I mean, once you’re up, you get food, and then you get to go home. The same sort of logic seemed to follow, even if we were wedged in the armpit of one of the world’s greatest mountain ranges. Right?
Shivering like a madman, I shucked the sleeping bag and begin to stuff it into its midget sack. The fabric whined as it held the bulk down, but it was soon into a manageable bundle and in the bottom of my pack. As I rolled my sleeping pad, which was pleasingly dry, Robert said, “Dude, I’m reasonably sure no one’s up. Let’s just stay in for a bit.” I kept rolling in silence for a bit, not keen on being the Breakfast Nazi, and then said, “well, I’m sure Matt’s up – he’s probably just waiting for us to help with breakfast.” And with that, I stuffed my pad into the backpack and began the serious business of preparing to go outside.
Thoroughly swaddled, I reached across Robert to let myself out. As I touched the zipper, a strange crackling filled the tent, as though a band were outside, playing the plastic bag. I jerked the zipper open, and it came forward in halting stops. The vestibule outside the tent, a sloping triangle that sheltered our shoes, was stiff with frost, the fabric crazed into tiny white triangles. I fumbled my shoes over, which had also succumbed to the chill, and sacrificed my feet to them in the hope that they would defrost. Thoroughly bundled, and squatting awkwardly on Robert, I slid the vestibule zipper open in a chilly jangle, folded it aside, and stepped into a different world.
There aren’t words big enough to describe the Andes. They rise raw and rough from their plains, improbably dark and high. Words we use to describe our mountains at home: huge, range, massive – don’t really stick here. There is a sense of wild abandon about them, of an indifference to you, that chills you as thoroughly as an icicle running down your spine. As I stepped out of the tent and took in the summits that hemmed our hill, I just stood, dumbfounded.
The sun was just rising; it had been blocked from an earlier debut by the mountains to the east. As it slipped through the peaks, it lit their tips with pink and caught the whirling prominences of snow whipping at their summit. The clouds from last night had been cowed by the cold, and had shrunk down so far that they carpeted the valley floor below us. Our hill, invisible from below, was covered in the icy remains of the night’s rainfall, each blade of grass with a razor of ice. I stood, and stood, and stood, watching the sun burn down the range.
Eventually, I had to stomp my feet, and the spell was broken. I looked across the campsite to Matt’s tent, a small, icy, yellow lump, and set my mind on breakfast. After twitching their tent awake, I cast about for the stove. Still watching the sunrise, I pumped the bottle, clumsily slipping in my gloves. Before too long, everyone, bundled as thickly as I, had rolled from their tents and were watching a pot of water boil cheerily over our duct-taped stove.
“So, I looked at the map,” Matt said, as we poured in the oatmeal. “We’re going to need to climb some 500 meters before the pass.” Bodie looked up. “And after that,” he said, stirring the oatmeal into a wonderfully warm gloop, “it’ll be downhill all the way to Chavín.” He smiled up at us, and brought the pot to shoulder-height. “Alright,” he said, “who’s got the spoon?”
Packing was easy: we were five guys who had been through the drill before. By the time the sun had reached the campsite, setting the ice on the rocks twinkling, we had lined our packs up against the small stone wall near our old campsite, a stone’s throw from the trail up the mountains. We cast a quick eye over the site, and gave each other the nod. With some groaning and stretching, the packs were heaved onto our backs, and the dawn air was thick with the final clicks of straps locked into place.
If you were born in America, 500 meters is about 1650 feet. Big number, but easy to contextualize: that’s five football fields, a little over a quarter mile, or nearly the Empire State Building – straight up. Within two hours, we were going to climb to Yanoshallash Pass, at about 15,000 feet above sea level, and all before we’d even woken up the day before. Forget the StairMaster – if you want buns of steel, hike the Andes.
The trail led out of camp along the side of a foothill. Soon, it began to tack back and forth in switchbacks across the rocky face of the peaks. As we went, the altitude robbed us of our breath, so that every step was a ritual: breathe, step, hold, breathe, step, hold… it was grueling. Our breaths came in hot rasps, clouds that were sucked away in an instant by the dry gale. Because we were heading for a pass, the only break in the line of mountains, we were facing the only place the wind had to go – and its crushing velocity whipped our hair with its chill. Soon, we put on new layers at each stop, adding jackets, fleeces, hats, shells… anything to keep our heat in.
As we climbed, we took breaks more and more often. Every small rise ahead looked like the end, and we began glancing desperately at the GPS. It ticked off our small gains dispassionately, and we had to take it at its word and soldier on. Every few breaks, we did bring out the cameras and take pictures so we would believe it later. Clouds rammed mountains at the knees as snow so bright it was blinding furled in waves off the summit. Crags stood out in high relief in the sun, and small pools of meltwater collected in icy hollows. And then, unexpectedly, we came to the Bowl of the World.
The path turned a corner on a cliff face, and there it was. Each ridge before had only led to more climbs, more snow, more wind, but here… here was a valley as cleanly scooped as though by the hand of God, cresting on every side to the tallest peak. In the hollow, held tight against the ground, a last few grasses struggled in gold tufts, casting about in the wind near meltwater streams. From each peak, small rivers ran into the bowl, the coppery stones staining the mountain like dried blood. And, ahead, the last cusp meant the pass was near.
The path ran wild into the bowl. We hiked in silence still, jealously guarding our breath. Every now and again one of us would fall back with a camera, trying to catch something of the wilderness about the place – an implacable sense of majesty run by a greater clock. We were ants before gods. Often, we would shake our heads and try again and again to keep something of it… but we ended up with only pictures. Single-file and empty-handed, we climbed out the bowl into the wild summit of Yanoshallash Pass.
As the last hill neared, we began to see tiny cairns dot the landscape. Off the side of the trail, before us, behind us… small stacks of stones stood in silent tribute to those who made the pilgrimage to the top – offerings to old gods, testaments of triumph, memorials to the fallen. Each stood in spindly piles topped by one long capstone, which pointed towards open air in the morning sun.
Our last stop before the breach was at twin lakes. Though nothing could live there except moss, they still looked calm and inviting. Bordered by these strange cairns and small mossy rock formations, they lay as huge looking-glasses for the snow-capped peaks. We panted to a stop, and lay our packs down for pictures. In those waters, the sky never stopped.
The summit broke over us in a gust of wind. We came across a short rise, and there, spread before us, was half of Peru. We stood at the head of a long valley, scalloped from gentler mountains and carpeted with a quilt of grasses, farms, and the shining sliver of the Huachecsah. The wind howled at our eyes, and we took glances back over our shoulder at the craggy world of ice and sun. Before us, the path curved gently down into the valley, and as we lay our packs down one last time at altitude, someone pointed eagerly. There, at the end of the long valley, lay Chavín, visible only as a patchwork of farms and fields.
The descent from Yanoshallash Pass was, as the rule goes, much steeper than it looked. Every hairpin switchback was banked in gravel, and our huffed plunge was punctuated, now and again, by the scrabbling of someone who had taken a turn too hard and lost his balance. I also had a very strange sense of loss as we descended; we were trading in every inch of hard gained altitude, and were now only cruising to Chavín. It felt as though we were cheapening our victory at the top of the world.
Still, the path down had a few niceties. For starters, it evened out rather soon, and was clearly provided with some ancient support. Its wide stance cut smoothly to the valley floor, and was checked with hewn stone bridges for the small meltwater trickles that ran down this side of the peaks. As it bottomed out into the valley, the temperature was practically tropical by Andean standards; we soon shedded our shells and jackets, wondering why we ever needed them.
The path eventually crossed the headwaters of the Huachecsah, a little clearing with a small waterfall and some convienient rocks. Stretching in the noonday sun, we stopped for lunch. A great picture was taken of a few of us on the ground, in matching coats, stretching the climb off. Honestly, we could have been the Cardinal Soccer Team.
As we dug into our varied shmushed bag lunches (mine was another reincarnation of the bread and lunch meat) we kept up a good game of Contact. Just as we’d finished, and were laying in the sun lazily, a shadow appeared behind us. We swiveled, and there was a slight Quechua woman, in full dress, with a baby in her sling and her hands out. “Alooparbe?” she said, almost without moving her lips. We looked around to each other, panicked. None of us spoke a whit of Quechua, or anything close. We tried Spanish: “Podemos ayudarle?” we asked, seeing if we could help her. She searched our faces intently, eyes almost hidden in the folds of her face. She tried again, a string of syllables that swooped and pulled in a way I’ve only heard in Amerindian languages. Matt ventured a guess that she wanted money, and we made shrugging gestures and turned out our pockets to show we had none. She kept going, repeating something over and over.
Just as we were turning away, a phrase caught my attention, “para el bebe.” She was speaking Spanish, or at least some of it. As I adjusted, it was clear that Matt was right – she was using the baby to ask for money for food. We said we’d be glad to share some lunch, but she shook her head and just looked at us soulfully. She was still looking, hand out, when we shouldered our packs and set out down the grassy trail home.
The valley broadened into a wide scoop, and was flecked with far-off llamas and horses, the reason for the lady’s presence so far in the wild. The herds became more common as the valley grew broader, and the river swelled in size and began to slice a gorge through the thick loam. Soon, more natives appeared among the animals, walking in slow strides and driving the flocks forward with gnarled pine staves. No eye contact, no waves, and none on our part, either. We passed like ships in the night – too foreign to each other to make any sense of a meeting.
As the path began its slow rebirth into a road, two familiar grassy ruts appeared again. Soon, farmhouses dotted the far-off hills, sod and concrete replacing the thatched huts of the high Andes. Small boys in navy sweaters, lumpy with alpaca wool, chased us furtively from behind fenceposts; soon enough, they gathered the courage to dance in front of us and ask, “¿Me da un plata?” – another request for whatever change we may have had.
The river had swelled into a legitimate torrent by now, and we picked our way along a path some 300 feet above its frothy maw. We passed angry bulls, implacable farmers, and the occasional idol high on the hill. With the end in sight down the valley, Matt broke open his magical pouch o’ candy, and distributed Werther’s Original toffees. Apparently, they help with altitude change. They also would serve well as a victory dance.
There was a moment of confusion. We found a pair of Peruvians theodoliting (theodoliting!?) along the river where the path came down to meet it. When we asked how far to Chavín, expecting a wave and something like cinco minutos (five minutes), we got the sort of confused look you would expect from a Californian asked “how far to England?” At their perplexed urging, we crossed the bridge and started up another ridge. I got the hiking heebiejeebies. Something wasn’t right with this path… we should be across the river if my memories of the path to Chavín served.
I was right – sort of. The GPS clicked off our thirty-third kilometer, and we still weren’t in town. According to the guidebook, the trail is only 33 km. Feverish for answers, we asked the GPS how far to home. In black, blinking script, it reported we were still some 7 km., or 4 miles, out.
And so we spent the next two hours in an exhausted haze, climbing up and down the ridge, which often dipped dizzyingly to meet the Huachecsah. We passed through dozens of carbon-copy towns, which seemed to stay on the hillside by sheer will alone. Small games of soccer went on in the slanted plazas as old women stooped next to braying donkeys on the terraced field. To make matters even more dubious, thunderheads began to gather on the horizon.
Bodie and I had made each other a promise – we were going to be home by five. Come hell or high water (both looked probable) we would make it out of this Jurassic Park. I took the lead after a break, and set a reckless pace. We began to pass natives leading laden donkeys up the steep path from further on, stumbling under the weight of food and crates of beer. If Chavín’s beer was here, Chavín must be close, we thought.
We plunged onward, slipping in the gravel switchbacks and pausing only when we had to, to let the donkeys pass. Nobody talked – it was absorbing enough to make sure you didn’t tumble to your death off the narrow ledge. The valleys twisted and turned in front of us, rocky veils that promised first this end, then that. Out of water, strength, and patience, we let out a yell when we saw, huddled at the end of our ridge, the outskirts of Chavín.
The locals call it La Florida – the dirty ghost town that huddles above the site. It is a dark alley of mud and donkey poo shadowed by the scrubby rise of concrete shacks. As the clock neared five, we struggled through, avoiding the urine-slick path, nervously stamping donkeys, and the first weaving drunks of the night. The finish line was everything. Over our heads, the steely clouds began to spit hard, cold rain.
We broke out of La Florida next to the monument. Home was, literally, in sight. Robert, Bodie, and I stretched our legs as far as they would go. 4:55… 4:56… my watch counted down the pact implacably. We strode improbably quickly, faces set against the falling dark and rain. Chavinos on the street looked up, confused, as three gringos powerwalked past in the growing dusk.
With the clock at 4:58 and the Hostal in sight at the end of the road, we broke into a wild run. Packs sloshing and creaking on our backs, we dashed down the empty street, then through a pavilion of foosball players. The door hove into sight, and we skidded to a stop at the plaza to bang heartily on its brown double doors. 4:59 P.M., my watch reported, silently.
Someone, I can’t remember who, opened the door. Wild-eyed, dirt-streaked, and gasping for breath, we probably appeared crazy. Regardless, we shouldered through the portal and past the white gate of the hostal. Our packs came off with long sighs of relief, just as the rain began to beat a tattoo on the roof in earnest. Everywhere, people gawked and congratulated and poked and smiled and we collapsed into the chairs, looked at each other, and downed our victory toffee.
After a viciously cold shower (where was the love?) I toweled off and came out to the courtyard, nearly red with scrubbing. Professor Rick was standing at the gate, talking to Rosa. “Whoa! Well, how was it?” he asked, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his mop of gray hair. I smiled broadly, and prepared to give a little quip – my last conceit. “Victory at Marathon,” I said, cryptically. Next to me, Robert rolled his eyes and slipped into the dining room for dinner.
1 comment:
I love your ending quip
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