Journey Man

This is gonna be a long one folks.  BIG day!  Grab a drink, make it look like you are working, put the kids to bed, tell your spouse you are reading an article on Russian politics.  Here it comes.

Waking to see the sun rise, looking out my barely there curtain, I see we are overcast, the sky and me.  I get up anyway, get packed for departure, have coffee and breakfast, scrambled eggs on some bread, and I bid adios to my host.

My feet start in the proper direction and I am walking again.  I am going to meet my driver of the collectivo to take me to Ollantaytambo.  First thing I notice is fewer dogs on the street.  Perhaps the death match from last night ended in a lot of fatalities or perhaps all of the popping noises I heard last night was gunfire, mixed with barking of course.  Maybe its dog hunting season, maybe its the purge.  Anyway, I digress.  I find a better collectivo than expected.  It’s me in the front seat of a newer sedan and a couple of Peruvians in the back.  We had to wait until our driver found one more for the backseat and magically, he did.  It’s tight back there but I’m doing just fine, thanks.

Passing through Poroy was nice.  Rolling hills and lots of farms.  But something caught my attention that got me thinking.  It seems like when I see these Peruvian ladies, the ones with the familiar colorful clothing and the sling around their shoulders hunched under the weight of God only knows what, that none are young.  Are the youth getting out of this place in a search for a more modern lifestyle?  Is this a dying generation?  What happens when there is no one coming up to replace this generation?  Do they just never die?  Access to media and technology has surely rung the death knell for these interesting and historically cultural people.  The youth does not want to walk around all day doing who knows what, carrying who knows what.  They want to live!

Winding through the hills at a breezy 80 km per hour, the scenery is absolutely delicious.  Hills, farms.  I eat it up by the spoonful.  An air freshener in the cup holder makes this part of Peru smell great.  Fruity even.

As we wind, I can’t help but wonder why the construction process is the way it is in third world countries.  They start a building and seem to be rolling right along.  Hey, someone has probably drawn up plans, figured out how to pay for material and then they go at it.  The foundation gets laid.  Rebar juts up from the foundation.  Walls of brick start to rise.  Things are looking good.  Then at some point someone says, “You know what, let’s just stop here.  We don’t need a second story, windows, a roof.”  And there these place sit.  I have yet to see one person working on building a structure.  Are there no window people?  No project managers?  Should I move here and be a General Contractor?

I have so much to say about Ollantaytambo, I am just gonna say, I am there now.  I tell my driver to drop me at the hostel which is on the way.  I hop out and immediately have a good feeling.  This is my place.  I know I said that about Cusco but just wait.  Janaxpacha, my hostel, greets me as I walk down the street expertly crafted of stone.  An aqueduct runs the length of the street with crisp and clear mountain water flowing with the perfect amount of force to deliver those notes we all love of a mountain stream.  There is about two feet between the street and the residences.  Each entrance to a residence has a short, flat, stone bridge that leads to its entrance.

I walk into Janaxpacha and I am met by Carl, the owner, and he speaks English!  Carl, I don’t have much time.  Let me pay you, have some of this fresh ground coffee brewed in that French press, some scramble eggs, and get situated.  I have one day to explore and don’t have time for chit chat.  No dogs here but plenty of cats.  A terrace behind the main building provides the ideal place to lounge as it sits, carved from the rock face, sheltered by a thatch roof, and looks straight out to the Andes.

So, if someone were to ask you to imagine something, like a city or anything else without giving you much detail, that would be a difficult thing to do, right?  But that is what makes this world such a marvelous place because our imagination creates wonderful things.  If someone asked me to imagine Ollantaytambo, or the perfect Peruvian town, I would not come close to what is in front of me now.

In the central plaza, as I walk through to purchase a hat and make my way to the mountain trails and the ruins I came here to see, I am taken by the charm.  I love the way they burn incense in bowls by the doors of the shops.  It permeates the entire square.  I make my way to the first mountain I would climb today.

I begin my trek up the mountain to revel in the ruins of long forgotten terraces, no longer maintained, villages no longer vibrating with life and laughter, passageways that no longer endure purposeful and playful traffic, and I end up atop the temple of the sun.  I lingered a while to eavesdrop on a tour group and what their guide had to say about this long forgotten temple until I felt like I was stealing.  At this point I see a peak much higher in the distance and I knew at once that I had to press on.  Of course, in my naivete, I started this trek with only a small portion of water left in my bottle which I carried in my bag.

I was taking in this amazing trek which was extremely strenuous and beautiful at the same time when I was overcome with a perfect moment of clarity.  Everything else faded away.  Finally, I knew what I would give Mary Hartman as a gift when I return.

Now, for those of us who are hikers and climbers, we know the code.  Keep your eyes to the ground and watch where you are walking so you don’t hurt yourself or twist an ankle.  However, you also know that you must stop and look around and appreciate your surroundings.

Like a woodworker rubs his polished bench that he has just constructed with his own hands, pride oozing from his pores, I crest the hill and feel that pride.  There is an ever-present jingle of change in my pocket as it mingles with my reading glasses with every step.  At 9,500 feet I lose the trail.  I look up to the final peak and I see a gentleman resting on the precipice.  Naturally, I holler up to him and ask for assistance with my hands.  He gestures back indicating that I am still on track.  I scramble over a section of rock and pick up the trail.  At the top I meet this young, German man and thank him for his assistance.  We begin to chat.  We try to figure out how to get elevation on my watch so I don’t have to rely on Siri.  We talk about technology and how we are programmed to take a pic of everything we see that we think is interesting.  That there is no way a photo could ever include what we are experiencing in that moment.  Sure, I may look at a photo and remember what I was feeling in that moment, but if I show you that same photo it means nothing to you.  Photos simply cannot capture the emotion and scale of a moment like this and my German friend agrees.

German man shows me a straighter line to the base so I take that in my descent.  Having celebrated the peak with a capful of water, I am ready to get back to civilization and fill up.  So, I literally race down the mountain.  The elevation is once again palpable but I am breathing fine.  I am putting my body to the test and it is responding pleasingly well.

I want to try to wrap this up but I still have another mountain climb.  Let’s speed read, shall we?

I made it to the bottom, running down the last set of stairs.  Went over to a valley ruin and marveled at the aqueduct system in ways that would surely bore you.  Had a satisfactory calzone with fresh lemonade.  Got a bottle of water and started my next climb.

Walked through the perfect little village to the entrance of Pinkuylluna.  I began the climb.  The ruins on this side of the valley are much different and for those of you who want details, just ask.  Including my awesome aqueduct videos, the videos from this side really tell the story.  But absent that, let me give it a try.  The climb was steep and trying.  But I had a goal in mind and no hill is ever going to beat me.

The most surreal moment was at the highest point, close to 9,800 feet above the level of the sea, in an area I should not have been based on the yellow caution tape, my phone began to ring in my bag.  Now, at the same time my eyes caught sight of a cave.  Big enough and inviting enough that I would certainly explore.  Anyway, the phone.  So, I pull the phone out and it is my oldest son, Seth, calling me.  Considering it an absolute privilege to talk with him, I press the green button.  He can’t understand me because I am breathing so hard so he says goodbye and hangs up.  I call him back and we begin our conversation.  Seth has had his car towed and needs the VIN number to find out where it is.  So, here I am, 9,800 feet up, on the side of a mountain talking to my son and figuring it all out.  A moment I shall never forget.  Once resolved and the VIN located, I told him about the cave I was about to enter.  We agreed that I would leave my bag outside which included my drivers license, in case I never made it back.  Also, that I would text him if I did make it out.  We bid each other farewell.

Dropping my bag, I entered the cave.  It was about twelve feet high and three feet wide, angling to a point at the top.  Tan dusty earth and rock underfoot, I walked as far as I could and began to crawl.  Once I determined that I would not attempt to slither through the crevice ahead of me, I backed out and then walked out.

So, the rest of the trek, as they say, is downhill from here.  I want to let the photos show you what I saw.  I, however, will tell you how I felt.  Quite frankly, I felt as though I was a child playing about on this mountain top.  Hopping from rock to rock, exploring homes that once housed a long lost generation.  I played and hopped, I took time to rest and absorb my surroundings.  I made my way to edge of shear drops and lay in the gravel staring at the sky and the mountains while a constant strong breeze blew over me.  The wind was the perfect scent and temperature.  I wore only my pants and a t-shirt and was sufficiently comfortable.

With all of the of the twists and turns each path presented me today I pondered on how life is like that.  A series of twists and turns and you never really know which direction it is going or where it will end up.  We make decisions that lead us in one direction for a while and then we make another decision that changes our course for a bit and so this goes on.  All we can do is hope that one day, one day we will figure it out.

Before I leave, I have one funny story and one sweet story.

The funny story is that I asked Google maps to take me to the first mountain and I followed her directions to a T. The funny thing is that when she told me to turn left down the road it turned out to be just a large stone.

The other story is of a boy that I met after leaving my second mountain of the day.  I noticed he had a walking stick that I instantly knew I wanted. I asked him to stop and, using Google translate, I asked him, “How much for the stick?” He replied, “No, it’s lucky.”  I told him I could tell it was a very special stick. The stick stood about 3 1/2 feet tall.  It was clearly well used. It had black stain about 8 inches long with alternating natural wood between. It had a red ribbon tied around it near the top.  I can only imagine that he went back and told his family that some gringo offered to buy his walking stick. I wonder if he’ll remember that as he grows older and abandons that stick. But I hope, more than any of that, that he will keep that stick and it will indeed bring him luck and that for years to come he will remember the day someone offered to buy that stick from him and he refused.

Oh, and I met a smiley little kid at the hostel.

So, I conclude  this ridiculously long blog, which took me three hours to complete, by sitting out on the terrace as the sound of flute music drifts through the air coming from the Central Square. I’m grateful to be alive and I’m looking forward to another day.

Adios.