Hearing a rooster crow has always been one of the most comforting sounds that I know. It reminds me of the summers I used to spend at my grandparents prewar home, set on a grassy hillside island off the coast of Portugal. That was the first sound I would hear every morning I spent there. Today, that was the last sound I wanted to hear at four o'clock in the morning, on vacation. The cocky little beast that was responsible for all the noise decided to jump the stream surrounding our campsite and anxious to introduce himself. After an hour of trying to ignore him I just gave up and decided to say hello to my fine feathery friend. While I was rustling around the tent trying to dress myself and roll up my sleeping bag without collapsing the entire thing over my head, I heard my favorite porter, Mariano, on the other side of the tent, "Buenos dias senhorita. Coca té?" Oh snap, I'm not ready for visitors. I scrambled as fast as I could to zip up my pants and wipe any remnants of last nights drool from my face then unzipped the door of the tent. Crouched over with a tray in his hands was Mariano smiling at me like he was serving the queen of England. On the tray was a plastic container filled with coca leaves, another for sugar and a plastic mug. In Reale's hand next to him, was a thermos of steaming hot water he was pouring into the mug. Oh, this is nice. What a great way to start a morning, two of my very own porters to deliver tea in bed on a cold and dewy morning in the mountains. A girl could get used to this.
With a hot mug of coca tea in my hands I stepped out of the tent and found my feathery friend two feet from my ankles, eyeballing me like an angry parent who was sick of having to call his child out of bed. "I'm up, I'm up. So pushy." Erica and Alister seemed just as excited about the bird as I was, glowering at the fowl in front of their tent, hands wrapped around their own mugs of tea. When we looked around the camp in the light of morning, we realized that the tent that was used for the kitchen and our dining area was also the same tent that all seven porters and the cook used to sleep in. This tent is probably the perfect size for about four adults to sleep comfortably side by side. Although the porters are all small in stature, I just couldn't imagine all eight of them fitting into this tent without lying shoulder to shoulder or feet to face in this tent. In fact, I couldn't imagine what that space would smell like on day four of the hike. Poor guys. Somehow, in the time we were all trying to ignore our morning call the porters had magically converted the tent back into the kitchen and dining area for us again. When we came around to have our breakfast the table was set with new origami folded napkins, fresh coffee, toast and a buffet of condiments. After finding our seats, Reale came around with hard-boiled eggs and we each grabbed one and cracked into them. Spraying pieces of shell all over the table, all of us...except Alister. It was the most mind-bending display of table etiquette I had ever witnessed. Alister was able to manage cracking away a tiny circular hole at the top of his egg, just big enough so that he could fit his teaspoon, and then he proceeded to slowly dig out the egg without disturbing the rest of the casing. When I looked down at carnage of my battleground, I saw that I had even managed to get a piece of shell in my cup of tea. Ah, curses to these English blokes. Lets try this again.
After breakfast Gerson called all of the porters and the cook out of the tent so that he could properly introduce them to us and we would know their names, or at least manage to remember them all anyway. They aligned themselves in a semicircle facing the four of us as Gerson asked each of them to tell us their name and a little something about themselves. None of them knew any English. Their primary language was Quechua, which is sadly, a dying language used by less than ten million people, and also Spanish. We all understood Spanish, so they went on to speak in that tongue. As they each went down the line and timidly said their names and confessed their ages and so forth, I was floored. These poor, overworked men were about the same age as I was but they looked like they were in their fifties. I couldn't believe it when they spurt out twenty-eight, thirty, thirty-two, thirty-eight and so on. Their skins were leathered from years of working in the sun, some with teeth yellowed and crooked from lack of oral health care and backs arched from carrying loads as big as themselves. I smiled at each one of them as they suffered through their introductions, as shy as myself with things of this nature, and I repeated their names so I could remember them better. My maternal instinct, however, was to want to give them each a big hug, thank them for the work they have already done for us and have them take a nap so I could wait on them for a little while. Anyone need a massage? Coca tea? I got you. However, I don't think they wanted anyone feeling sorry for them, so I just continued to smile and made a mental note to be as little a burden on them as possible on this trip. After introductions we all came in for a group hug, seven porters, three hikers, a cook, a guide and a rooster in a pair tree. Gerson had us repeat his mantra as one, "We can do it!" before the group broke up. But all I could think was, if he felt the need to rev us all up with a pep rally, what in the world have I gotten myself into?
Bags packed and walking poles in hand, the four of us set out on the trail like hobbits of Middle Earth while the porters stayed behind to pack the tents and whatnots at camp. The sun was shining over the snow capped mountaintops in the distance and we were glad that it wasn't raining for the second day in a row. The weather channel told us differently. Continuous rain was supposed to pour throughout our hike all week, but I decided that it was the spirits of the mountains that were in favor of our journey being as agreeable as possible. Looking at the map I saw that the entire day would be a constant incline. Hundreds upon hundreds of steep, uphill slopes and jagged rock steps to the top of Warmiwanusqa Pass, where we would make camp halfway down the mountain, on the other side.
When we got to the base of the mountain I looked as far up as the mountain would allow me too and thought to myself, this doesn't seem so bad. I walk four flights of stairs at least twice a day with no problem. I can do this. If Erica and Alister, who are nearly twice my age, are confident they can manage this, so can I. At this point, other groups of climbers began to make their way towards us and we let the first group pass. They looked pumped up and ready to fly up that mountain and we didn't want to hinder their tenacity. Although we were fresh and ready to go, it was still taking us a moment to build up to that momentum. We can do this.
Less than ten minutes up the steep-sided Llullucha valley towards the polylepis woodland with a rushing stream at our side, I already thought my lungs were going to collapse. Erika and Alister had flown past me and they were beginning to look like small specks in the distance while I was hugging the side of the mountain praying to any mountain god that would listen to help me get through this. Gerson was behind me the whole time, either out of concern, or because he had way too many Peruvian beers the night before and it was now taking its toll on him, I don't know. He looked to be in as much pain as I was so didn't feel like a complete mule. Every five minutes after my first rest I had to stop again to catch my breath and ease the pain in my legs. I wasn't the only one at this stage. Some of the people in the group that flew past us earlier looked like they were going into cardiac arrest the third time I stopped for breath. "You haven't found your rhythm yet." Gerson says to me. "You should take small steps and breath in slow and out fast. That might help you." What the heck are you talking about? Can't you see I'm dying here? There's no way I'm going to make it up this mountain today. In fact, at the pace I'm going, I don't think I'll make it up this mountain before the end of the week. Just leave me behind. Go, save yourselves!
For the first hour of the climb is was a series of stops and goes and at one point our porters came flying up the mountain like they were weightless. I stood hugging the mountainside like everyone else so that they could get through with the massive loads on their backs. With torn sandals and exposed toes they ran up those steps while we looked into the dust behind them, faces red with strain and bodies soaked with the sweat of disgrace. What pitiful, out of shape people we were. Another hour later I came upon a rather handsome, middle-aged French-man with locks of silvery white hair who was taking a breather above me.
"Ah, still smiling."
I had no idea who this man was but apparently he had seen me earlier, probably before I started the hike up the mountain because I was genuinely smiling then.
"Yes, I suppose it's better than crying."
"No, there's no reason to cry here." He said, looking out at the view of the mountains in the distance while dabbing the end of his scarf on the side of his face. Even in the wilderness under a scorching sun and a sweat soaked body, the French still manage to look graceful with their little scarves wrapped around their necks.
"No, not here."
"Where are you from?"
"The United States."
"France?"
"Yes, you don't have an accent, but I do, ha ha. I cannot hide it." He pauses to look out at the distance again, then turns back to me. "What is your name?"
"Marcy."
"I am Gerard, it is a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise."
We stood there looking at the view for another minute while were catching our breath then a pack of four large Aussie men barged passed us, one of them announcing, "there better be some cold beer when we get to the top, or I'm going back!"
Those in the vicinity of the Aussies burst into laughter and the echoes bounced into the distance. Some had to stop and hug the mountain so they wouldn't fall over in laughter.
"Failure is not an option."
"I suppose not."
"I remember this from an American movie I saw a long time ago. Do you remember this?"
"Um, I'm not sure. It sounds familiar."
"I think it was APOLLO 13. Yes?"
"Yes, I think you're right."
"Failure is not an option. We must do this."
"We have no choice now do we?"
"No."
Another hour later my legs were on fire and I was beginning to feel a little too short of breath when I caught up with Gerson again. He was sitting on a rock a few paces ahead of me. The thought of what I probably looked like in that moment nearly made me roll in laughter at myself. My left arm drooped down like it wasn't even attached to my body, my back arched forward with the weight of my pack, my head down and right hand gripping my walking stick with all the strength I could muster so my legs wouldn't have to feel so much of the weight. I never understood the point of those walking sticks until now. Really, I just thought they were silly little things people liked to carry around with them like fashion accessories, maybe to ward off stray animals along their path or slash at overgrowth. That was until I found that without that third leg, my other two would have still been on that first incline of the mountain a good ways below.
"Do you want some coca leaves to chew on?"
"Ah, if this stuff makes me high, I'm better off just jumping off the mountain then."
"It won't make you high, not really ha ha. But, it will give you extra energy." I don't trust this tiny Peruvian man. His smile is a little too coy for my taste. However, I'm at a loss for sufficient oxygen this high up in the mountain and I'm short of breath because I'm out of shape for this. So I took some coca leaves and shoved them to the back of my mouth.
"Just don't swallow the leaves." Okay, not swallowing the leaves. Oh crap, I think I just swallowed a tiny piece.
It took me three hours into the hike to figure out what Gerson was talking about, but I finally found my rhythm. When I stopped taking my giant, New York City, fast as lightning because I'm always late steps, and took baby steps, one foot in front of the other in a slow and steady pace, and concentrated on sucking as much oxygen in and carbon dioxide out of my system as possible, I could then feel my lungs relax and my legs stopped burning in intense pain. I was so excited I nearly sang my favorite Johnny Cash song, "Get rhythm (when you get the blues)" to the mountaintops like Julie Andrews in The Sound Of Music. Once I caught on I never stopped again. I was a runaway train of smooth and steady.
At the final leg of the mountain, I could see Alister pointing his camera at me from the top of the peak. He better not show that picture to a soul. He and Erica had reached the top fifteen minutes ago and were snacking on a banana when I got there. At the top of the small pass was a plateau where I found my French friend, Gerard, again, with his mate, leaning against a rock with a broad smile on his face.
"We did it." He said.
"Yes we did. Failure was not an option."
On the other side of us were the Aussies that passed us earlier. Sitting in a circle, beer-less, but content enough with their accomplishment, they sucked down their bottles of water instead. Scattered about were other groups that had left earlier in the morning and were already eating their lunch. Alister and Erika looked about ready to move on when I got there but I wanted a minute or two to enjoy the view and thank my lucky stars that I made it though the worst part of the trek. The rest was mostly down hill and rounding the mountain heads now. Sheesh, these two were making me look bad, never under-estimate a person with something to prove. Gerson was actually the last one to make it up to the peak and, thankfully, he needed a minute as well. Before we set off for a short trek down the mountainside, bound for camp on the floor of the forested Pacaymayo valley, Gerson reminded us of the stones we made our wishes on at the head of the trail yesterday. Just a few feet above our resting spot was the VERY top of the peak where we could see a collection of similar stones resting on top. With our hands wrapped tightly around our stones, Erica, Alister and I climbed the last few feet up the slippery side of the peak on all fours. At the top we placed our hearts desire in what seemed like just arms reach of the hands of God, and took in the amazing view of the Andes Mountain massif surrounding us. Before us were sweeping snow peaks, valleys of the Huayanay and the trailhead of the second pass meant for tomorrows hike. Oh, dear, that looks harsh.
To be continued...
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