The Peruvian Andes: Someone Else’s God
By Nathan Rice

We round a bend on the dusty trail and there it is. The snow-capped peak of Nevado Ishinca finally shows its rounded, wind-blown summit over the canyon wall like a mammoth, lop-sided ice cream scoop that should have melted down the cliffs long ago.

Cascades of snowmelt crash down the sides of the u-shaped Ishinca Valley up ahead, showing that the frozen mass was indeed melting from its lofty altitude. This deep footprint of a canyon and the faint, blue glow emanating from crevasses on the ice high above are the only evidence of the huge glacier that once carved out the towering topography surrounding us. Despite these distant clues of an ice age, the swollen Peruvian sun evaporates any passing daydreams of cold.

The pale, temperate skin of my companion, Miguel, and I sizzle almost audibly as the direct sunlight of midday beat down on our poorly-adapted bodies of Northern Hemisphere climes. We step aside, off the beaten trail, to let another pack of burros stumble by under their sagging loads. The pitiful beasts of tourist burden pass by, kicking the dust of their own dried dung upinto our lungs. They carry the loads of the Americans who passed us an hour ago.

I compare the high-tech water bladder packs, titanium hiking poles, and lightweight cross-trainers of tourist apparel to the triangular, wooden braces upon which the packs of the first-world clientele are strapped with twine to the backs of the mules. Bringing up the rear of his stinky mule train, the arriero approaches wearing sandals made from old tires and a smile that contoured his entire earth-brown face, making mountains of his red, sun-chapped cheeks and deep, thin canyons around his squinting eyes.

"Buenas - buenas tardes," I cough a greeting from the dust cloud. He returns the salutation, possibly the only two Spanish words he knows. This far back in the hills of the Cordillera Blanca, they all speak Quechua. The mule driver mutters strangely foreign syllables to his burros as he continues up the trail; eventually they seemed to dissolve into the rippling of the rushing stream that flowed beside us.

With the bright sun illuminating a green glow beneath the surface of the water, and the dust of mule dung scratching the backs of our throats, no communication is needed as we take off our packs simultaneously and head for the stream. I had given up on treating the water a few days ago. Turning this clear, sweet-tasting glacial melt brown and pungent with iodine pills seems to insult its purity. I was willing to risk it. After four months of exposing my intestines to the wilderness of South American microorganisms, I felt prepared for whatever this beautiful stream might introduce to my gut.

We rinse our salty heads with the cool water and let them drip-dry in the sun; water running down our backs, takes the edge off of the hot day. Ready to get back on the trail and finish the last five miles to camp, I get up and eye my heavy pack stuffed with climbing gear, reluctant to fasten it back onto my sore hips.

"Let's relax for a bit," suggested Miguel, already sprawled out on the grassy, stream bank, his greasy hair shining in the sun.

"Let's."

The laid-back pace of my traveling partner was rubbing off on me, and I embraced it. Since we started trekking together, I had been gradually learning how to soak in the present moment rather than continually think about the next. Surrounded by the most beautiful peaks in Peru, these extended breaks helped me maintain my awareness of the surroundings. Such mountains aren't seen in passing. We couldn’t know their heights by hurrying through their shadow. We couldn’t talk about the silence or walk and feel the stillness.

Nevado Ishinca's bulbous summit seems superimposed on the deep blue background of sky, floating over the canyon walls. It seems impossible that we would be on top of it by tomorrow morning. The flowing stream beside us was the only evidence that those frozen heights even touch the ground. But gravity and sun are pulling them down, melting its armor of ice and returning it to sea, only to turn to clouds and renew the glaciers of the cordillera all over again.

The valley narrows up ahead, and its walls become steeper, growing upward and veiling our view of Ishinca. The mountainous people who inhabited the highlands crowded up into these bottleneck valleys, their farms creeping up the mountainside until the harshness of altitude allowed neither farming nor grazing.

Page 1 of 2   Next Page

All contents copyright ©2006 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.