We have, in fact, finished the project of walking the Andes.

One of the realizations I had at the end, sitting on the cliff edge overlooking the South Sea, when that cathartic release never quite came, was that this whole long ordeal epitomized the idea of the journey being the means as well as the end. To me, the lighthouse at San Pío was surprisingly more a marker of a point in time when a way of life would thereafter change, rather than a goal being met. My goal was met every day that I learned as much as I could about everything around me. It was met when I realized that by walking as I was through the Andes I was gaining an otherwise unattainable understanding of my planet and my place on it. San Pío for me was slightly mournful, knowing that this way of learning was over for the time being, but also a celebration of all that I did take in, all that I have absorbed and not even realized yet. This journey has had a life, a very complete life of its own, as well as given us a lifetime’s worth of experience.

Several concepts have begun to sink in a bit, however unreal the termination of the walk still seems. The most obvious is the sense of space I have now, a visceral sense of the Earth in relation to my physical self. I think for most people, the size of a planet is an abstract idea. You can learn the numbers, how big your state or province is, how big your country is, how many times this certain country can fit into this other country, how many hours it takes to drive across Wisconsin or to fly from London to Bangalore, but it all does very little for true understanding of size until you can put it into the perspective of your own ability to cover any of those distances and know what they feel like.

I fidgeted with my fingers in the small airport, looking out the large glass windows to the south. The other thirty-some people waiting for the one flight of the day, the one coming from Punta Arenas, were all locals. The Puerto Natales airport had only recently opened, having been converted from the old military airstrip within the past year. The guidebooks and guide services have not yet included it in their schedules and tours, and so the people on the flights are mostly locals, whose families were finding the novelty of it almost overwhelming. They all pressed their faces against the windows, waiting for the speck to appear in the sky. Once it did, families ran outside to watch without glass barrier the growing of the spot in the sky into it’s giant winged form and make its subsequent abrupt landing on the petite runway. The moment the plane taxied the short distance to the backside of the one-room airport, the families piled back through the front doors and assembled en masse around the gate, the single gate. I enjoyed the place I held in all of this, feeling local in the sense of welcoming loved ones to my home, and feeling too seasoned a traveller to share the same sense of fascination with the airport process, thus putting me in a delectable position in which to people-watch. Outside, passengers, stiffly and excitedly, climbed down onto the tarmac and hurried through the doors to be scooped up by their respective blob of relatives. My parents were toward the back of the lot. I had never been in this role before; I had always been the one waited for. But here they were, having come from afar to be a physical presence in this journey of ours, to hike with us for the stint that took us through Torres del Paine and experience some of the most majestic scenes that Patagonia has to offer. For the next several days we walked, the four of us, through twisted woods, next to lakes dotted with icebergs, under towering granite spires, and with some wonderful other travellers, who were just as awed by it all as we were. I continue to be amazed as to how I can have parents who are so supportive, and so invested in my life, as well as so appreciative of the natural world and open to new experiences exploring it. Thanks, guys.

Another realization that has recently come-about in full, having now travelled back north through and over some of the land we walked, is that all of the places I have gone through on this trip are still there. That may sound obvious, I know, but when passing in a completely linear voyage through space for so long, in my head these sites exist only in the context of my narrative. It is hard for me to conceive of them as having their own stories, sequences, that we crossed through for only a moment, during which, that instant in their reality became petrified in mine. In fact, they are still there, happening, changing, going through seasons and celebrations and tragedies, very much dynamic and alive, very much without my presence. How much and what kind of an impact have I had by being in any of these places? Do I want that impact to be more or less than it actually was?

My last stand-out realization has been the acknowledgement of a consistent theme on the trip—the sense of being able to identify with so many different people, yet never being fully a part of any community; the sense of feeling completely comfortable in almost any circumstance, but not fully belonging anywhere. Throughout the trip, if I felt frustrated or alone, regardless of how wonderfully I was being welcomed or treated, I could look forward to, at some point, encountering like-minded people, other travellers, other hikers, and take some comfort in knowing that somewhere out there were a group of people, a community, that I could really feel a part of. However, since the trek has ended and we have re-entered a more “advanced” slice of society, replete with young travellers, I have felt oddly more connected to the campesinos I have crossed paths with than to anyone else. Although, in the campo during the hike, to these workers of the land and of the animals, I was never one of them. I was often, no matter how dirty, how broke, how out of food, a “modern,” urban, rich Gringa, walking through the land they are part of and have known their whole lives. As kind as they were to me, and as human as they saw me, I was not one of them. It’s true that in terms of my livelihood, I am not like them, but what I have known and experienced of South America over the past two years is their world. We share a knowledge of the land, living in direct contact with it, relying on it, resenting it at times, appreciating the pure beauty in its subtleties. Thus, it is a strange thing to feel a kinship to someone who has no idea that the kinship is there. I was hitching north through Tierra del Fuego the other day to reclaim a box we had shipped ahead some weeks ago, riding with several professional men from the closest city, Rio Gallegos, in a brand new car. As we crested a hill, we quickly slowed to a crawl as we came upon a monstrous conglomerate of sheep ambling along the road, spilling over its sides, accompanied by several sheep-dogs and two men on horseback. The sea of sheep gradually parted row by row for the car to pass through, and the men on horseback gave us a glance and small nod as they rode on, minds on the task of keeping the heard consolidated. To me it seemed that they barely registered the sight of us—a car full or Gringos, breaking up their heard, a slight nuisance that understood nothing of their world. My reaction (to my projection of theirs) was a sense of being profoundly misunderstood. I wanted to call out to them and tell them what I knew, what I had just done, that I understood them more than they thought, that I spent countless days pushing through the harsh grasses on the same pampa that their sheep graze on, spent countless nights in small puestos, sharing fires and mate and conversation with other herders. I didn’t tell them all that of course, but I realized that part of me was scared to give up my place and identity as a wanderer, passing through and absorbing the lifestyles and customs of others, and with each encounter feeling more and more a part of something I wasn’t, fully. But then in so many other ways I was, and those men that afternoon with their sheep would never know that.

March 23rd, 2008. We walked out of Puerto Natales three days ago along the salty, pebbly coast, saturated with seabirds and blowing grasses. We were supposed to follow a dirt road until it turned into a small track, rounded a more remote corner of land for a few days and then rejoin a dirt road on the opposite side of this wilderness just north of Punta Arenas. We had heard from a couple of new friends, GIS guys who had done the trek several months earlier, in the dryer season, that the middle section did not make for clear way-finding and had its share of prickers and bogs. We were not concerned; we had come on foot from Ecuador, and this route had been done by humans before, both facts giving us confidence in our ability to negotiate the section ahead of us. Our dirt road ended, so we took to the rocks of the coast, not fast walking, but we managed to cover a respectable distance, bringing us to the Subida Elias, the point where we left the coast and climbed onto the higher land that will cross us over to the other sound, Seno Skyring. Once we arrive there, the houses, farms and general access will mean there is no question as to the possibility of continuing. Here, however, the high ground has turned out to be somewhat of a different story from what we expected. We have in our possession two maps that show a marked route over this very ground, while all of my understanding of the world and the laws of nature call into question the accuracy of these documents. Here, where I step from knee-deep, slippery, mud-lined pools into knee-deep, spongy, soaking peat bog and back, there is no way that a route could have existed at any point in time. Climate change? Season? Bad way-finding? We question with every plunging step. These were GIS guys, who gave us satellite images of the area and coordinates to keep us on-track. There was no question that this was the way. How could they have failed to mention it would be like this? The gray rain has infiltrated my every layer, has made soggy my very being. The sponge I am walking upon is doing the same from the bottom up, though with more speed and efficiency. Not only does it serve to soak, but the boggy ground, or turba as it’s called here, has the same effect of raising the gravity ten-fold. The up motion of each step is a project. TtthhhhhhhhuuK!.. .plunge, and repeat, ad infinitum. However, it’s a damn good thing we’re doing this now and not one month from now. It’s miserable enough being soaked and cold, but being soaked and freezing borders on impossible if we’re to maintain any semblance of safety, especially considering the rivers that we have to swim across. I have already been brought to tears several times, most notably when the lake I was wading through had deep muddy rifts cutting through its bottom, making secure footing impossible, and grabbing onto the razor-edged reeds not a very appealing alternative to losing balance. How long will we keep doing this to ourselves? How much longer does this continent have to last? Why do I keep putting myself in situations where I can’t appreciate the beauty I am surrounded by? But then, how else would I be able to be surrounded by this specific, remote, captivating beauty? Ay! —- THAT’s the rub. Two weeks from this cloudy, slurpy day, I will be walking along the Beagle Channel at sunset. I will see a group of cows become startled by our presence and run to the top of a nearby rise between us and the cold, salty water. They will stop to look back at us; I will stop walking and look at them. The cool wind of early evening will blow, the seabirds will cry out, the pink of the sky will make silhouettes of the giant, intrigued animals, and I will acutely feel my place in the world. The hike will then pull. We have miles left to cover before dark if we are to have enough food to finish, if we are to arrive at the end before the next storm, before the rapidly approaching winter, before the rivers get too cold to cross. And I will curse the hike, for taking me out of that moment, for always taking me out of my moments. Always the pull of the walk, of keeping going rather than fully being. But I realize, without the hike, I would not be here, not know this place, not know those sixty big eyes looking out at me, and not have that feeling of knowing how I really fit into this whole picture. Even if I can’t hang onto it, I have seen it. I resent and then I relish, completely. This has been a lifetime.

Through it all, there have been a few rays stronger than all else: the land, though often feeling like an obstacle, never stopped producing awe for the incredible planet we live on, and fostering my passion for wanting to know it more completely; the people we have met along the way have deepened and strengthened my view of the human race, and illuminated the underlying, powerful good that exists in us collectively as a species, as well as individually;.the almost overwhelming love and support of my family, my friends, and so many strangers; especially the partner, friend, support, teacher, companion, and source of strength I have in Gregg; the self that I have undervalued for much of my life reminding me to listen to it, to respect it, and to trust that it can do as much as it decides to; and finally, my belief in wonder, in growth, and my true understanding of the power that a dream can hold.

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We managed to escape from the clutches of Cochrane in the afternoon, the usual internal debate of whether to stay for one more beer or to go taking place like it always does on the way out of town. The week ahead looked promising, the maps showing a good trail the whole way, no roads, and no major obstacles that we’d have to navigate around. We were excited to have a third along. We had met Ross a week earlier while hiking through Cerrro Castillo National Park, he was the very first gringo (along with his hiking buddy Thatcher) that we had met backpacking on his own in over 610 days of hiking. He had decided to join us for the section and we were stoked to have someone else to talk to, even if for only a week. As we left town it quickly became clear that in the Chilean government’s race to show the rest of the world how advanced it is, they have built yet another new road where only trail had existed before. Reluctantly, and without much choice in the matter, we followed it hoping that maybe it wasn’t yet complete, that we would still have the majority of a week to hike in nature. Twenty kilometres or so later, directly across from the San Lorenzo glacier and icefall, the largest peak, and one of the most spectacular in Patagonia, the military stopped their placement of dynamite and turned off the engines as we walked by. The road had ended, leaving the valley virgin for now. We realized that we may be the last gringos to have the privilege to walk through the valley before the new Carrertera Austral destroys it. Seems that the other new Carrertera Austral was not good enough, and that they need a second one to… well I don’t really know why, neither did anyone building it. The building goes on none-the-less. Upset, and cursing the advancement project, we made our way further up the valley. Soon, the sounds of bulldozers and drilling were far below and we began to realize exactly how lucky we were to be there before the destruction. It was impossible to move more than a hundred steps before having to stop and appreciate what was around. On this trip, change has been the one constant, often within the course of a day as we move east to west or from elevation to the depths of the valleys below we move from glaciers to jungles. The change that we were experiencing as we moved south through the Lorenzo Valley was a more important one. Now looking around to the peaks above us, seemingly every single one was covered in the blue ice of glaciers. Have we really come this far? It is hard to believe that we have walked from the equator to the line that means everything to the south is glaciated; it was a good feeling, one that makes us feel close to the end, a good motivator if you will. Throughout that week with Ross along for the ride, as we trudged our way through knee-deep flooded trails, through overflowing rivers, through mud, and overgrown prickers on the trails, ice and water continued to assert its grip on the land around us until by the end of the week not a single peak was without a crevassed mass of ice carving the top of it.

In this past month and a half, walking through glacially-carved lands, there have been several ups and downs. Near the beginning of it, Deia and I were looking at another sight, one that in our heads we knew should be mind-blowing, one that we knew would have moved us to tears if we had been dropped in that spot 21 months ago. It didn’t move us to tears, in fact, aside from just knowing that it was really beautiful, there was really very little impact that place had on either of us. We talked about it, wondering if we had simply seen too much, developed a tolerance against the feelings that make hiking so special. After what has now been 21 months of solid walking, solid awe at what we have been experiencing, we were beginning to think that we could be awed no more. For me that though was a bit scary, would I ever feel like I need to hike again? Would time away make it that inspiring to see a peak again? These are not thoughts someone who wants to make a career of hiking can have, it is notokay. We talked a lot about how we are both done, ready to finish, wanting to be in other places, with friends, with family, ready to close this chapter. It’s not that we don’t love the hike, not that we are fed up, not that we weren’t extremely excited for the promise of what was ahead, just that we were ready, spent, tired of struggling every day, and missing home a lot. We have been in Patagonia, the combined region of Southern Chile and Argentina, for more than three months now. We have been impressed with the pristine natural beauty that has been around us all the while, and until this past section, it was hard to apreciate how far we have really come, that we have arrived in a land that we have been walking towards for so long now. Patagonia had been amazing, still, it hadn’t yet captured our hearts. The desire to finish began to outweigh the drive to go on. It became harder to get up everyday and the feeling that this was more of a job than an experience was strong and becoming unbearable.It is often easy, as we are walking, to think back to hikes we have done earlier on. The detail of what we can remember about each and every day over the last two years is pretty incredible. I remember that tree that we ate lunch by, what I ate by it even. If you have been hiking, you know what I mean, time goes slower, memories are linear. If it has a before and after to go with the memory the human brain retains with an incredible accuracy. I wonder though, in five, ten, or even twenty years, how vivid these memories will be, how long will I actually be able to picture myself back on the same rock, looking at the same ridge, and know that a certain jagged difference makes that spot unique to all others on earth. I am sure that several details will fade, they already have from some hikes that I have done earlier in my life. What I know is that several moments that have passed since that view, since feeling so entirely done, are moments that will stay with me for a lifetime. It has always been amazing to me how quickly emotions, feelings, attitudes can change while hiking. How the littlest thing, the smallest turn of events can get you going again and make it fun. What we have seen in the last month and a half was no small thing, no small change.We left Mancillo late in the day, really without knowing how far it would be until we would get our first views. It had been built up in my head for so long, there was no way that it could really be that spectacular. Chances were that we wouldn’t get clear views anyways, we had heard that it is always shrouded in cloud, that it is rarely without its blanket hiding it from the world. I wasn’t expecting much. We climbed steadily as the sun inched its way closer to the horizon and the shadows grew longer all around. Soon the forest of lenga and ñire was lit just right, that magic light the hour or so before the sun goes away for the evening. The weather was great, maybe we would get a view yet, just maybe we’d be able to see this thing after hearing about it for so incredibly long. I climbed slowly on the dirt track as it wound through the forest, my eyes scanning the ground and following the tiny lizards scurrying about my feet and passing the time by kicking a stone ahead then again and again until it fell to the side of the trail and I was forced to find a new one to play with. Had we actually reached this place that we had read about and listened to tourists talk about for so long now? Was I really about to see something I first heard of in a climbing documentary so long ago and was blown away by even then? I was excited just to be near such a respected mountain despite the doubts of actually being able to see it. I looked up for a second, partially to see where I was headed, partially to see how far it was to the pass. Immediately, I looked back down, as what I had just seen failed to register. Nah, I said to myself, that is impossible. Double-take. Instantaneously, I was on my knees, floored, gasping for breath. Tears flooded my eyes, that thing, wha- wha- what the hell is that? Mt. Fitzroy stands 10,262 feet high, not that big right? Well, when you consider that the sheer granite wall, the longest wall in the world rises 6,401 feet straight up out of the ground, it is huge, the biggest, the gnarliest, and to see it outside of the pictures, right there in front of me was flooring. I turned around to see Deia meandering up the trail behind me, passing the time much as I had without the knowledge of what was ahead of her. She looked up at me, and I think she knew, after all I was on my knees and clearly had been struck down by the force of something mighty. She took a few more steps, and I watched her face change from idle to shocked in a mere second. Laughter filled the air, giggling out loud, we raced towards a clearer view. Out of every mountain I have seen, never has it been this hard to believe that what I was looking at was real. Fitzroy looks like a fairytale, it is a dream. As long as I live I will never forget that first sight of it.” It is often easy, as we are walking, to think back to hikes we have done earlier on. The detail of what we can remember about each and every day over the last two years is pretty incredible. I remember that tree that we ate lunch by, what I ate by it even. If you have been hiking, you know what I mean, time goes slower, memories are linear. If it has a before and after to go with the memory the human brain retains with an incredible accuracy. I wonder though, in five, ten, or even twenty years, how vivid these memories will be, how long will I actually be able to picture myself back on the same rock, looking at the same ridge, and know that a certain jagged difference makes that spot unique to all others on earth. I am sure that several details will fade, they already have from some hikes that I have done earlier in my life. What I know is that several moments that have passed since that view, since feeling so entirely done, are moments that will stay with me for a lifetime. It has always been amazing to me how quickly emotions, feelings, attitudes can change while hiking. How the littlest thing, the smallest turn of events can get you going again and make it fun. What we have seen in the last month and a half was no small thing, no small change.

We left Mancillo late in the day, really without knowing how far it would be until we would get our first views. It had been built up in my head for so long, there was no way that it could really be that spectacular. Chances were that we wouldn’t get clear views anyways, we had heard that it is always shrouded in cloud, that it is rarely without its blanket hiding it from the world. I wasn’t expecting much. We climbed steadily as the sun inched its way closer to the horizon and the shadows grew longer all around. Soon the forest of lenga and ñire was lit just right, that magic light the hour or so before the sun goes away for the evening. The weather was great, maybe we would get a view yet, just maybe we’d be able to see this thing after hearing about it for so incredibly long. I climbed slowly on the dirt track as it wound through the forest, my eyes scanning the ground and following the tiny lizards scurrying about my feet and passing the time by kicking a stone ahead then again and again until it fell to the side of the trail and I was forced to find a new one to play with. Had we actually reached this place that we had read about and listened to tourists talk about for so long now? Was I really about to see something I first heard of in a climbing documentary so long ago and was blown away by even then? I was excited just to be near such a respected mountain despite the doubts of actually being able to see it. I looked up for a second, partially to see where I was headed, partially to see how far it was to the pass. Immediately, I looked back down, as what I had just seen failed to register. Nah, I said to myself, that is impossible. Double-take. Instantaneously, I was on my knees, floored, gasping for breath. Tears flooded my eyes, that thing, wha- wha- what the hell is that? Mt. Fitzroy stands 10,262 feet high, not that big right? Well, when you consider that the sheer granite wall, the longest wall in the world rises 6,401 feet straight up out of the ground, it is huge, the biggest, the gnarliest, and to see it outside of the pictures, right there in front of me was flooring. I turned around to see Deia meandering up the trail behind me, passing the time much as I had without the knowledge of what was ahead of her. She looked up at me, and I think she knew, after all I was on my knees and clearly had been struck down by the force of something mighty. She took a few more steps, and I watched her face change from idle to shocked in a mere second. Laughter filled the air, giggling out loud, we raced towards a clearer view. Out of every mountain I have seen, never has it been this hard to believe that what I was looking at was real. Fitzroy looks like a fairytale, it is a dream. As long as I live I will never forget that first sight of it.

While Fitzroy was certainly special, it was by no means all that we have seen this month that is worth mentioning. The Southern Patagonian Icecap is the third largest continental concentration of ice in the world, Antarctica and Greenland the only ones bigger. It covers a distance of more than 210 miles north to south and covers an area of more than 10,493 square miles. Pouring off of the giant blanket of ice are glaciers, the biggest glaciers in South America. For a long time before we had actually seen the Ice Cap, I was literally dreaming of standing above a sea of ice, looking out for miles over a white forbidden land. I got my wish.

We left the road and began up the Electrico valley. Less people than I expected to see in one of Patagonia’s two main parks. It was an easy stroll taking two hours or less to reach the refúgio. It would be a steep climb from there so we stopped to grab some food and rest at a bit. It was a reminder of how special of a place we were in when in the camp we met John Braggs, a celebrated American climber with many first ascents on his resume. We left the camp and began steeply up. It was but an hour when we found ourselves at the foot of Fitzroy and overlooking the Marconi Glacier flowing off of the Ice sheet. We continued ascending. Soon we were at a small lake at the base of the Fitz, icebergs filled the frigid waters, more importantly we were beginning to crest the horizon of the ice sheet. We continued ascending, now using both hands and feet, as we climbed over loose scree, very loose scree, scree so loose that often the entire area around us would move and begin sliding down the mountain as we skirted to the left or right to avoid being cascaded down the steep face. It had been our goal to see the ice sheet at sunset, with seven hours of daylight, we surely had enough time. Now with only two hours left until we would have to turn around, our arrival on the Cerro Electrico ridge was certainly in doubt. We got to a low col and continued the steady climb upwards, scrambling all the while along a knife edge ridge, until finally we turned around and the vastness spread out before us. To explain what it was like to sit in those mountains, to explain the impossibility of the peaks that surrounded us would be a challenge at best. I think that maybe for the first time I sat there on that edge watching Deia scramble up the knife edge ridge behind me and perhaps for the first time I really understood what I was looking at, how much it really means to be looking at the Ice Cap. I remember a similar moment that I had on the Appalachian Trail, the moment when I actually let myself believe that I may finish what I set out to accomplish so long before. The concept of not doing this anymore is something that really just doesn’t compute in my head. After so many months, so much struggle, it has just become life, I will certainly miss what I have been doing, and yes I am ready to move on, but in that moment looking out over the ice field, there is The list goes on and on, constantly this section has wowed us, constantly we are moved, overcome with emotion, and appreciative to be in a place so spectacular, still so pristine, so wild. Patagonia is such a special place unlike any other on earth.The granite spires rising from what seems to be every peak, the glaciers so impossible to comprehend the mass of. Sitting now with just over 340 miles (crow) to go, it still has not even begun to sink in that we are going to be finishing this quest in just under five weeks (assuming all goes well). For so long this has been our struggle, our goal, our everything.What next? As you might imagine we have been talking a lot about the next step, the next move. At this point, we haven’t come up with any concrete plans.There are a lot of people we want to visit, a lot of catching up we want to do. We will be leading a trip or two this summer, so, if you or anyone you know wants to go backpacking with us, email us at thediscoveryguides@gmail.com In addition we look forward to speaking at various hiker gatherings, schools, tradeshows, etc. For now we will remain focused on the task at hand. We will be crossing into Tierra Del Fuego in just under two weeks. We are filled with hope of seeing penguins, still keeping our fingers crossed for a puma in daylight, and very much looking forward to reaching the lighthouse at Cabo San Pio, the southern-most point of Tierra Del Fuego. no feeling that could make what we have been doing more worth it and nothing more symbolic of how far we have really come.

The list goes on and on, constantly this section has wowed us, constantly we are moved, overcome with emotion, and appreciative to be in a place so spectacular, still so pristine, so wild. Patagonia is such a special place unlike any other on earth. The granite spires rising from what seems to be every peak, the glaciers so impossible to comprehend the mass of. Sitting now with just over 340 miles (crow) to go, it still has not even begun to sink in that we are going to be finishing this quest in just under five weeks (assuming all goes well). For so long this has been our struggle, our goal, our everything. What next? As you might imagine we have been talking a lot about the next step, the next move. At this point, we haven’t come up with any concrete plans. There are a lot of people we want to visit, a lot of catching up we want to do. We will be leading a trip or two this summer, so, if you or anyone you know wants to go backpacking with us, email us at thediscoveryguides@gmail.com In addition we look forward to speaking at various hiker gatherings, schools, tradeshows, etc. For now we will remain focused on the task at hand. We will be crossing into Tierra Del Fuego in just under two weeks. We are filled with hope of seeing penguins, still keeping our fingers crossed for a puma in daylight, and very much looking forward to reaching the lighthouse at Cabo San Pio, the southern-most point of Tierra Del Fuego. The next time we write, we will be done with this chapter, a concept that although I still cannot comprehend, I think I am ready for.

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Gregg and I did one pretty uneventful section around the entire Bariloche area before David, Gregg’s brother, arrived in Puerto Montt. Uneventful in that nothing ridiculous happened; we hiked on some trail and some dirt track, through some woods and some desert-like areas. We met and met up with, respectively, some lovely local folks as well as some old friends (the Canadians, Sam and Dave, on their own epic tour). Then a confusing rendezvous brought brothers together for the first time in months, and we were quickly off to Cochamo, the start of the next section. From the maps, all of them, this hike is a clear-as-day, easy to follow route that arcs down to the Argentinian border town of Lago Puelo. As we were crossing the first foot-bridge into the forest, however, two men on horseback with ample trail-clearing tools passed us and informed us that they were heading up ahead to do some clean-up. What fortune. Had they not been there, and timed their task so perfectly, we would have doubled our trek-time. As it was, even cleared, the trail was no easy task. It turned out to be a marvel of 1880’s trail maintenance, with myriad bog bridges and deeply-carved trail, however, 130 years of rains, season changes and horse traffic does not do wet wood well, nor muddy passages, and the usual downed trees and bamboo on top of this would have made it even more of a project. But as it was actual trail, it was appreciated, and as it was recently cleared, the men ahead of us, worshipped.

I realize writing this, and with the added perspective of having had David’s outside eyes with us for several weeks, that my life here, doing this project, is extremely simple, and maddeningly complicated simultaneously. The route, the presence of a WAY, is everything. Gregg and I were feeling at an end about one week ago, having been rejected by a trail that was absolutely impossible to follow safely without horses or ropes (due to the number and difficulty of high river crossings). This trail, we believed at the time, was the only viable way toward the south that was humanly possible and not on roads; it was a symbol of our integrity in finishing this task the way we want to—-without relying on roads, and through the mountains. So getting denied at the trail-head of this camino and turning around left us with a lot of questions. We are getting toward the end, but still have a not-so-small amount of distance to cover, and if simply finding a possible route is going to be this hard the rest of the way … We did manage to find another not-exactly-south-bound route to take to keep us moving, but the question of a simple WAY has remained a shadow about our beings. Today however, a small shop in Coyhaique restored some light for us by having topographic maps and knowledge of the entire region just ahead of us. I can feel a weight lifted and have hope in the journey again. It’s bizarre that such a simple, specific piece of information is responsible for my overall outlook on the world and my purpose for the time being. I’m not sure if I like that or not, but that is the reality of my life for now, and I’m very aware of it. Acutely aware of it. I try not to judge myself one way or another for living as I am, but I know that while people in my very close circle have big things to think about like cancer and college, grad degrees and new houses, births, deaths, promotions, lay-offs, career changes, I am preoccupied with a single map. A single trail. Finding one person who might have some extra bread to sell us. One river to get water from, nine miles away. I wonder what lessons I will take with me from such a specific and complicated sustained simplicity when I return and have big things to be preoccupied with again. Not that the map isn’t big. (Or the piece of bread, or the stream.) For us, it’s everything. David’s everything was blisters. From the third day into the Cochamo hike, David was aware of his feet. David lives in a high-rise condo, blocks from downtown Chicago and dances with Macy Gray in nightclubs there. He is not used to picking bugs out of his drinking water and popping blood blisters between his toes. But he is open and adaptable, and pushed through everything we subjected him to with grace. He climbed steep, muddy slopes, grabbing onto bamboo stalks to keep from back-sliding and forded thigh-high rapids with the best of ‘em. His feet, however, never took themselves out of the equation. The friction-induced bubbles of pain never left him alone, and by Esquel, Argentina, left him unable to walk. We had to employ a grocery cart to keep him mobile. But after a couple of rest days, and an unusually thrilling Monday night (again with old friends, including but not limited to the Canadians), he kept truckin’ through it all. David’s first trek with us ended on New Year’s Eve. Not because that was the natural end-date, but because we, along with a critical handful of other folks, made it that way. We had hoped to be in El Bolson for New Year’s, the closest city, so that we could be with other people and have the experience of a nearly-universal fiesta in a different culture. Our New Year’s Eve ended up being an eastward dash using whatever means of transportation were available to do so, including, in some order, our feet for a few miles, the back of a pickup truck (in which I sat on a bike), our feet for several more miles, David’s in particularly bad shape at this point, another pickup, more walking through fields, along small dirt tracks, through woods, to lake and onto a small motor boat that, after a heated and amusing exchange, dropped us off at a second smaller motor boat, which brought us to the opposite shore of a large lake, where we took a trail to a small outpost of the Chilean military police so that we could get an exit stamp in our passports. From here we were in Limbo between countries, not quite legal anywhere in the world. And the dash continued. Down a steep trail to yet another large lake, where a third motorboat brought us to the other end of the body of water where we climbed up the steep embankment and found a trail that took us over the actual physical border between Chile and Argentina, as usual, marked by a red and white metal pylon and nothing else. The trail dissipated, also as usual, and we bushwhacked ourselves onto the rocky shore of the river that connected our previous lake to our last lake of the day. A boat a small distance away waved at us, motored toward us and cruised down a rapid and to the shore, waiting only seconds for us to jump on before motoring up the very same rapid in the wrong direction and carrying us across the lake to Lago Puelo where Argentinian customs sat. Argentinian customs closes at 8:00. But it’s 7:15, we have plenty of time. There is a time change. But two weeks ago when we were last in Argentina, they were the same time! Now they aren’t. Argh! We are not supposed to do this, you are bad, but we will make an exception because it is New Year’s. And so we became the last people of 2007 to enter Argentina on land. The New Year’s celebration itself involved a quiet midnight sitting in the El Bolson plaza, a few fireworks, a few cars driving by yelling, “¡Felíz año!” and then the actual town celebration that started up at 1:30 in the morning with bars and pizza and mini-bowling with guys that hide up above the pins and replace them by hand and roll the balls back and then hide on their perches again. Of course we met up with the Canadians, or one of them at least, holding a German Shepherd in his arms and insisting on speaking to us only in Spanish. All in all, definitely worth the scrambled chaos that brought us there. The El Bolson to Esquel section of the hike was dubbed, “The Death Section” by David, as it was very dry, very open, very hot, and everywhere we went, there was dead livestock, not to mention the strange ghost town of Mayocco. We thought perhaps a disease had swept through the region at some point last year, taking with it more than a few sheep and cows. Though easy to make progress here, it was definitely a mental challenge of its own, reminding us of the northern Argentine pampas and much of Bolivia. Gotta keep gong. Gotta make it to the river. Gotta keep going. The Futaleufu is a river known to all in the kayaking and rafting worlds. It is a legend. Our route happened to pass next to it, along the famed rapids of lore. The river also happens to be the focus of a large hydroelectric plan drawn up by the Chilean government: several dams are to be built along this most famous section of the Futaleufu within four years, flooding it and permanently altering some of the most well-known rapids in the world, and moreover, significantly impacting the entire ecosystem of the area. We decided to experience the Futa while we had the chance. It did not disappoint. One of the last days of hiking of the section brought with it the biggest afternoon thunderstorm we have had to date down here, with flashes of lightning all around us and claps of thunder startling overhead. We ran through the woods, spaced apart for safety and soon made it to an open barn with a horse and a few calves inside. The rest of the storm was spent in their company, until a man showed up at the door, smiling at us, seemingly getting some amusement from our wet huddled forms keeping his horse company. He soon had us in his kitchen with his wife and granddaughter, drinking tea and hanging our clothes to dry over the woodstove. The Reyes family took good care of us, and it was wonderful to spend a night, as they invited us to stay, with a few very kind souls. As we walked to Ja Lunta the next morning in the post-storm clearness, the three of us did some processing of David’s visit, and what he would bring back home to Chicago from the experience. I’m curious for him, and I’m curious for myself. After a year and half, I still have very little idea of how these stories and feelings and daily challenges are going to transfer to a more structured life, a more social life, a very different life. Vamos a ver. We shall see. Check out our site www.acrosstheandes.com Be the first to comment!

I think back to what was now over a month and a half ago since we last wrote and it is impossible to appreciate how much things have changed since then. We had been looking forward to Patagonia so long that nothing else seemed to matter, we enjoyed what was probably the most exhilarating section of the trip, and were so exited for the month to come. The month has come and different from what we expected would be the understatement of the century. The challenges that we have faced this last section would put any in the north to shame (at least while they are out of sight and out of mind).

To accurately depict the roller-coaster of emotions that we have gone through during this past section would be nearly impossible. Never before in my life have I been in tears so often feeling so utterly defeated, wanting to quit so badly. I walk a mile admiring the scenery, still amazed that I can be this shocked after 18 months at how dramatic the land really is. Thoughts of how outrageous it is that we have walked from the equator and have actually reached Patagonia fill my head, I am proud. That mile passes and I start to worry a bit about the fact that the trail we have been following is now starting to get just a bit harder, a little muddier, a little steeper. I am fully aware of what happened the last time our trail began to deteriorate, I wonder if we should turn around. Just a little I decide to push on and look around the next corner. I see a clear section, permission to continue has been granted. In and out the trail goes, carrying me deeper and deeper into the commitment of the trail making it harder with each step to turn around. Soon there is no going back, we are closer to the goal than it would be to go back. The trail continues to worsen. What started out as a short day to reach the lake has now become an indefinite struggle to keep my head together. I have to keep it together, what choice do I have, I could quit and sit where I am, feeling sorry for myself, running out of food, or I can continue to fight. I make the obvious choice and struggle some more. Finally a clearing, this is it, the trail will come back, it will clear up from here, we can still reach the lake tonight. Bam! a wall of bamboo, I decide that I must continue to fight, no choice, can’t let Deia down, let’s go. With every ounce of strength I have I battle to get through, struggling my way to the clearings, each time shedding the tears as what looked promising if for only a moment gave me hope, replenished that thing deep down inside that keeps me making the choice to go on. Each time it is sucked out of me, beaten to the ground, I am told I can’t do this anymore, I start to believe it. Breakdowns come regularly, tears fill my eyes, rage in my voice, what choice do I have, I must keep fighting. Ten hours pass, darkness comes, it is no longer safe to continue. We lay down a plastic tarp on the ground and are eager to get into our sleeping bags, we can barely see the sky through the bamboo. I am not looking forward to tomorrow. Morning comes, I have new energy, new hope, we are only 3 km from the lake, we will make it today no problem, this will all be behind us, another struggle in this awesome journey. It is noon, we have been walking four hours already, we have gotten 800 meters. My feet haven’t touched the ground in over a half-hour, we have lost any semblance of a trail, snow is now a factor, I start to wonder how much food I really have, I break down. I choose to continue to fight. I grow angry, how could those bastards down below have told us that there is a trail here. How could the damn map have a trail marked on it that doesn’t exist. I will kill the jerks that made it I swear I will. It would continue like this two more days, a constant struggle all the way to the lake. With the rain pouring down and a complete lack of determination, we would take refuge by the lake in an abandoned border patrol building, hoping that our struggles were behind us, ignoring the fact that would could not find the trail we had expected to be there. The struggle was not behind us. By the end of a four day war, we would emerge on the other side of the bamboo, far away from where we had intended and only four miles from where we had started, most importantly without the route that looked so promising only days before. Sometime during the end of our journey into Huaraz we got this crazy idea that Patagonia was going to be easy, smooth sailing with clear trails. We expected weather sure, we expected cold sure, we did not foresee the challenges that we have actually had. Repeatedly my heart has been filled with hope that things will get better, repeatedly it has been shattered. In the last three weeks we have averaged little over 4 miles per day. We have fallen desperately behind schedule and have grown worried about arriving in Tierra del Fuego before winter does.

Strangely, despite the incredible difficulty we have encountered in Patagonia, I am not too bad off. We are still on the path, we are still keeping our eyes on the prize which now only lies 1/6 the total distance of the trip away. Perhaps it has been the people of Argentina and Chile, but mostly Argentina that have kept my spirits in tact. We have had a few sections this past month and a half where the terrain was easy, the rivers low, and the hardest part about advancing was not the high snow, or the thick bush, but rather the fact that the people here are too damn kind. David de Jesus invited us in for Mate and fried dough, a group of fishing buddies would insist that we join them for a BBQ of Argentina’s finest beef, Carlos would demand we spend not only the night, but the next day too, Ashley, Sky, and Ginny bought us beer and eggs, Monica gave us a place to stay, the Police in Andacollo gave us an apartment for the two days we were in town, and the list goes on and on. We have come so far and met so many people. We sit with them in their homes and tell them of the amazing journey, the amazing people like them that we have met. People are genuinely surprised to hear that their neighbors to the north to the west, thousands of miles away are buena gente, good people, who have helped us to get as far as we have. The truth is, and it has never been a secret that without the people both here and at home that have inspired us to keep going, we couldn’t, we wouldn’t. I have such an incredible sense of love, belonging, and faith in the people of this world, sure there are assholes wherever we go, but the support and acceptance has been incredible; people are incredible.

To keep on a roll with the positive note, as we have trudged our way through volcano alley it has been incredibly beautiful. Though the volcanoes are not quite as tall as in previous volcano rows, alleys, or lanes that we have come through, they are every bit as spectacular. Trees line the ash and lava with perfect cones rising above them. Peaks are once again mind-blowing, and have consistently grown more and more jagged, Patagonia-like. Spring is here, birds are singing, everything is humping. For so long during this hike we dreamed of the forests to the south, the epic Patagonian Aurucaria wildernesses. We are here, and they are certainly spectacular. Flowers are everywhere, condors circle above us waiting for us to succumb go the bamboo. We have found food in our new surroundings, the trees drop nuts, the streams give us ñalco, a cucumber like plant, the rivers and lakes give us fish. As we have crossed back and forth along the border of Chile and Argentina, we have experienced change so rapidly and so drastic that it often feels like we have been transported to another planet. I think of climbing above the Laguna Dial, hoping that the snows that had left us swimming across rivers and unable to get through easy trails would be at least somewhat diminished on the eastern slope. I think that it was about five kilometers after crossing the border that the vegetation was no more, that the land began a transformation from forest to desert. In just two days time we would go from swimming through class three whitewater because we were entirely out of options, to wondering where we would next be able to find a stream running enough to allow us to get drinking water. Constantly jagged glaciated peaks give way into rolling hills, impenetrable bush to barren pampas. Daily we are amazed, Patagonia has not been disappointing

So, I sit here in San Martin De Los Andes without a clue of where or what we will encounter next, and am not upset, not dreading going back out there. I know that we will find a way, I know that we will do what we need to do like we always have. I have told a few people about out struggles of late, the response is usually “that is what it is all about right?” I guess there are reasons that this has not been done before, the thing is that I just wish that we could have a little break, we could have an easy trail just for a day or two, wouldn’t that be nice to rejuvenate our spirits? Don’t we deserve that? It isn’t so much the individual struggles that get to me. It is the constant, the unwavering ability of this land to put us in our place, to knock us on our asses. I miss the days when I was working, walking, and living with the land and am somehow still hopeful to get that back again.

We have a lot to look forward to in this next month, David my little brother (who has never been backpacking before) will be joining us for most of it and the chance to spend time with him down here is something that I have been looking forward to for an incredibly long time. As we inch further south, we are hopeful that the bamboo will continue to rise after a long winter of being pressed to the ground, making the hiking infinitely easier. Also the Browns will be in the playoffs!

We miss so many of you so much, please write, please let us know how life is at home.

Photos and movies at www.acrosstheandes.com

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So much water. Some of it frozen clear and solid, some of it rushing quickly over rocks in a frenzied effort to get down as fast as gravitationally possible, some sitting, collecting in dammed lake beds, some crystallized and white and resisting with a vengeance the intensifying spring sun, but ever-present every day in our lives for the past section. The frozen variety has proven to be the most pesky in terms of its route-altering behavior.

Take One was a hike out of Santiago in the lower mountains, where the Andes rise up from the central valley, but are not yet enormous. The higher mountains with their flattish pampas and long valleys conducive to walking are still covered in snow, and without more technical gear, are impossible to travel on foot until later in the season when more has melted. The shorter mountains leading up to the giants are in a hurry to rise from the flat valley to meet the high peaks and ridges, and so are steep and sloppy about it, leaving impossible-to-walk, craggy valleys and slopes on their way. Without ropes, and with sanity (at least some), we were rejected after a couple of very hard days and had to make only our second complete about-face of the trip, hiking out the way we came in as we went back to the library in Santiago for another good look at the topographic maps and some reconsideration of our route. We decided after hours of deliberation that the Coastal Range was the only viable option this early in the spring that would enable us to remain in the mountains.

Thus, instead of veering left out of Santiago, we shied to the right. Passing through more vineyards, we found a trail immediately that led up over a pass through a forest and next to a stream. We were more than happy with our decision. The two things that are the most exciting to both of us at this point in the journey are trails and trees, both of which have been lacking for the previous 15 months, and there they were, right off the bat. Awesome. The third most-exciting thing on the list is other hikers. Our friends that have travelled down for a visit from the States have been the only ones of those that we have encountered as of yet. But on the second day of the section, we happened to run into three guys with packs heading up into the hills for the long weekend, Philippe, Claudio, and Alfredo. We were astounded and glommed onto them immediately, altering our route slightly just to be in the presence of new friends, at last sharing the trail and a campfire with similar-minded folks. We had a beautiful hike up and a great time, reminding me that backpacking is, for many, a fun thing you do over a long weekend and not a life-choice. One of the guys in the crew, Alfredo, decided after only a small amount of persuasion to join us for the following couple of days as we continued on to Rancagua. After getting to spend more time with him, it became clear that he was an exceptional human being and I felt lucky to have his company. He provided a calm that would soon come in very handy, entertainment, as he demonstrated the different accents of Chile, and a chance to get into more depth with our conversation, which was great mentally as well as linguistically. (We had, in Santiago just after we arrived, met several very kind new friends, Johnny and Nadia and their friends, whom we spent a couple of days with, and had the chance to have slightly more in-depth friendships with, but to have that on the hike is an especially special thing.) For much of the time with Alfredo we either had a straightforward ridge to follow or a clear trail winding through trees and scrub brush. We maintained a mellow pace and took time to relax next to an afternoon brook watching water bugs. The last day was supposed to continue at the same level of intensity, with a clear trail leading over a ridge and down the other side into town in time for Alfredo to get a bus back to Santiago for his evening class (thermodynamics perhaps?—something for his mechanical engineering degree). However, the trail we elected to take to get over the ridge was not in fact the trail that actually went over the ridge. This was not made apparent until we were half-way up the mountain on a very hot day and our wide, clear-as-day trail came to an abrupt stop in the middle of thorn-rich vegetation. We were not about to turn around and redo the entire morning’s climb, so we pushed ahead with hopes that the trail would reassert itself and emerge again just above. Apparently, we were too hopeful. The trail never re-emerged and we spent six hours bush-whacking through spines and thorns and prickers and cactus up an exceedingly steep, rocky slope in soaring temperatures. Entirely ridiculous. Every time this happens we emerge at the end on the verge of tears and vow to simply turn around the next time, because it always turns out badly, and we always lose lots of time in the struggle. And yet here after so much experience, we found ourselves in perhaps the most ridiculous fight with vegetation to date. Dehydrated, exhausted and shredded, we arrived at the top, Alfredo in amazingly good spirits for the pain his feet were in and the absurdity we had just put him through. We followed the fairly clear ridge until we met up with the trail that we should have taken to begin with. Our several hours steeply down the other side was hurried, as we hoped to find water at the end of every switchback. No luck, however, until arriving at a chicken farm in the flat valley below. All of us were parched and Alfredo’s feet, in his plain black work shoes, were obviously bad off, but the water and a snack gave us the lift we needed to continue into the sunset toward town. After a dinner with our new friend, we parted and Gregg and I went about our town routine, cleaning, re supply ing, calling and route-researching.

We decided, as the Coastal Range dropped off into relative flatness, that we needed to return to the real Andes from there, trying to stay in lower in elevation where possible to avoid the snow. The trek was to start by making our way up to the small resort-y town of Termas del Flaco, where we would get a few extra days of food and head over the pass that would be our litmus test for the rest of the section in terms of do-ability in the snow. The test actually began with the town of Termas del Flaco, which was pretty much shut down until the summer season started up in November. Instead of small stores and hostels abutting the locally-famous springs, we found boarded-up buildings and pools of thick algae. A few people were there working on small construction projects, and they ended up preparing a dinner and breakfast for us, helping to save our supplies, but there was no question that we were going to head off with a lack of rations. In addition, our night spent on the porch of one of the boarded-up buildings brought heavy rains and winds, which we knew dropped snow not far above us, adding to the patchy blanket of white which we eyed anxiously from the valley below. Before we could attempt the climb to the pass, we had to make our way across the swollen river on a collection of cables and wire and fencing that was termed a “bridge.” What ensued was probably about the most awkward series of consecutive movements I’ve made. Every limb put opposing forces on the metal lines, which all moved independently, making forward progress very slow. But at least there was a way across without putting our bodies in the glacial-runoff water, which was not to be the case the rest of the way. Our climb up the north side of the ridge went smoothly enough, with only a couple small snowfields to cross, but we climbed with apprehension as we neared the top, knowing that the southern faces of the range, being in the southern hemisphere would have significantly more snow. Our tension lessened significantly as we crested the ridge and looked down, as even though there was indeed an abundance of snow, it was possible to get down. The sledding on our mats and skiing in our hiking shoes was fun only briefly before it warmed enough that we were post-holing, dropping through the snow with every step, which quadrupled the effort and soaked our feet. Then came the steepness and the rivers, which was not fun, but we made it happen. We had made it over what appeared on our maps to be the toughest pass of the section, but it turned out to be anything but the biggest challenge we were to face.

As we climbed up the next valley, the dirt road we followed slowly became more and more of an idea as larger and larger sections of it were buried in snow. Eventually, our surroundings were entirely white, save a few steep black rock faces on the surrounding peaks. We slept that night on a small island of cinders, wondering what the next several days would bring, as we were not to drop in elevation for many more miles. The next day seemed like a dreamscape out of a movie to me. White, flat, post-eye-exam bright, quiet except for my crunching footsteps, and endless. Time did not pass; we moved through the day. The only events to punctuate the day were a crossing into and back out of Argentina, marked only by the standard metal pylon poking slightly out of the snow, which labelled “Argentina” on the Argentina side and “Chile” on the Chile side. The second pylon as we re-entered Chile was broken off, and only a metal tip showed through the icy coating that was our ground. The sun moved across the sky, and it was time to camp again. The time since leaving our last camp could have been 18 minutes or it could have been 163 hours. We found another small island of cinders to camp on and called it a day.

The next day was similar with a bit more challenge. A shallow, snowy ravine brought us to a fast, rocky, pretty-deep river. Mild rapids, very cold water, and no way around it. I tried denying the necessity of our crossing it while I was waterproofing my possessions in layers of stuff-sacks and zip-locks. Even while I was stripping off layers of clothing to pack away dry and putting on my Crocs I stayed matter-of-fact about it. We put our packs back on and stared at the river, trying to figure out the post possible way about it. Gregg went first, into the frigid water, walking upstream a bit to get to an area of slightly less turbulence before pushing his way carefully and forcefully across. Still I was in denial. A minute later I stepped into the water, made my way upstream and began the process. All was fine until I realized that my feet had gone completely numb and I could no longer feel my footing on the irregular, rocky bottom. Without a secure stance and now in the strongest part of the current, I quickly realized I was done crossing this river with any sort of control or composure. The torrents knocked me down and pulled off a shoe. I pushed my way toward the other side, kicking my feet along the bottom, not sure what they were hitting or pushing off of, but knowing I was moving forward, submerged up to my neck now. I reached the rocks of the shore and dragged myself out, more than a little pissed off and upset. My feet were too numb for me to realize that my other shoe had also been pulled off, so I threw on my soggy boots and made my way up to the flat shelf where we could dry off, regain feeling (which unfortunately came with the pain of banged-up feet and knees) and composure, and have a late lunch. Not fun. But the rest of the day was slightly smoother, other than Gregg sinking through a snow-bridge and ending up face-down in a hidden stream. Luckily, he was able to warm up in the nearby hot spring (which caused the hollowing-out of his snow layer) for a minute before continuing. After a few more miles, we stopped on the only non-snow-covered patch of ground in sight, a sloped, rocky, ant-infested little outcrop of earth, which we smoothed out with our cold, soggy feet and forced into a surprisingly-decent campsite.

The tests kept right on coming. The next day brought miles and miles of rough lava flows hidden beneath the snow and gradually emerging as the valley dropped to below snow-line. Post-holing here meant falling onto jagged rock with the potential to do some damage. We began gingerly over the snow, trying to cover ground before the sun warmed the crust enough to fall through. However, as we had dropped slightly in elevation, the warmer temperatures gave us practically no time to make much distance before we were punching through to the rock below. We felt that our luck in not hitting anything too awkwardly was running out and we pushed our way toward the side of the valley where we could stay mostly on the less snowy ash and cinder piles. Fortunately, at this point we encountered a hot-spring river of milky-blue, steaming water, which melted all the snow along its banks and gave us an avenue to happily cruise down for a brief period of easy walking. Soon we were on the cinder dunes and our relatively easy walking continued, but of course not for long. The next morning we had a few more smooth miles before we were confronted with very strong winds, which, in and of themselves wouldn’t have been a problem, but as the ground was made entirely of ash and cinders, stirred up an enormous amount of debris. We were soon caked with dust and sand grains, in our hair and ears and eyes and gear. The dust clouds were so thick we were unable to see each other only 30 ft. apart. In the midst of this, we realized that the large valley that had just joined up with ours brought with it a river twice as wide as the one we had been walking next to. Inevitably, they joined to form one, and of course, we were on the wedge of land between the two, necessitating yet another glacial-runoff river crossing in strong currents. Shaken from the previous effort, I was not at my calmest about this one. My feet lost feeling well before the middle of the river again, but this time the bottom was flat, and so staying upright was possible and we both crossed without event.

From this point in the hike, according to our topo map, the GPS map, and our research on Google Earth, we were to follow a trail around the east side of a large lake. After the lake the trail would turn into a dirt road which we would follow down the rest of the valley to the road where we could get a ride down to town. So we were considering ourselves pretty much home-free, which was good since we had eaten all but a tiny bit of our already very-rationed food. We neared the lake and grew silent as it came further into view with each step. Both sides of the valley rose in sheer rock cliff straight out of the glacial lake; it had been dammed, the lake level had risen since the maps were made, and we were trapped. Without taking multiple days to climb up a very unsafe canyon back into the snows and down another very unsafe canyon on the far side of the lake, we would have to figure out a way to get across. Part of my mind was yelling “No!” repeatedly. Another part was scanning the rock walls, finding routes to climb, traversing the entire edge, like a fun kilometer-long problem. And yet another part was looking around at the dead trees remaining from before the flooding on the lake shore, thinking of ways to rig up a viable raft to float across on. I dismissed that option as silly and time-consuming, leaving the choice of negotiating the edge somehow. About a third of the edge, cumulatively, was rock slide, which we could climb over. Another third was climbable rock wall, but the last third was smooth and vertical and impassable out of the water. We would have to swim. Perhaps the greatest acute mental challenge of my life came next. When we got to the first impassable portion of wall, we sombrely waterproofed everything, took off our hiking clothes, and convinced ourselves that we could do this. We had to do this. Gregg plunged in first and I watched him paddle across to a part of the wall he could grab onto. Shocked, but OK, he reassured me that it was fine and continued. I slowly lowered myself into the water, and once done with that part, pushed off and went as quickly as possible around the corner to where we could get out on another rock slide to warm up. I found myself thinking, “We’re doing this. We’re actually doing this. This is happening.” We briefly warmed ourselves out of the water, and made another plunge, this one a slightly longer swim to a larger rock slide. We were very cold and took our time warming up, putting on dry clothes and getting in our sleeping bags. Haven taken so long to regain our heat, we debated whether or not to do another stretch, but decided that we were too cold and it wouldn’t be safe to go on, as the sun was quickly setting and we were already in shadow. We bivied for the night on the least pointy sections of the rock fall we could find, eating the broth packets and few peanuts we had left in our food bags. A beautiful full moon-rise over the lake let us know that the sun would rise directly opposite our “camp” in the morning, giving us a better shot of warming up quicker and getting out. The sun came as expected, and as we were packed-up ready to hit the frigid lake once again, the winds of the previous day made a return and stalled our departure; it was just too cold. Clouds rolled in and out and we waited, eventually deciding that we just needed to go and finish since we had absolutely no food left at this point apart from spices. We began swimming, this time with much longer distances between the rock slides to allow us to get out. We swam around corners blindly, not able to see when the next rest spot would be, and turn after turn left us with no way out, so we kept going. We finally arrived at a small cove and emerged to kill the chill, though scouting around the corner showed that we could climb out the rest of the way around the lake—rock slides and gravel beaches would bring us to the other side, fully out of the water. I was elated. We had done it. Despite the strong shivering and teeth chattering, which usually had a several minute delay upon exiting the water, neither of us was hypothermic, and we were able to hike to the dirt track that led us down to a hydroelectric facility down the valley. Even though the company was responsible for the dam that left us stranded, the workers were nothing but amazingly kind, giving us a bag of food and a ride to where the buses left for town.

We were soon amongst people and supermarkets and internet cafes and the whole deal became less solid in my mind as a reality. How can things be this simple and easy? People sitting on park benches eating hot dogs. Why do I choose, essentially, to go through what I go through when I could be here, sitting in the grass of that plaza in the sunset with a book and a bottle of Coke? Without any conscious effort or conclusion-drawing, I have found myself very happy these past couple of days in town. Not because I am appreciating all the little things more now, but because I feel like I have lived more fully. I am more aware of what I am capable of doing and how I react to tough situations beyond my full control. This knowledge is always a gift. And though I will obviously avoid similar situations whenever humanly possible, I feel more prepared now should they arise again. I think I trust myself more, which makes me very, very happy. It is a deep sense that cannot be gotten by remaining in the known and the comfortable, and perhaps that is at the core of the Why?

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Oct 29, 04:56 PM Connie Hudson said:

OH MY GOSH!!! WAIT TILL LARRY READS THIS!!!

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We had finally reached Santa Teresa, and would begin the walk just after the next beer. The sun was set, and we had decided that getting to the ruins as quickly as possible would be best. An Australian, and two Israelis would accompany us on the two hour hike up to the base on the mountain on which sits historic Machu Picchu. We had heard from several people that we may be able to avoid the outrageous $50 fee the INC charges if we left early in the morning. We figured 3:30am would be a good time as it would also afford us the opportunity to see the sun rising over the ruins. By Four o’clock there was already a steady line of people on the trail up. Apparently the secret had spread. I wasn’t expecting too much from the ruins. Visiting the number one tourist attraction in South America was something that had to be done, but that I was sure would have its compromises. We emerged from the jungle covered in brush, and after scaling a small wall, we were in… “Where is it?” Chris, our Picchu friend asked; we all knew very little about the site itself. It was only a few seconds until someone turned around. “There,” a voice rang out. It had been below us for half our climb. It was a special moment. A picture does Machu Picchu no justice at all. We have seen bigger ruins, we have seen many at this point, but there is some feeling, some special understanding that you have of the Incan People when you explore this place. A series of underground tunnels, coves clearly used for just hanging out, and endless astronomical observatories and calendars make the site truly special. Despite a bottle of water costing over six times what it does down in town, I was extremely happy to see that for the most part, Machu Picchu is as it would have been. The flocks of tourists, and a small restaurant outside the gates are the only real signs that you are in one of the New Seven Wonders of the World. The Instituto Nacional de la Cultura or INC is as good as a terrorist organization to someone who is trying to hike on his or her own. Nearly all of Cusco’s trails are blocked off by old fat men insisting that you cannot walk 7 kilometres to cross the Sanctuary which spreads for hundreds of miles around Machu Picchu, they will actually go to the lengths of trying to fight you to stop you from crossing onto the trails too. We were instructed several times that our only option was to turn around, walk a day backwards and return to Cusco to by a $50 permit, which they will only sell to you if you have a guide and you have reservations years in advance. The cover of darkness would do just fine for us, and we soon found ourselves in the Cordillera Vilcabamba. We knew that there were big peaks here including Salkantay, one of the biggest in Southern Peru. What we didn’t know is that the Cordillera consists of individual peaks rather than chains of mountains. In the mornings we would cross 16000 ft passes covered in ice, we watched in awe, jaws no doubt falling to a wide open position, as the thunderous roars warned of giant avalanches that would regularly cascade down the glaciers. In the afternoon nearly eight thousand feet below, we would walk through wet jungle trails, watching as parrots squawked by through the thick vegetation. The contrast of the range is more than remarkable, and as a result the difficulty of backpacking it without the burros and guides that everyone else seemed to have, very high. Our progress measured in crow miles achieved was slowed to a mere 5 miles a day, We were losing time fast and with the dreadful, deepest in the world, Apurimac Gorge ahead, the going wasn’t going to be getting any easier. In just one week we estimate that we covered 58,000 vertical feet. That is almost twice the height of Everest from sea level. I have never in all of my hiking felt so tired and so in need of a rest. The return of serious stomach troubles was surely not helping the matter either. Time had at this point become a very precious commodity as we were now racing to reach Queropalca, where we had last left up North. It was August 20 th, we had over 250 crow miles to go, and plane tickets for a short visit home on Sept 5th. We needed to make miles.

On the far side of the Apurmiac was supposedly the Capaq Ñan (Royal Incan Road), and that would mean a trail to follow and easier travels. We pushed across the rest of the range arriving in Abancay and to the point where the trail was supposed to be, there would be no signs of the once great path that leads from Ecuador to Argentinia and we would be forced to find our own route using the vague road maps we had. Walking nearly 12 hours straight per day, everyday, we often had to remind one another that we needed to enjoy the last portion of this section and not just rush through it. It became considerably harder to enjoy when Typhoid Fever made it nearly impossible to walk. In nearly flat plains, I was struggling more than I had in the Vilcabamba. At night dangerously high fevers would have me convinced that the temperatures outside had fallen below zero, Deia was warm in her bag. We decided a hospital was our best move and headed a day earlier than we had planned for Ayucucho. After an I.V. and only a day’s rest, there was no choice but to continue on. Through dry dessert full of more cactus that I have ever seen in one place (or felt the spines of), we would push, all the while fighting nausea, and the highly excessive explosions coming from below. From town to town, we made our way, often covering 25-30 miles a day through the now nearly flat terrain. It was the break we needed, and we covered a lot of ground. We followed upstream along the Rio Montero, rising from just 5000 ft in elevation, eventually to over 16000 ft. After about five days of the same boring slow climbing on what had now become train tracks, we had enough. We didn’t come here to walk on flat ground and certainly did not want to walk the last portion of the section bored. We left the train tracks in La Oroya and began a line directly for the Cordillera Huayhuash and Queropalca; nine days to go 100 crow miles, it was coming down to the wire. Immediately the change back to the mountains was everything we had hoped. Where we had been walking opposite a busy road just yesterday, now we could walk past high mountain lakes. Still feeling worse than anyone ever should, the change in scenery was more than helpful. We maintained a steady pace and knew that we were getting close. On the very first night out of La Oroya, we stopped walking and set up camp around 6pm, as the sun dipped behind the mountains for the night. When we constructed our tent and cooked dinner, we were on a dry patch of grass overlooking the whole valley. It was around midnight that I realized my sleeping bag was soaking wet, and that we were now camped in the middle of a two inch deep lake. What had happened, we will never know nor understand. It was a frustratingly cold night camped near 14000 ft in fifteen degrees, while soaking wet. Peru would not let us finish easily. The next evening, after some difficult navigation (still without proper maps), we found ourselves climbing to a ridge just before dark. A storm had begun build on the range to the South and we quickened our pace. It was an hour’s climb to the ridgeline and we knew that we’d have to reach it before the storm did or we would risk spending a second night very cold, and very sleepless. As we charged up to the top, bolts of lightning visibly grew closer, the sky grew darker. By the time we reached the ridge we were now in a full sprint, racing against the storm. A second storm had built on the range to the north and the two were now converging. I could see the ridge in front of us turning white with snow as we rapidly descended to find the first shelter we could. We saw a lady rushing her sheep home for the night in the distance and ran for her. We battled her dogs for entirely too long and eventually, once the barking subsided momentarily, were able to ask if we could wait out the storm in her thatch house. Fearful of the odd strangers, she told us to go further down the hill and ask her sister. The snow had now begun to fall. We reached her sister’s house and were told to wait outside while her husband returned from the fields. There was to be no waiting. By the time that we had set up our tent, two inches of snow had fallen, and the storm was now on top of us, lightning striking all around. We felt safe and warm inside our tent, as well as a little confused as to why we were not immediately told to go inside the houses.

A man was soon at our tent wanting to know who we were and what we were doing so high up in the middle of nowhere. We explained of our journey and listened as he explained his wife’s fear. We were once again the first travellers to ever pass by, and no one knew quite what to make of us. When both the Sendero Luminoso and the Peruvian government terrorized the region only fifteen years earlier, a great fear was instilled in the people of the region, now all outsiders are greeted with suspicion. We understood and graciously accepted hot tea from Sr. Nevaro who was more than thrilled to have visitors travelling on foot.

7 days, 85 miles to go. It was the next day that the sickness returned in full force. I was unable to move at any worthwhile pace, being stopped to a crawl by the slightest incline. No choice but to push on, so close seems so far when you aren’t feeling well. Gradually as we pushed on, the mountains began to grow. We knew that we were getting really close to the famed Cordillera Huayhuash, recognized as the most magnificent by many mountain lovers alike. Glaciers began to cover mountain tops and we continued on at a steady pace. It would be two days before we could begin our descent into Oyon which lies at the foot of the Huayhuash, for days we had expected to see the mountains off in the distance that would mean we had done it, that we had returned to a place we had left 8 months and 3500 miles prior. 4 days, 50 miles to go. We rounded the corner just before dark, there it was, could it really be? An eruption of tears and shouting echoed of the huge granite walls, we embraced knowing for the first time that we were going to make it. That moment was perhaps one of the greatest yet on the trip. Neither of us had previously allowed ourselves to believe that this section would ever end, that it wouldn’t go on indefinitely forever. Seeing the Huayhuash in the distance gave us an end, my emotions were not only happy. I have fallen in love with this lifestyle. It is not simply a vacation, but rather my life. For fourteen months now we have watched the land change, passed from neuron of population to neuron on an incredible mission to see and to know. The knowledge that someday this will all end was weighing on my mind nearly as much as my elation for finally feeling as if we have accomplished something. The funny thing is that we were not looking at the range at all, just some big peaks off in the distance. In fact we would not have the chance to see the Cordillera Huayhuash until we were literally in it on the second to last day. None the less, the feeling was the same. The range proved easier than we had expected, we were thankful as I was dreadfully loosing the long battle with my stomach. The end couldn’t have come sooner. We walked out of the outrageously impressive range and down to Queropalca on August 30 th, one day before we had planned nearly six months ago. The two of us collapsed in the town center completely exhausted and incredibly proud. I think that it was probably the first time that anyone had fallen in tears upon reaching the tiny town of 500 people. Locals were more than slightly confused and we received even more than the ordinarily bothersome stares. We had made it and were both relieved and very spent, but we had made it and our weariness mattered no more. Tomorrow we will fly to New York, I am not entirely sure that I am ready for the return home. For 14 months and somewhere around 5000 miles our lives have been this. It is scary and exciting to know it will change abruptly tomorrow, but we are both extremely excited to see much missed friends and family. We will spend the next month getting healthy and preparing for the next and final 2500 mile portion of the journey. When we leave from Santiago, Chile having walked from Ecuador, we will be less than a month from entering the region known as Patagonia. Yeah, I am excited.

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“So, how do you like cheese?”
Pause.
“You like cheese?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, we like cheese.”
“Alright then, I’ll come back in the morning with some cheese for you guys.”

We threw camp together one evening as a storm rolled closer. It turned out to be all talk, and so the sky cleared enough to watch the full moon rise on our right, while moments before, the sunset had exploded in a firey horizon on our left. We cooked up our dinners as the sky grew dark, and were shortly visited by a lone man with a flashlight, who had waded across the river at night to come talk to us. Huelmes lived on a farm nearby and had seen us from a distance; he came to learn what in the world we were doing. We probably had an hour-long talk about, first, the obvious questions we always foment wherever we go, but then continuing on to politics and the environment and social trends of our respective countries. It was getting late, and though we were all enjoying the conversation, Gregg and I were especially tired and the responses were becoming more sparse in our subconscious efforts to wrap up. There was a final-seeming silence. And then he hit us with the cheese question. The next morning we packed up and hit the trail without seeing him. It was not long, however, before Huelmes rode up behind us on his horse, indeed, bearing cheese from his own cows. Good stuff it was.

This is why I keep walking. Not for the cheese. It’s the completely unique encounters like this one that I know I would never in my life experience were it not for walking through South America. Como así. This last section was perhaps the most beautiful, day after day, of the past year. If that’s possible to say. And like always, along with beauty comes burl. This was not an easy section, physically or mentally, and that made the rewards that much greater.

Our more significant encounters usually take the form of homestays, but this time we had our fair share of authoridades as well. These are men from the small communities who are elected (maybe?) to have the position of “Authority.” I’m not sure what this means. But several times, we have been hiking along and have been approached by a group of them, usually wanting to know where we’re going and why so they can give us “permission” to go there. Usually for us, that’s over the nearest mountain pass on a small llama trail. In southern Peru, however, these men are very skeptical and are worried that we are miners from Chile coming to take over their valley for it’s ore. I would probably have a healthy amount of fear about that as well. However, being as it is that we are NOT Chilean miners wanting to take over a Peruvian valley, it can be frustrating to tell them what we are doing and hear in reply, “I don’t believe you,” or “yes, but what are you LOOKING for?” So far, though, once we pull out our maps and journals and photos to prove ourselves, the men are nothing but kind and often invite us to stay with them for the night.

One of my favorite encounters so far was with Sergio Aguila, who was visiting his parents to help out with the sheep and alpacas. For perhaps the first time on the trip, we had a completely open discussion about religion with someone who does not consider himself Catholic nor any other official religion. He has given his views much thought and has put together a set of beliefs that are his own. That is practically unheard of here in Peru where 96.4% of the population is Very Catholic. Just the night before we were given a pamphlet about the Bible and why one should believe everything in it, which is not an unusual happening. I have nothing against any religion, and that said, I do value personal thought within or without a religion and find it exceptional when someone comes to his own conclusions despite being in a society where accouterments of Catholicism can be found in every bus, cab, restaurant, hostel, and especially every home.

We crossed our one year point in this section, and I vowed to myself to document more of the experience in writing. I take in so much from the outside—the land and people—and by creating, I want to give back some small portion of what I’m receiving.

Our first precipitation for seven months came first in the form of rain, then sleet, then snow. We hiked through the rain before arriving in a small town where we ducked into a community hall with a group of folks also evading the wetness. Lots of questions directed toward us passed the time as we waited for the sky to clear a bit. We set up camp on a wet soccer field and woke up the next morning to a transformed white, cold, muffled, quiet world. The pass we were to climb over in a few hours was all of a sudden questionable in its do-ability. We headed up the valley toward it anyway to give it a shot, as we could always turn back and wait for the snow to clear if need be. Our company as we walked was mostly llamas munching on blades of grass poking out of the white cover. A few men walked about in the silent black and white hills and we pushed upward, greatly enjoying the complete change of feel that had me thinking of my winters growing up in the Northeast. Crossing a double pass revealed the spectacular snow caps of the Vilcanota Range, only a couple days away, and beyond any expectations we had of southern Peru’s mountains. Gregg danced. We laughed in awe and took a few pictures and headed downward where the sun had begun to melt everything. Within less than an hour, our valley was green with moss and tress everywhere and sweet flower smells. A very steep descent brought us eventually to a river through karst stone, carving its way in and out of tunnels and under hanging stalactites. We camped across the river from the small town of Uchullucio, which has seen its share of gringos.

When we find ourselves on the trail of other tourists, it’s always obvious by the way the kids run out to greet us by saying, “Da me dulce.” Literally, “Give me candy.” This is the only phrase most of them know in Spanish, as we are in a predominantly Quechua-speaking area, so only those who have started school know Spanish. Whoever the moron was who began this trend of handing out sweets has got a heck of a legacy down here. We, not wanting to further this nonsense, do not carry candy with us, nor do we hand it out. We try to interact with the kids so that their only impression of gringos is not gumball machines with legs and backpacks. Usually this is fine. Once, two girls even gave US potatoes. Some of the children get rather pissed though at not having their demand met, and so one time upon leaving a town as sugar-free as it began, we had several rocks hurled at us by a seven year old. Can’t win all the time. Waking up in the morning across from Uchullucio quickly turned after school special-esque. A group of kids stood on the opposite bank of the river and stared across at our tent. When we emerged, there was a bustle of excitement. We waved and went about our morning routine. They stared. One by one the boys ran across the bridge and hid behind a shrub to get a closer vantage point. I felt rather like how I would imagine zoo animals feel. We urged the kids to come over to us if they wanted to talk. They did, again one by one. Once a sizable portion of the original crowd was gathered around us, we began to tell them how it feels much better to be talked to instead of stared at, and how we are people just like them who have to eat and go to the bathroom, even despite our light skin and backpacks. They seemed receptive to the possibility.

From there, a long day of climbing up through a beautiful canyon (though now slightly less so due to the recent construction of a road) brought us to perhaps the most beautiful moment of the trip. After departing from the road we debated whether to head over the high pass near Azungate, the second highest peak in Peru, or wait until the next morning. It was getting late, and we weren’t sure if we could finish the climb as well as descend steeply to a camp spot before dark. We debated more, and ended up going for it. A long climb over snowy ground brought the pass into clear view as the day darkened. We hurried. Gregg, a bit ahead of me, reached the pass first, and though his face and tears gave me some idea of what I was about to see, it was not enough to keep me from being completely jaw-dropped breathless the moment I stepped up onto the ridge. Azungate’s mass looked me in the face. Across the valley and stretching out and up for miles it sat under it’s glacial robes, with orange-purple sunset clouds to its left. Beautiful. We flew down from our pass and found a campsite at the base of the glacier next to one of the lakes. For the first time in over a year, there were other campers there. There were a couple of groups returning from weather-cancelled summit attempts and one trekking group. But it was too cold to socialise, so we went to sleep, happy.

The end of the section was a lovely little trek with clear trails (for much of the way, which is all that can be hoped for), waterfalls, trees—even some in bright fall colors, an absolutely gorgeous mountain pass over a steep pointy ridge, an awkward homestay involving the mysterious disappearance of a bag of noodles, bright aqua lakes, alpacas galore, flowers in bloom and so on. A good two-day recap of the last month.

From here, the plan is to head to Machu Picchu to see what that’s all about, and then continue on toward Queropalca. We hope to pick up the Capaq Ñan again in a week and a half, which we will follow the rest of the way through our remaining Peru stint. The next update will most likely come from Huaraz, where we will reunite with our friends there before our brief visit with family. As always, thanks for your support and inspiration. Keep in touch.

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Leaving Oruro, we were falling a bit behind schedule. With more than 160 miles left to hike to the border, we were assuming that we’d need somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 days to reach Lake Titicaca, something that we have been looking forward to for more than a while. On the first day out of town, we set a trend that would last us throughout the week. Hiking well into the night, covering 25 miles a day was not as difficult as one might think. We’d make the border, our halfway mark, and the waters of Lake Titicaca in just six long days.

As we have said many times before, walking on the flat altiplano is less than exciting and probably some of the hardest hiking that we have encountered yet. It was three days out of town that we became far too fed up with the staticness, and made a b-line straight for the nearest mountains that we could see. It was a gamble seeing as we had no maps, but with our mental wellness at stake, the choice really made itself. Almost immediately as we returned home, things were better. People began showing interest in us again, there was a period of about five hours on that first day where it was extremely difficult to walk, not because of the terrain, but rather because every single household would stop us to ask about our trip. Deia commented at some point that we were yet to have a Bolivian homestay, something that seemed odd to both of us as Bolivians are amongst the kindest people we have come across yet. Not more than ten miles later, having arrived in a small town, Christina, a woman who owns the only store in town, insisted that we stay in her house. The very next evening, as we were getting ready to again push well into the night, Alfredo invited us to spend the night with his family. Whereas Christina’s house simply offered us a place to stay, the experience with Alfredo’s family was one that neither of us will be forgetting for a long time to come. Instantly upon our arrival we were welcomed, not only by Alfredo’s parents, but by his sisters, cousins, nephews, and nieces. We were invited inside and though we had asked only to use the stove so that we might cook our usual noodles and soup packets, we’d eat well into the night, being treated as if we, too, were part of the family reunion that brought relatives from far and wide. Thirteen of us would fill the one main room of the mud brick house. We laughed that night perhaps more than with any family to date as we shared stories about our hike and they told us about the Aymaran way of life. After every course including the tea, the children would get up and thank everyone in the room, both for their company and the food. The adults would follow, for ten minutes we would exchange kisses, hugs, and thankyous (always responded to with an “enjoy”). A sheepskin bed was prepared for us on the floor and we’d make the most of the very few hours of the day that this family uses to sleep, to recover from the day’s hike. By 5:30 a.m. we were up, eating our first breakfast, and getting ready to continue hiking. It was just after the sun rose at 7a.m. that I was brought outside to help prepare a sheep for the day. We selected the sheep from the pen, the machos are always most rico, and by 8:30 his ribs were on the fire and his oysters boiling in the soup. By ten in the morning this family, working all together, had accomplished more than I had ever seen accomplished in an entire day. The burros were prepared to go to town, the cows milked, the house swept, the sheep turned to meat, and goodbyes said. We walked to town with a few of the family members and continued on over the next hillside to see what we would see. Throughout the following days we would cross farmland, watching as the people of the Aymaran tribe harvested their potatoes and wheat for the season. We were often stopped along the way and given directions and wishes of happy travels, all the while welcomed as if we had returned home, I still love Bolivia.

More quickly than either of us could have imagined, we found ourselves walking alongside the monsters that make up the Cordillera Real. Illimani, Huyana Potosi, Illampu, Condorini group, although these names probably don’t mean that much to all of you, for us it meant not only the fact that we had reached a place that for so long had seemed like a far-off dream, that we had reached one of the greatest spots in the Andes, and more importantly HALF WAY! As we approached the shores of Lake Titicaca, the significance of what we had achieved definitely hadn’t yet sunk in. As we cracked out the first two beers in the plaza of Batallas, Bolivia, the awareness came; the shouts were not far behind. I wonder if there is one person in Batallas who did not see us, stare at us, and wonder what the hell was so great about reaching the center of their town. I doubt that anyone has ever been that excited before to get to the tiny forgotten town of Batallas.
A major reason that we had pushed as hard as we did, was to give ourselves the opportunity to climb another peak. Huyana Potosi is 6088 meters or 19974 feet, and one of the most incredible peaks that I have ever seen. Though it was entirely disappointing to fall 26 feet short of 20,000, I can only say that the peak was far beyond my expectations. With perfect weather ( -10 degrees or so on the summit), and with both of us actually healthy for this climb, we started up just after 2 a.m. as the snow is too soft during the day. We climbed for nearly five hours crossing narrow ridgelines and skirting between bottemless crevasses all obsured on the way up by a moonless night. After finishing the climb with a 300 ft. wall steeper than anything I have ever been on, we had done it, we had reached the summit and we embraced one another on the top. The summit itself was outrageously narrow, maybe six feet at best, with a drop off the back side of well over 4000 ft., which helped contribute to my inablity to hold back my tears. I was enveloped with emotion, alternating between screaming and shivering from the bitter temperatures. The climb had been easier than I had anticipated, perhaps a symptom of the shape we are in, but was an incredible challenge none the less. We watched the sun rise from the summit and could stand the cold no more. We have come so far, and been through so much on this trip, it is hard to say something like it was one of the greatest accomplishments thus far, but man am I proud of us!
After celebrating for a few days in La Paz, a city that has a much worse reputation than it deserves, we decided that we were much too close to the range not to trek in it. Despite the fact that it was southeast, directly the opposite way of where we have been hiking, we broke for it. Warnings soon came from seemingly everywhere that we needed guides, that surely we’d get lost never to be seen again. It was entirely too difficult for anyone to understand that we have been walking for an entire year now, that we have covered almost 4000 miles, and that we have indeed had some experience hiking in the mountains before. On the first day, we got lost. As the clouds rolled in, and the temperature dropped, we soon realized that we were no longer on the trail, that we had taken a wrong turn and could only guess exactly where we were. It is lucky for us that the peaks around were well over 20,000 ft., so with some careful triangulation, and entirely ridiculous climbing, we were back on track and once again cruising through some of the most incredible scenery that either of us have ever been in. We made it three days, jaws dropping at every pass, hands and toes freezing every morning, until we could hike no more. Descending from a ridge, entirely excited and ready to climb the one that was to follow, the soles of my shoes decided that they no longer wanted to hike, and completely disintegrated. I get upset just thinking about the fact that we had to leave that place early, there is nothing worse than not finishing a hike, even if it is only an extra side section of a 7500 mile journey. For those of you who don’t know, South Americans are short, well at least in the north they are. They don’t have big feet, shoes above size 11 don’t exist. I wear a 13. It is hard, really hard, to find shoes down here. It was about the luckiest thing in the world that there was a fair in La Paz the day after we got back and that there was a section of the fair called used American clothing. I just hope this pair of shoes lasts until Cusco.

With our window of opportunity to reach Queropalca, Peru, where we left off in the north, running out, we were unable to return to the range, and instead continued on to the orgin of man and the Island of the Sun on Lake Titicaca. I can’t say that name enough. Lake Titicaca along with Lago Popoo, the one we crossed further south, is only a tiny puddle of what was once a giant lake that went from Ecuador to the middle of Argentina, but you still cannot see land on the other side. It is more than 150 miles long and incredibly beautiful. The books describe it as the Mediterranean of South America with the added bonus of 20,000 ft peaks rising from its shores. White sand beaches and labyrinth ruins bring thousands of tourists every year. It really is an incredible place, but isn’t the mountains. The entire time we were on the lake, I was anxious to get back to the hike, to the mountains, to what I love. We did meet some awesome people, and did have a great time invading the Bolivian Navy in paddle boats (not peddle boats), so all was not a bust. As we sit tonight, still on the shores of the highest navigable lake in the world (whatever that means), I must go hiking, I must walk. I am never as happy as I am when we are walking, and after a long 14 day break from making progress towards our ultimate goal, I cannot wait any longer, I will not wait any longer. So once again without maps, tomorrow we begin hiking north in Peru. I will miss Bolivia, as it currently holds the title of my favorite country, and both of us agree that yesterday was not the last that we spend there. I just spent an hour or so looking at Google Earth to see which route we should take towards Cusco and Machu Pichu and I was incredibly happy to find that the upcoming month should be every bit as exciting as the last was. With only two months to go to link our Northern trek with this one, I am incredibly exicted, incredibly anxious, and begining to allow myself to be proud of what we have done, and are doing down here. I have been missing people a lot lately, and am excited that we will be taking a brief trip home before returning to do the last section though Patagonia. Please write, please let me know how all of you are.

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Villazon, Tupisa, Atocha, Cerdas, Tomave, Rio Mulato, Sevaruyo, Huari, Poopo, Oruro. These are the dots on our line through Bolivia so far. Sadly, we will be through Bolivia after just one more trek. Although able to celebrate our half-way mark, a huge happening for us, Bolivia has treated us well and I’m not quite ready to leave it yet.

Here’s one reason: the other day I was walking across Lake Poopo (Lago, actually), and my feet simultaneously sunk about a foot deep, each, in the mud that is the bottom. I lost my balance and fell, getting myself entirely soaked, at night, at 12,000-some feet, and along with myself, I soaked my music, my little mp3 player, my lifeline on the really rough, long, painful stretches of the hike. I was quite bummed. Back home, that probably would have been curtains for my little musical device, but here in Bolivia, they have lots of things that make sense, like people who fix things. Every block in every city has repair people, of shoes, of clothes, of electronics, of watches, whatever needs fixing. And these fix-it people (we’ve been to many) are exceptionally competent and quick and affordable. I now have my music revived and kicking for less than four bucks. Shoes can last an extra two months for a couple dollars and a half-hour wait. Pants, an even longer life extension. It’s beautiful. Whereas at home it’s common to chuck or donate objects in various states of disuse, here, they are easily and commonly given another chance. This reduces waste (which is a good thing, since unfortunately dump=river here), is much easier on the wallet, and encourages a different way of thinking about possessions as things to be valued for years and not disposables.

But that is just one small reason that Bolivia is great. Also, the land is spectacular. In a country one and a half times the size of Texas, you get the Canyonlands-of-Utah-caliber rock formations, 21,000 ft. spectacularly beautiful peaks, and dense jungles. The cities have cobblestone streets, beautiful colonial-period cathedrals, great food, completely modern communications, and a broad mix of folks. Do I sound like a Lonely Planet intro paragraph here? Most likely not, actually, since the first thing Lonely Planet says is how poor a country Bolivia is.

Had that not been drilled into my head by every guide and article about the country, I would have no idea from actually being here and walking through it that that is the case. It may have the worst exchange rate with the dollar, but in and of itself, I’ve found it to be completely comfortable and lovely. Indeed, everything is exceedingly cheap here when thinking in terms of dollars (or cents, often), but equal or better in quality to things anywhere else. The people we have come upon out on the puna who make their living herding sheep and living in mud-brick houses and cooking over fires may not have a dime worth of Boliviano centavos, but they certainly have good food that they raise and grow themselves, and which they are exceptionally eager to share, strong families, and practically free health care. So are they poor? I certainly don’t think so. Gregg and I were on a beeline toward Tomave (or where Tomave was supposed to be anyway) over a huge open pampa, when we passed fairly close to a isolated house and accompanying out-structures. One of these structures was a ring of branches serving as a wind block, as inside the ring, a family sat cooking around a fire. As we neared it, all we could see, however, were a sequence of faces popping up over the edge of the ring and then settling back down. We neared to say hi. The mother yelled at us to come join them and sit down, scrambling to get a block and sheep pelt covering for us to share so we didn’t have to sit on the ground. We sat and looked back at about seven faces, five kids ranging from one to twelve and two women. The mother yelled to her eldest son to get bowls and spoons from inside. He ran in the house, leaving the door open to reveal two more kids and some goats on the table. The bowls were immediately filled with soup upon their arrival in the circle and handed to Gregg and I. We protested, not wanting to take their food and wanting to limit our time not hiking. The refusal was refused, outright. We were eating soup, and it was great. We talked with the family (minus the father, who was out working) about what we were doing and about their school and language and learned a few Quechua words (they were obviously completely bilingual), and then received the second course of rice and potatoss and lentils and meat, also without choice, and also excellent. We followed this with a little geography/map and compass session, with our map of Bolivia on the ground and lots of intrigued faces pouring over it and fingers pointing to familiar names and places. We regretted not being able to hang out and talk the rest of the day with them, but we walked away after goodbyes feeling like we had been gifted a reminder of what makes this experience what it is: wonderful.

The walking as of late, has been exceptionally flat. We are still high up in the Andes, but we have been crossing our share of dried-up lake valleys. Flat walking means more miles every day, and it also means more pain for the body due to the repetitive motion and impact. Until you do something like this, you wouldn’t expect that we would crave uneven terrain and ups and downs, but indeed, flat does not turn out to be easy. Lago Poopo, which I mentioned earlier, is part of what was once a huge lake covering much of the Altiplano from Ecuador to Chile and including the present Lake Titicaca and Salar de Uyuni. Now, however, the salt lake ranges from shallow to completely dry, with mud cracks and salt crystals and all. We thought, and were backed up by advice from locals, that these conditions meant that we could walk across the “lake” as it is shown on our map, taking a much more direct route toward La Paz and Titicaca. All started well, and sure enough, it was dry and fast walking for a few days. Once we got to the supposedly narrowest portion of the lake, though, things got a bit wetter. Starting with mud and puddles, we kept at it. The puddles transitioned into canals that needed to be waded across and the mud turned increasingly stickier and deeper. Soon we were surrounded by water up to our ankles and pushing through reeds. Houses stood abandoned periodically on small islands, which we stopped at to warm our feet. The water deepened, the mud below it deepened as well. Mid calf, knee, mid-thigh, waist. The sun was setting and it was getting colder, and we were more and more aware of how S.O.L. we were going to be if this trend continued. Coming to a row of occupied houses on a slightly larger dry patch, we tried to ask some sheep herders if it would be possible to cross, as we were told it was, and as our map indicated by showing a road over the area marked as lake. Unfortunately for us, the women only spoke Quechua and we were unable to get a clear answer through arm gestures. We then came upon a younger man, who, in perfect Spanish, told us that we needed to turn around, that the lake was, indeed, impassible right now on foot. As his cows swam across a channel next to us, illustrating his point, we turned around, defeated, and bracing ourselves for a cold and muddy return through what we had just made it through, this time, without the sun. It was soon into this next portion that I was half-swallowed by lake muck and opaque water. We made it, however, to the town of Poopo, some 7 km away, where we got a hot dinner and argued with the only alojamiento in town that they did indeed have beds since nobody else was staying there. After some time, the kid running the place admitted that we were right and took us from the room with the floor to the very empty room with the beds. Floors and ground are usually just fine, but after falling into a lake and hiking wet and muddy through the dark, that foot-high separation from the tierra was a comfort.

Wanting to make up our lost time due to our now-longer route, we decided to walk the entire 30 miles to Oruro the next day and night. The day lagged on, but the night turned out to be one of my favorite hikes so far. As our map showed, the railroad did indeed go right over the lake. On a few-meter-wide land bridge that stretched nearly ten miles, the tracks led straight toward town, a few lights in the distance as we set out. With water on both sides of us, we walked with the full moon looking over our right shoulders. More birds than I have ever seen in one area played and splashed and sang on both sides of us. Flamingos strolled by and ducks sprinted over the lake surface away from us as we neared them. The night was quite surreal and magical, following these steel rails the whole way across this expanse of water, taken over by avians. Some hours later, we arrived. Finally hitting the 30 mile mark, and feeling pretty good for it, and finally timing a night hike to correspond with a full moon.

From here we head out toward La Paz, where we will be just shy of the Peruvian border, and halfway through with this project. That will bring much in the way of feeling and reflecting, but that’s for next time.

Thanks for keeping up with us. My love to my family, as always. And it’s great to hear from you all, it keeps us feeling connected, so drop a line. Enjoy spring, you northern hemisphere folks!

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As we have progressed nearly 3300 miles on this hike one thing has remained clear, becoming the first people to do this thing is not easy. The Northern region of Chile is an area marked by high plateaus and very little water. Salt flats render what little water there is undrinkable, and therefore long distance trekking nearly impossible. Additionally, walking along the salt flats, which are very flat to say the least can definitely get to us.

Long days with little change in scenery and nothing but time to think has been the norm for this portion of the hike. After several hundred miles with very questionable sources for drinking, knowing that we still have an incredibly far distance to travel and struggling to find the motivation to do so, we made a break for the Eastern slope of the Andes taking us across the border and well into Argentina. Having heard that the water situation is only slightly better in Argentina, we hoped to find greener pastures, but were unsure to say the least.

It was an extremely difficult thing for us to find ourselves standing in yet another salt flat at the beginning of our first trek on the Eastern Slope, again with no water, again with many flat miles to walk. We pushed on as we always do, crossing the 15 mile dry salty pond, and hoping that on the other side would be something to celebrate.

It was about 1500 ft above the flats, as we continued our steep climb up that we indeed would find a spring and renewed hope for the months to come. As it turns out, the Salar below Lagunas Blancas would be our last salt flat for a long time and Northern Argentina would prove to be one of the most incredible places we have yet encountered.

In the past month we have found ourselves walking through what has been some of the most beautiful and diverse regions of the trek thus far. A week ago today, we were walking through jungle at 1000ft above sea level. Three days ago, we crossed a 16,200ft pass. We have been in hot springs, glacially fed rivers, dessert, and wetlands.

We have been in the depths of 5000ft high canyons, and on top of very very high peaks. Perhaps more important than all of this however, are the people that we have met here, both local and travelling. Connection is something both Deia and I have struggled with while down here. Afterall, it isn’t easy to leave everyone you know for 10 months, let alone 2 years that this will end up taking in total.

Just as we needed it the most, after Paul had left for Patagonia, and we found ourselves missing home a lot, we ran into Craig and Jody. As the four of us sat around a table in Cafayate, Argentina exchanging stories of Mountain Lions, bed bugs from their travels in Southeast Asia, life in the outback of Australia, and life on a very long trek, I again realized how important friends are.

We would spend several days with Craig and Jody just hanging out, before they would move on in their world tour and us in our South American journey. In the weeks surrounding Easter and what is called Semana Santa or Saint week, travellers (mostly from Buenos Aires) swarm the lesser known parts of the country.

This would be our first experience travelling in tourist season down here, and it makes so much difference to have like-minded people around. Though the vast majority of the people we have met are not hiking (we have only met one other group of hikers on this entire trip) sharing stories from around the world, nights spent playing music, and simply enjoying a beer with friends is something I have greatly missed and needed.

Addtionally, Paul returned from Patagonia this past week to join us for a few hundred more miles. Having a touch of home with us is something we will positively miss when he moves on next week. It has really meant a lot to have a friend from home travel so far to see us and what we are doing down here.

As we have neared the Bolivian border, we have also noticed an incredible change back to the way things were further to the North. Traditional costumes, menus of the day, and a very strong connection to the land have again become the custom.

The people of Northern Argentina by no means have much money (even when compared to the rest of Argentina) but are readily willing to share what they have. It is kinda funny, but in our experience down here, it seems that the people who have the least want to give the most.

My understanding of this fact comes with the knowledge that what they do have is all that is really worth sharing anyway. As we have again been welcomed in homes, on property, and simply in conversation by the locals, I have continued to feel an incredible bond to people as human beings.

I was walking with Paul the other day talking about how much I do feel as if I belong here, how much I feel like I belong anywhere I want to go in our world, how welcome anyone should be anywhere they choose to go, basically a much greater understanding of my part of one human race, I like that. Currently we find ourselves about four days from the Bolivian border. Though it has been an incredibly full period here in Argentina, I find myself very ready for change, very ready to move on. As we become more and more accustomed to life down here, my mind continues to wander to future places and times in my life. We are about 500 miles from reaching the halfway point of the hike. Sounds crazy, huh? Well it sounds crazier to us. So much we have experienced and struggled through in the 23 degrees of the globe that we have walked thus far.

At times that distance seems so endless and yet so confining. At this point, we are pushing ourselves to reach the point where we left off in Peru by September, which will allow us just enough time to get through Patagonia before winter hits next April. We are very much looking forward to a return to the culture of the Northern countries of South America and to experiencing a new country. Despite some mental challenges, I remain extremely committed to the hike, and very optimistic about months ahead. Please write and share your lives with us, it helps a ton to hear from home.

2 Comments so far

Apr 24, 09:41 PM Jim said:

Guys I’ve seen or heard about a lot of long term journeys – whether they be Peace Corps, treks, wanderings, meditating in the mountains – but the best measure is doing things no one else has, getting so off the beaten path that seeing a backpacker is a novelty.

Doubtlessly the 2 years or however long will profoundly change the course of your lives. You will be road junkies forever.

May 1, 02:51 AM Mike said:

I wish both of you the best of luck! I can’t imagine how such an amazing trek will change the way you see and interact with the “normal” world when you return.

I’m so envious of your journey and will be checking back here regularly. Keep us posted!

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