“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people just exist.” -Oscar Wilde

Day 6, 11/26/16

And on this day, we lived, if only for a moment.

Today began as an ordinary day on the trail, but would unfold to reveal hidden weaknesses, unexpected triumphs, and heights previously unimagined. I don’t speak of literal heights, as the descent of the previous day fed us into the mouth of the Peruvian rainforest, but more the heights that reside in the mind and change you.

We started the morning on a snack of bread, a shared Vega protein shake, and “Casinos,” a newly found favorite cookie (for energy, don’t judge!). Our campsite was adjacent to the sixth and final building on the town’s singular road, so we found ourselves quickly on our way. Our packs seemed lighter this day; whether it was because we had grown accustomed to the weight, or we had eaten all the food we brought, I’m not sure which is more true.

Over a bridge, up a small dirt path, and we were officially out of Chaullay and into the next town (a term I use very lightly) in an effortless 45 minutes. The first building in Colcabamba was a combined campamento, cocina and tienda run by Reyna, a most congenial young hostess who talked proudly of ancient ruins only 2 days walk away, but seemingly as distant as a dream, attainable if only she could abandon her business however briefly.

We gulped down our fist real breakfast in days while being entertained by a group of baby chicks stealing corn back and forth from each other’s beaks like unconscious thieves. One incredibly listless dog lay nearby without so much as a breath detectable from under the roughage of his shaggy mange. This was a serene place that only stirred momentarily when two unruly pigs created a scuffle in the middle of the dusty road causing enough commotion for the sluggish dog to jump into action, only to return to his shady patch on the dirt floor when the coast was clear. The scene left us simultaneously amused and relieved to see that this dog was in fact alive. We left in haste feeling satisfied and eager in equal measure.

The trail plummeted from the outskirts of Colcabamba to the river’s edge in short switchbacks. Unexpectedly, the steep decline triggered a previously unrealized fear, threatening my primal instinct to live, and seizing my entire body with panic. I made my way like a sweat-stricken toddler grasping the edge of the coffee table or anything that would support me; in this case pencil-thin roots sticking out of a crumbling dirt wall. Matt bounded down in large steps with the freakish grace of Baryshnikov or maybe a mountain goat, leaving me filled with envy and frozen with fear. His casual 10-minute descent was my nightmarish 30-minute horror. I hit the bottom in a stumbling jog wondering why I had never realized this fear. A lifetime of carefulness came to mind: strangely running down the hill at Pritchett baseball field with my arms out for balance, my mom lovingly giving up the front seat to my car sickness on long rides, the nauseating feeling experienced in small planes, and an overly-cautious slow and steady pace on the down sloping cobbles back in Cusco. I uncovered a deep need to be flat on the ground which I didn’t quite understand, but that would come back to haunt me later this day.

The terrain bowed graciously allowing streams to peek from the hillside, quickening on their way to meetings with a raging river below. Gnarled branches fashioned into gates and bridges brought us safely through the trail and over the currents, and generous boulders formed natural stairs rivaling the most sculpted zen gardens in the pages of Architectural Digest.

Wild orchids unfurled petals with quiet vibrance while spanish moss draped from trees as if precisely placed for ambiance. The scene was so magical I almost expected to see the lights of faeries guiding the way, but instead, tiny mountain strawberries grew so lushly that we followed them all day, occasionally pausing to enjoy their sweet-tart richness.

Distracted by the surroundings but with a vague awareness of a need to check the solar battery charger strapped to his pack, Matt continued on when it slipped from the velcro and tumbled down a steep drop off, coming to rest in the underbrush 10′ below our feet. Not willing to leave behind such a valuable lifeline (although we had a spare), and with a constant desire to enhance the adventure, he was determined to reach it. I lay flat on the trail clinging to both backpacks for added weight, and Matt grabbed my foot, lowering his body over the ledge ever so carefully until all I could see was his hat. He stood on branches growing out of the hillside and pulled off a go-go-Gadget meets Indian Jones maneuver. Success! I’m convinced that Matt’s safety was a direct result of my repeated shoutings for him to “Be careful!!” With exuberant high-fives, we shook off the dust and continue down the trail.

When we passed the outpost known as Winaypocco, a mere pair of houses and a vineyard of granadilla or passionfruit, a glancing sun whispered the need to make quick time. With assistance gained from an actual breakfast, the lowered altitude, and the gratitude we shared for the unimaginable beauty of this landscape, we began to run. Gratitude became a game: how many things could we be thankful for? With 30 pounds on our backs, we scrambled up and down the forested mountainside for over an hour with newfound ease. A feeling only comparable to a runners high swept over us. The more we ran, the more thankful we became, and the more thankful we became, the easier it was to run. The nearly indescribable feeling was a centering, a connection within; and though I was not free from pain, my ear to ear grin could not be diminished.

We never asked, so we never knew the reason the tour groups skipped this day on the trail; on some adventurous level we didn’t want to know. We stumbled upon the reason when the trail split into two equally arduous choices: climb an impossibly steep mudbank or tiptoe along the razor-thin edge of a crumbling rock slide. A red arrow painted on a large stone pointed upwards so, against our better judgement, we ascended the mud path, ending at a house persistently guarded by pesky dogs, so back down we went. On the way down, a slippery spot on a tight corner took me to my knees while Matt looked on in alarm. A fall toward my left would have forced me over the edge of the highest cliff of the day, but luck was on my side as I angled my body to the right on the way down, ending up with only a badly bruised knee for the rest of the trip.

Dusty and delicate, the foreboding ridge we tried to avoid tested our lightness of foot as crushed mica sparkled and slipped from beneath each step, cutting away the already narrow path as we travelled. We passed to the other side with palpable relief and continued through a fruit-filled paradise until the setting sun shone on beach-like sand signifying that we had finally reached La Playa, our resting place for the night.

As we collapsed happily into the tent, I wished to remember these moments: the sights and smells of the forest and the energy we felt, and as I write, with grace and grateful heart – I do.