Asleep at 10,000 feet

We left Chachapoyas, the quiet mountain town, for the wild jungle and the valleys to the south. I spent a few hours puzzling together a topo map for the journey, pieced from rough Google Maps screenshots, as literally none are available. We took a collectivo (shared taxi minivan) to a town called Lamud. Lamud was a three-car town, set around a red-brick square planted opulently with roses. Nothing much happens there, but in case somthing does, there is a 12´statue of Jesus looking over the city from a hill above. We played cards in the sun, chatted with folks walking through town. We also traveled entirely too far to see a cave that though it was full of human remains, was rather a pain in the ass in the end.

And then the journey began. We had to make a map, because this is not a trek that many, or any people do. It takes an old Inca trail from Cohechan, south, to Choctamal. We had no idea how to do it, how long it would take, but Elliot was our navigator, and we were armed with candy bars (terrible) and a few tins of fish. Little did we know that tinned fish would taste like the finest braised seafood by the end. Tour agencies offer a short version of this trip, that lasts 4 days, but only requires 4 hours of hiking a day, at a price tag of $1,400 per person. But that´s just not how we do it in Alaska.


We started out being dropped off by a cab driver at the top of the hill in Cohechan. He pointed up an old Inca trail, and we went. We walked for 8 hours, and finally began to desecend into the Valley of Belen. This place is indescribable. It sits between two mountains, but is perfectly flat. Impossibly green,the great expanses of clover are mowed by horses--and the most beautiful cows-- that lounge and wade into the river that glitters serpentine through the center of the valley. We camped under bright stars across the river from a herd of horses that included at least three new foals, who proved to be highly entertaining, with their new, wobbly status of being upright. Elliot, Maegan and Eli obviously didn´t have much experience with livestock, and regarded the horses and cattle like they would moose or bears. We passed big, gorgeous Braunviegh bulls blocking the trails, and they froze. A hiss, a click, and a flick of the wrist, and he would move, and I was regarded as some kind of cow tamer.

The next day we began to walk out of the valley and up. And up. We walked up an old road, which was rumoured to be impassible by vehicle. By road, I do mean a 10-foot wide trail. When we got to the top, we heard the sound of large equiptment moving earth, their bleack back-up signals adding to the din. The pass, at 3,000 meters, was about 5 feet deep in the blackest mud, and reddest clay I´ve seen. A dump truck was being pushed by a D-8 with a scoop on the front. No luck. Men and boys doffed their hats and smiled, leaning on shovels.

We walked at the altitude for awhile, but began to descend into the valley village of Colgon. It is mostly a farming village, growing coffee, tea and bananas. We must have walked through miles of coffee bushes. It began to get dark, and camping in towns is always sketchy, but Elliot found a spot under a big tree in a coffee grove. The next day, we sat down by the river eating the tinned fish. It was labeled ¨Filletes de Caballah¨, which at once made me think of Madonna. The brand of fish? ´Jesus de Mar´ ( Jesus of the sea). After 10 hours of hiking, it sure tasted like it.

Then we began an entire day of screwing around being lost. I have a terrible sense of direction, I have ever since I met Elliot and his magically guided self. He is somehow endowed with the ability to read landscapes and apply it to poorly constructed maps. But when The rest of us insist on going one way, he kind of let us. The trail was bad, and the locals we talked to said to follow the river, but we didn´t want to lose elevation, so we climbed about 800 feet before realizing our mistake, but it was beautiful, through sugarcane fields and cloud forests. Orchids everywhere, bromeliads hanging from every tree. Hummingbirds the size of pigeons that sound like choppers everywhere. Also, bright yellow, red, and black milipedes about 4 inches long, so cute and slow. We backtracked, Elliot used whatever super-human sense he has, and we followed a clearcut straight down. It ended in the dark jungle that is commonly featured inmovies: a mass of vines, thorny bushes and wet seeping green. Elliot plunged through it. He nearly dissapeared, swallowed, into it. This is why I wanted to buy that machete a week ago. I followed, literally throwing myself into the bush, as the ground gave way into a steep cliff. As I fell, vines and brambles tangled and wrapped around me, like in a cartoon, making me almost hang legs and arms akimbo. I slowly fought them, descended, dropping foot by foot. I heard Elliot whoop. I didn´t see anything but leaves and thorns and moss and insects. I gained velocity. I started falling in earnest, grabbing the bamboo the vines and branches. Creedence Clearwater Revival´s Run Through the Jungle played on repeat. And then it spat me out, and I saw sugarcane swelling and swaying like the tide of the ocean. Elliot sat on the stone-cobbled Inca road, bloodied and smiling. Trail found.

We went back down to the river, into lower jungle. the river crashed to our left, and the jungled roared to our rights. Flocks or Amazon parrots bickered above, and green exploded from every surface. We came into a forest right as the sun was falling below the mountains, and slept next to a stream, under huge trees fluttering with moths and fireflies.

We pressed on the next morning, after splitting the second tin of canned fish 4 ways, we began to climb. And climb. It was the hardest hiking I´ve ever done, through eroded trails, rocks and sandstone that got between my sandal and my foot and began to grind away. The most surreal landscape surrounded us- red bromeliads, stunted ohia trees, ferns, waterfalls, bamboo, jewel-coloured beetles and bugs. Butterflies and hummingbirds flitted around easily, while we heaved our bags through mud, cow shit, loose rocks and streams. Elliot´s positivity was ridiculous. We talked about food. After hiking up and down 3,000m mountains for 4 days, on 3 tins of fish, we talked about potatoes at length. How do you like to eat them? Baked if there´s salt and pepper. I really like salsa. Who else likes salsa? We all like salsa. What do you look for in a corn chip? Thin or thick? What would you put into yogurt if you had it? What kind of yogurt? How many burritos could you eat right now? Do you like artichokes better than avacadoes? Why is popcorn so good? Oooh, nachos!

We passed a mud-brick house owned by a family that lived on the saddle. They had two dogs, a cat, and an orchid garden out back. The woman invited us in, and insisted that we see her orchid garden, even though it wasn´t blooming. We oohed and ahhhed over the beautifl greenery, and she swept her hand over the vast expanse of mountain her home faced.
¨It is far from things, but look at this beautiful view.¨, she said, smiling. Two of the most healthy looking bulls sauntered past us, motivated by nothing more than a length of rope tapped against their flank, snatching furiously at the clover as they walked.

Just when I thought I would die, Elliot came and grabbed my hand. We were near the top, and he wanted to go up together. This would have been nice, if it hadn´t been for the 3 false peaks we´d reached, then wound around endlessly. The hike became a meditation. Step. Breathe. Don´t look up. Step. Breathe. Cow shit. Breathe. But this one was the real deal. it looked out upon endless rows of mountains. And at the bottom, Choctamal. We were at 3,600m, and heading down for the first time in days. We arrived in the town, and met an old woman knitting. Chickens slept in the trees. The only sound was of animals. A young man on a motorcycle drove past, then took us to his father´s hotel, where we ate like kings, Lomo Saltado- beef with onions and tomatoes on rice and potatoes. We were captivated by Yanni, Bryan Adams, and other ¨Love Ballad¨videos that the owner kindly popped into the DVD player for us. We retired to our room, but the light started attracting....things. Moths the size of my hand pounded their bodies against the lead glass, and several yellow and pink ones slipped under the door, driven mad by the light. Then we heard a low buzzing. Deep, like a Chinook helicopter. It sounded like it was coming from the door. Then a huge orange beetle slowly emerged, hovering at the foot of Maegan´s bed, wings working to elevate it´s girth, legs splayed, stretched towards us. I tapped it with a book, and scooted him under the door. The next morning, he was there, on his back, golden velvety fur of his underbelly showing. About 3 inches long, with a wingspan of 6 inches, he was helpless. I turned him over, and he trodged drunkenly away.