Ancohuma is a high mountain in the Cordillera Real of the Bolivian Andes. Until a team of three American teenagers and one adult guide collected summit data in 2002, its elevation had never been determined. There was conjecture up to that point that its height was possibly over 23,000 feet, which would have made it the tallest peak in the Western Hemisphere, but that turned out not to be the case. It ended up being 21,079 feet- tall, but not the tallest.
Goal chosen wisely,
Journey planned well.
The unknown awaits,
With stories to tell.
The first step is telling,
Confirms the intent.
Each one that follows,
Will surely augment.
Calm and smooth sailing,
Is widely perceived.
The plan moves on forward,
Just as conceived.
Cloudless skies and well-marked trails,
Stoves that work and wind-filled sails.
Cars that run and sturdy shoes,
Healthy heals and happy news.
But then,
A storm looms to the west,
The trail sign is gone.
There’s no way to cook food,
Good breezes allude.
The engine won’t start,
Your boots come apart.
Big blisters have formed,
The news has transformed.
When plans go awry,
And you wonder why.
Don’t cry for what’s not,
Think of all that you’ve got.
Be excited when curveballs,
Come your way.
Because then is when,
Real adventures begin.
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Embrace the time and place,
That puts a smile upon your face.
Wallow in it,
Soak it up,
Savor the moment,
Pour it in your cup.
Plant the vision in your mind,
Tell the story to remind.
The memories don’t have to disappear,
Or become less clear.
For me, I still….
Feel the river jostling my canoe as I marvel at the sunrise over the Del Carmens.
Ponder the quiet of the Tarryall Mountains as I lean against a rock on the top of Bison.
Taste the Tuna Surprise we ate on Mount Borah.
Am amazed by the midnight sun as it finally begins to set over the Kahiltna Glacier.
Hear the Popo Agie River roaring while I search for a good place to camp.
Feel the flow of the Puke Loop when I finally point my bike downward.
Make the right combination of moves near the top of the Rock Staircase.
Turn my eyes away from the blowing wind and snow as I near the top of Huayna Potosi.
See the Milky Way come to life as I look up from my bivouac in the Winds.
Walk to the cadence of the Semana Santa drums in Copper Canyon.
Smell the campfire telling me how to get back.
Each instant a wonder,
A tale of its own.
Remember and treasure,
Help it be known.
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People, places,
Visions, and faces.
Pictures, stories,
And skimpy traces.
Thoughts, dreams,
And blurry schemes.
Memories, tales,
And forgotten trails.
Colors, voices,
And always choices.
Before, after,
And often laughter.
Luck, mistakes,
Clear alpine lakes.
Gushing fountains,
And foggy mountains.
Breathing hard,
And hardly breathing.
Winning, losing,
Always amusing.
Hard, easy,
And sometimes queasy.
Win, lose,
And one time wheezy.
Upward, downward,
Often inward.
Planning, hoping,
Incessant coping.
Bluebird days,
And starry nights.
Scary heights,
And distant lights.
Peaceful summits,
Windblown meadows.
Forgotten canyons,
Where no one goes.
Hot and thirsty,
Cold and dry.
Frozen toe,
And sweaty eye.
Lost and found,
And outward bound.
Profound, astound,
At times renowned.
So many moments,
All melted together,
And frozen in time.
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Early morning,
New day awakes.
Sights and sounds,
Sunrise astounds.
The night would like to linger,
But all to no avail.
Late gives way,
And darkness fades,
The stars begin to pale.
A glow erupts,
Rocks and forest and grass appear.
All eyes look up and anticipate,
The coming of the sphere.
Wispy clouds turn red and orange,
The heavens seem afire.
But clear skies soon will overwhelm,
When full sun takes the helm.
Ghostlike forms of deer and rabbits,
Squirrels and bats,
And wily cats.
Streak past as they flee the night,
As though to hide from certain light.
It’s almost dawn,
The grass is wet.
Turkey’s gobble,
But no orb yet.
Then suddenly in the eastern sky,
There it is.
The Sun ascends,
The day is nigh.
All is new,
And hope awaits.
Then magically,
Life celebrates.
And to think it happens every day,
No matter what we do or say.
So, in the morning look to the sky,
Your slate is clean, just wonder why.
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Into the night,
Intently gaze,
And while you do,
A mystery plays.
There were 9 teenagers in Will’s group. He was sure of it. He knew each of them by both their name and quantity of snacks they possessed. They’d been backpacking in the boonies for 10 days and he’d headcounted them a bunch of times. Making sure everyone was accounted for, was one of his prime responsibilities as the group leader. The nine kids and two leaders made for a total group size of 11, a fact engrained in his mind.
No boundaries here,
Just rocks and snow,
And brutal gales,
That often blow.
There’s cold and rivers
That give you shivers.
And desert heat,
That can’t be beat.
You’ll sink in mud,
Wade many creeks,
Cross deep canyons,
And struggle up peaks.
The drizzle and rain
Will drive you insane.
Cold and numbness
Will mess with your brain.
Mountains will block you,
Jungles will hide you,
Crevasses confound you,
And dryness astound you.
Without a doubt,
There will be dirt,
Thirst, and hunger-
And sometimes hurt.
But,
After the summit,
It’s all downhill.
You’ll snooze and cruise
And know the thrill.
Of facing hardships
That come your way,
And dealing with them,
Come what may.
If you persevere and reach
Whatever goal it is you seek,
You’ll soon forget the pain and strife,
That took you up that mighty peak.
So,
Take on each challenge,
And don’t give-in,
Move always forward,
Become the wind.
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Out on the trail,
Leaning against a rock,
Cooking supper, and
Watching the water boil.
I’m hungry,
But have to wait.
And so,
I feast on tales.
We begin with a story
About noodling for Catfish.
Which seamlessly leads to
A discussion of Black Holes.
And then, there’s a description
Of how to set a cedar fence post
In rocky ground.
The lasagna will take 20 more minutes,
But no worries…….
Because there’s plenty more food for thought,
Waiting to be had.
Further proof
that dessert,
Is often
Best eaten first.
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Take the broad shoulder
Above the Upper Lake
To the North Ridge.
Then, follow it up to an obvious headwall.
Bypass that to the east
And gain the summit pyramid.
Thirty degrees,
Mixed terrain.
One step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Dirt, rock, then snow.
Be careful
With your feet.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Crampons,
Balling up.
Tap with
Your ice axe.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Look to the west,
And see the mountains
Create the horizon.
Step.
Rest,
And breathe.
The rope,
Keep it
On the downside.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Chunks of snow,
Sliding
Down the slope.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
The tie-in,
Check
The knot.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Ice axe,
In the
Uphill hand.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Don’t fall,
But be ready
To self-arrest.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Blue sky overhead,
Cloud build-up
In the west.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Hot and thirsty,
Snow and ice
Everywhere.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Wind,
Slapping
The face.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Keep following
The trail
In the snow.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
The top,
Over there and
Not so far.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Steeper,
But only
For a short distance.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Water,
Got to stop
To take a drink.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
That has to be it.
The summit ridge,
Straight on up to the top.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Plumes of snow,
Being blown
Over the top.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Everything,
Seems to be
Below.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Which one
Is the actual
Summit?
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
Pain,
Lungs burning, and cold feet.
Joy.
Step,
Rest,
And breathe.
No more up.
No time to rest.
Don’t waste your breath.
Just one more step.
The top.
Soggy sky,
Fog and mud,
Mountain pass,
Another rut.
Land Cruiser,
Bikes on roof,
Brazilian driver,
And a dirt road that wanders.
Six with driver,
All cramped inside.
Hours of driving
Relentless ride.
A lot of dozing,
Engine droning,
And a Pink Floyd song
Floats through the speakers.
A dream, he wonders?
Over the crest
And then we stop.
Unload the bikes,
Attach the wheels,
To Sorata we ride.
No need to pedal,
It’s mostly down,
But check your brakes,
Control your speed.
Intriguingly,
We’re riding a fine line,
Between old world and new.
Muted colors of the Altiplano,
Wool Ponchos, and Fedora’s.
Brilliantly contrasted
With lightweight bicycles,
Colorful jerseys and helmets.
Soon, the town appears
In the valley below.
No surprise- the map said it would happen.
So, on down we go.
Get to town,
Find the hotel,
Unload the stuff,
Take a shower.
But there’s no water.
So,
Take a nap,
Wander the hallways.
Consider the snake skins,
Along with some maps.
And then it happens,
The water comes back.
Wash off the road,
Break-out the wine.
Finally, it’s time to tell the tales.
While there was nothing gruesome,
Or crashes that day,
There is still so much that remains to say.
Ultimately, it’s off to sleep.
Quiet time to wonder, ponder, and dream.
About the things to yet unfold.
Some will seem profound, others trivial,
Many unexpected, and all amazing.
And each with a story
That begs to be told.
For what it’s worth
A word of advice…
Embrace the unknown,
Hang on for the ride,
Travel the road,
Make adventure your guide.
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