While Jerry uploads our photos, I thought I'd give a preview of our trip in the form of some of my writings from the trip.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
We arrived yesterday to El Cocuy and registered with the National Parks Service, bought some last-minute supplies, and were on our way. We caught a ride to the farm of Miguel Herrera. He possibly has the best mustache I've ever seen. He also fits the stereotype of a Boyacense (note: Boyacá is the department, or state, that the park is located in) campesino - brownish/black hat, ruana, and extremely nice and polite. Andrés negotiated with Don Miguel for he and two horses to pick up our packs the following day and carry them to our next destination. After leaving Don Miguel's place, we walked about an hour and a half to the first campsite. It proceeded to rain while Jerry and I napped.
It rained the entire night - and, as it turns out - our tent is no longer really waterproof. Luckily, even though the entire tent was wet, our sleeping bags stayed (mostly) dry. Jerry is the best husband in the world - he let me have the best sleeping pad and sleeping bag. I guess we'll see if that continues (editor's note: he ended up with the good sleeping pad, I took the good sleeping bag. He's still the best husband in the world.)
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Today I heard a plane pass by overhead, and it seemed so out-of-place. Over the past two days, the only sounds that I've heard are the running streams, rain dropping on our tent, the occasional bird, and the voices of Jerry, Andrés, and Paula. Plus the sounds of zippers, the gas stove, waterfalls, footsteps, and most of all, my own breathing. This is hands-down the hardest thing I've done in my life. And the best part is that I've loved it - despite the fact that our tent isn't really waterproof, that my body aches (though not as much as I thought it would), that every time we go uphill I have to concentrate more than I ever have on breathing. Being able to see views that few have seen - these views are literally breathtaking. In one direction there is a steep, red canyon wall, in another a steep, green valley leading to the end of the world, and I am standing on a practically vertically cliff made of gray shale. My brain begins to doubt my eyes. You have to look quickly and stop to admire it while you can, because you can see the fog creeping in. But that, too, is amazing in itself - even though I curse the clouds for stealing my view - to watch the water take shape and gather together and climb towards us. We are so high, we have beaten the clouds, we are above them, they have to catch up (and they do).
This mornign we woke up to a clear, dawn view of a recent snow drift on the mountain next to our campsite. As the sun rose over the eastern mountains, this mountain northwest of us changed colors and seemed to change shape. We couldn't feel our toes. I asked Paula if this was the coldest she'd ever been in her life and she said yes.
I love that Jerry and I continually push each others' limits, we support each other to become better versions of ourselves.
But, at the end of the day, only I can put one foot i front of the other and get to the top of that pass. I am focused on that next step, that next breath, survival. No one can do that for me.
I love this feeling of accomplishment, unlike any I've felt before. I am my own refrigerator, my own transportation. I am my own mule (OK, Jerry carries the tent). I am seeing things that can only be seen by foot. No horse can go up 200 meters in altitude over gigantic boulders left behind by glaciers. No bike can traverse miles of going up and down cliffs. No car can cross a waterfall barefoot.
Yesterday, we saw the edge of the world. We saw where Laguna La Plaza funnels into a short waterfall and then empties down into a vast nothingness. And beyond the nothingness are more mountains and mist.
We collect our water from the streams, rivers, and waterfalls that form in the mountains, that melt from the glaciers and are fed by rain. I've never tasted fresher water (and no, we didn't use any water purification tablets). Every time we see a different glacier, my heart aches for our children who will probably never see one.
Jerry and I recall the geology we learned that first summer together, also in this tent. We point out the glacially-carved U-shaped valleys and the river-created V-shaped ones. We pass over granite and shale and see sandstone cliffs. Or so we think, and who is here to tell us otherwise?
The days are beginning to become routine. Wake up at 4:00am, pack up and eat, leave camp by 5:30 or so. Hike. Drink water. Hike. Eat trail mix. Hike. Take photos along the way. Feel like you can't continue. Continue anyway. Arrive at campsite by 12:00 or 1:00pm. Eat lunch. Rain. Nap. Talk with Jerry for hours. Rain. Asleep by 7:00pm. Repeat.
