Snowstorm

The boys are concerned about safety. They refuse to let me stop and get out my camera to take pictures. But you can imagine Alex striding down the mountain through the silence of a heavy snowfall, all determined and focused. I'm trotting behind him, trying to keep up in my blue winter hat and big green parka, and I'm sticking out my tongue to catch the downy flakes. John and Jackson are close behind me, stressed to stick together and lose altitude.

My winter is complete. I have tasted the snow of the Andes on my tongue.

We made a navigational mistake and missed our campsite earlier this afternoon. We were supposed to stop an hour ago, but instead of hiking all the way back down the valley to our safe nest next to a lake, we press on, determined to cross the high pass and not waste all our climbing.

We weren't planning on the snow. It covers the ground now, and we're praying that it won't get cold enough to stick to the path. For now, all we can see is the muddy little llama trail winding off before us, down down down down. The mountains are hidden in the whiteness. The mystery is magical.

We finally get down into a meadow and see some horses and John checks our elevation on his GPS: still above 16,000 feet. It's going to be a long afternoon.

But I love the snow. I sing a little song about snow, and also about snow angels and snowballs and mittens, and Alex gives me a funny look.

We hike on and on. We are cold, red-nosed, tired.

Finally we spot a teeny tiny stone hut, one room under a straw roof, with smoke curling up from the corner. It's way down in a valley, but it looks warm.

The inhabitants hear their dogs barking and come out, and they invite us in. As we crawl through the badger-sized door, we feel we are entering another century.

Ausangate

I bought a $5 map of the Ausangate trek in a tiny bookstore in Cusco. "It's a good map," the lady told me, in her Quechua-accented Spanish, "It's in color!"

The shiny paper shows the town of Tinqui in one corner, then a tear drop shaped yellow line that winds its way around ten or twelve peaks, illustrated by very closely drawn blue contour lines. There are eight possible camping sites, two hot springs, eighteen lakes, and numerous streams and rivers.

Throughout the five days that we spent trekking around Ausangate, we found there were many things that the map left out. The map didn't tell us how hungry we'd be for oxygen at 17,000 feet, and it didn't tell us how each morning we'd wake up to frozen boots and an icy tent. It showed a few towns along that yellow line, but we had no idea that these "towns" were mere settlements of three to four stone huts, with stone shelters and stone corrals, the homes of kind, soft spoken shepherd people who welcomed us, and helped us on our way.

It's difficult to look at a map and know how tired you'll be a the end of the day, or how speechless you'll find yourself when the clouds separate, and there the mountains are, booming over you.

Several times the map failed us, or perhaps we are the ones who failed. We got confused in the lush green vallleys, full of alpacas and llamas, and weren't sure which mountain pass to cross next. We completely missed our campsite on day 4, got stuck in a snowstorm over a 16,600 foot pass, and four hours later arrived at the campsite for day 5. Oops.

Maps are friends. They help us know whether to go southwest or southeast, they form a good point of reference for a person who speaks only Quechua and one who knows only Spanish and English.

But I'm thankful for the experience between the lines. I'm glad that things are not always as they seem.

Charged by a llama

We hike down a stiff mountain covered with tricky bubbling streams and alpine flowers, trying not to slip in our wet boots. Around a corner we find ourselves face to face with a good sized herd of llamas, munching. They eye us. I'm hiking in front, and I stop in my tracks, evaluating the shaggy and unpredictable beasts.

"John," I say to my cousin behind me, "What if one of them charges me?"

He doesn't answer. It's a dumb question.

I laugh. "Wouldn't that be a hilarious blog title? 'Charged by a llama?' I think it would make for a good read."

As we continue towards them, the llamas leap away from us and trot up the hill. Blast. I was ready to fight one of them off with one of my hiking poles and protect the rest of my companions from near death.

"Ansley, Ansley, Ansley." says John. He doesn't need to say more.

I know it was a silly idea. But, seriously, if a llama charges me the next time I'm in the mountains, you can be sure I'll write about it.

In which we head south, part 2

Wednesday, November 29
The whole day is spent soaking up the culture of Puno and its people. We take a tour of an iron boat that was built in England 150 years ago, then disassembled and hauled over the Andes by mules. We huff and puff our way around town, wander the lakefront, find soft serve ice cream, and buy lots of hand knit hats and mittens for mere pennies. The day ends with terrific hot showers in our hostel-the first hot water we've experienced in four months.

Thursday, November 30
An early morning two hour bus ride brings us to the Bolivia border. After a very stressful hour, we enter Bolivia as legal visitors. Twenty minutes in a taxi lands us in the cozy town of Copacobana, nestled on a large bay of Lake Titicaca. We find a hostel for $1.20 a night, and spend the rest of the day inspecting the Moorish-style cathedral, talking with other travelers, and hiking up one of the nearby mountains for a chilly yet spectacular view of the lake. For supper we make soup on the roof of our hostel using my backpacking stove. The night is drizzly and bitterly cold.

Friday, December 1
This morning we discover there is a time difference between Bolivia and Perú when we arrive at the harbor an hour after our boat to Isla del Sol departed. We are disappointed, but decide to wait until 1:30 pm for the next boat and spend a half day at the island instead. The afternoon boat ride turns out to be a hoot; the time flies by as we enjoy a rowdy conversation with a perky German PhD, a young Australian ER doctor, a French engineer, and a boisterous American Spanish teacher who hails from New York City. We discuss politics, currency, the best places to visit in South America, bungee jumping, and the difficulties of the Spanish language. They are surprised when we tell them we're Christian volunteers serving in the jungle.

Isla del Sol is gorgeous. It is an island that is sunny and steep, a vigorous three hour hike from one end to the other, and the said birthplace of the first Inca and also the sun and moon. We are amazed by the rugged peaks, red tile roofed mud houses, and sparkling blue lake down below. We are sad to leave, and somewhat bothered when our boat runs out of gas on the way back to Copacobana.

Sabbath, December 2
As we searched this town yesterday for an Adventist church and were completely unsuccessful, we hold services this morning in our hostel room. Sabbath school is an intense discussion about the purpose of Sabbath and also Sabbath observance. Church includes four sermonettes and some energetic hymn singing. We hit the trail in the afternoon and climb several 13,000 ft peaks on the outskirts of twon. We enjoy lovely weather and magnificent views of the town and lake. In the evening we leave a sleepy and flu-ridden Alex in bed and attend a local Catholic service, as well as grab some hot chocolate and soup at a tiny cafe.

Sunday, December 3
John heads to the plaza in the morning to bond with the locals while Alex, Jackson, and I choose to walk the stony beach along the lake. It is a sunny and warm day, we decide on an impromtu swim in the Lake Titicaca. The "swim" turns into little more than a dip, as the water is icy. Brrrrrr. Our bus for Cusco leaves from Copacobana at 1:30 in the afternoon, we arrive at our destination at midnight. Our welcome in Cusco is not warm, as we are cheated by a disgruntled taxi driver, harrassed by drunk locals in an alley, and wander around in the cold dark for ages trying to find our hidden hostel. We finally find what we're looking for, and with sore throats and stuffy noses we collapse in our little rooms.

On our way

Dear Ted and Beth,

So good to talk to you this morning. What a treat. I was thinking today how I wish I could express love to my family in ways beyond emails and words over the phone. I can't come see you, and I can't clean the house for you or make you dinner, and I can't give you gifts. You must know, for now, that when I say that I love you, I'm as good as my word, even though I can't do much about it.

Jackson and I had a good day exploring Cusco, although I think I wore him out with my enthusiasm for mostly abandoned pedestrian streets, smallish cathedrals, and contemporary art museums. Alex and John had a terrific time at Machu Picchu. They are bursting with stories and pictures.

My top favorite place that we visited today was the central market, Mercado San Pedro, which was not touristy at all, just a huge huge market where you could buy everything from spices and pig heads to fragrant lilies and hand knit mittens. I enjoyed taking pictures of bundled Peruvian ladies, bargaining in huddles, and babies sleeping on the cement floor while their mothers sold cheeses and chocolates or sewed trousers on ancient foot peddle sewing machines. You would have loved it, I know.

We have bus tickets ($3.00 for 6 hours on a bus), to a teeny tiny town called Tinqui tomorrow and then on Thursday we'll start our trek. I won't be on internet for at least a week. Don't worry about us, between the four of us we have a lot of random survival skills and we'll be fine. Also, we going to hike the first day, and if it doesn't go well, we can always hike on back. I'm super excited. I love the mountains, and it will be a week of freeness--no alarm clocks, no sitting on buses, and no need to pay for hostels. Lovely.

Although I have sounded like a frog all day, I'm feeling better, and confident that patience and a lot of sleep will restore me to health again.

I love you,
Ansley