Death Road part II

October 27th, 2010: Going back to La Paz last week for my third and final time, I ended up repeating a mountain bike ride down Death Road…this time for work - if that is what you call it. And again, I am sad to report that…nobody died. You could probably put a child on a bicycle with training wheels and there still would not be any deaths. As I said before, they really need to reconsider relabeling this road to perhaps the “Disney Joy Ride” or something in that effect.
Even though this was my second time down this road, I must say that once finished…the trip back to La Paz was much better this time around since it was during the day. Between my nap breaks, I was able to see the spectacular surrounding looking as if I was on the coast of the Hawaiian island, Kauai. This drive back must be added to one of my top 10 drives of all time. I couldn’t help but take a multitude of mostly blurred photos from the window of the moving van.

Needing to move on, yesterday I felt torn if I should go up north to explore more jungles and fight the mosquitoes with my bare hands (which I would like to add which are registered as deadly weapons in the mosquito community) or to start making my way south. Walking to the bus station with now only the mildest limp, I decided to sit there until I made a decision. I thought and thought and thought, finally deciding to go south, buying myself a 12 hour bus ticket to Sucre. So, I leave the high city of La Paz tonight to go to Sucre that is the official capital of Bolivia and another god forsaken high city.

Please note: I am going to attempt to write less and to post more photos, telling my stories with bigger captions in hopes to have more time to read a few enormous books. This is so that I can lighten my backpack for my upcoming trip to Patagonia and to make more time for other things. And please...don't be scared to post comments, it at times feels as if I am writing into a black hole.

Would you like some wildlife with that table salt?

October 21th, 2010: The past 5 days I was on a trip to Uyuni which is the world largest salt flat coming in at 10,582 square kilometers (4,086 sq mi) according to Wikipedia. Viewing lots and lots and lots of future table salt was only a fraction of this 3 day tour (2 travel days). I ended up seeing a billion flamingos, plenty of other animals and a bunch of volcanoes doing my best to record it all…in photos.

Sticking my camera anywhere and everywhere such as would a horny teen, taking so many photos…my camera tried to keep up but when it no longer could, it took up the strategy of the local Bolivians - if you don’t like something…block a road. A camera obviously can’t stop traffic but it blocked me from adding more photos to my memory stick. Fortunately this was only in the morning and in the evening giving me opportunities to overwork it during the day to make up for the lost time.

During the three day tour I took a mere 1,100 photos (more or less). This was before I went through deleting all of the bad ones. Now I have 1,098 photos…should be much less since spots fill many of my pictures due to my cameras filthy internals.

Immediately upon my return I took my…third eye to a camera doctor and had it cleaned it, hoping it is going to stay spot free since nobody likes spots – not even horny teens, adults or…donkeys.

Bolivia’s new motto? “Bolivia is for Donkey lovers”

October 20th, 2010: Standing by the Toyota Land Cruiser, I went up to my guide after 3 days and thought that if I was going to continue my research throughout South America, this was the best time to do it.

The following is my conversation translated from Spanish to English.

Me: “I have a question.”

Guide: “Yes.”

Me: “In Colombia, Venezuela and in Peru it is normal for boys to have sex for their first time with Donkeys. Is it the same here in Bolivia?”

Guide: “It is the same…when they are 17 - 18 years old.”

Me: “Thank you.”

I tried and successfully maintained a straight face…not knowing what else to say after. My friend said I should have asked, “So, how was it?” I thought it is best that I just stick to asking if it is common or not. Though being that my guide was so casual about it might have indicated that he too had sex with a hot looking donkey for his first time. From my point of view his answer was an honest, solid answer. So, with this said, I am not going to do anymore research in Bolivia and I will too label this country as a donkey loving nation.

Perhaps if the State of Virginia in the U.S. doesn’t mind, Bolivia could have the motto: “Bolivia is for donkey lovers” modified from Virginia’s motto, “Virginia is for lovers.” Though seeing all of the llamas around I am surprised that these animals are not prime candidates for this sort of activity– they are much cuter. I suppose that due to the llamas height (needing a ladder for some of these small Bolivian teens) and since a llamas head can turn almost completely around…it might be awkward being starred at and potential spit upon while in action if the llama is not enjoying what is going on back there.

In a few short weeks, my research will be taking me to Argentina. I don’t think this country will be any different than the others…but who knows, maybe they will surprise me – what do you think?

A REAL football enters Bolivian Aerospace

October 18th, 2010: I can’t seem to get too far without having to change plans while walking around the small villages of South America with a REAL football (North American Football). Entering a village with an easily forgettable name – actually for me…every name is easily forgettable. Anyhow, my friend and I took my football and was going to head over to the local cemetery to take a few photos of some stones and to throw around the ball a bit. Not making it more than 20 feet we were stopped by two local kids. They quickly multiplied by the minute growing to team sized numbers.

Trying to teach them how to play a little game of football was a total success – depending on how you look at it. The game of two hand touch became a game that looked a little similar to soccer, rugby, basketball and even a little bit like football. The best was how the kids changed a somewhat slow game at times (American Football) to an action packed event eliminating the end zone and adding a goal keeper to try to block the football from being thrown in. Not knowing enough Spanish to stop the madness and seeing all of the smiles…I didn’t think there was a need to stop them, just join them.

I was hit by…

October 14th, 2010: Last week I was hit by a HSB (human speed bump) that ran across the main street of Samaipata. The human speed bump looks just like an automotive speed bump with the sole purpose to slow things down. Not seeing it, the HSB came from nowhere…as I suddenly felt a pain shooting through my ankle. I did not know the severity of the injury until later…as it began to get worse and worse as each day passed. I am now unable to walk much unless I want to walk with a painful obnoxious limp. I must stress that is not a cool looking MTV gangsta limp…it is more like a blue automotive license plate qualifying limp or the, I have something stuck in my rectum limp.

Adapting, I have shifted the way I am exploring Bolivia until I get better. With my body being about as useful as a…(Blank) year old man, I am now having to travel like one…taking a lot of taxis and only leaving the hostel to get something to eat, hoping on a miraculous recovery that will take place in the next few days before my friend comes to visit. Bringing me a football…a real college football (not a soccer ball), how am I suppose to teach the youth of South America like this?

18 hour shift…and no pay

October 11th, 2010: The typical small unpaid employees of the South American bus system filled my bus on my 18 hour trip back to La Paz. Sometimes I go on murderous rampages killing them…squashing them with my fingers and for the more meaty ones I will pull any random worthless pieces of paper that somehow fill my pockets between washings…sometimes surprising me on how long I...umm…carried the paper.

But today, I decided to not be the executioner and let these cockroaches live as long as they stayed on the windows and walls. To not encourage them to work around me, I limited my food intake keeping them from even needing to be near me hoping they would clean up the crumbs around someone else and the buffet they unintentionally laid out for them.

17 stitches needed after monkey tastes face

October 8th, 2010: I have always liked observing wild monkeys. This is either from a distance in the wild or the confines within a cage, but rarely do I like seeing them at close range. This is especially true when they have a “Kong” complex and are not fearful of humans. Going to a convalescent home for monkeys, I intended to only see the monkeys, not pet, pick up or be monkey bars – in this case…human bars. Not sure what monkey did it but a few weeks prior one of the monkeys opened a kid’s face resulting in needing 17 (or so) stitches to sew the boy back up after the free tasting.

I have had plenty of non-caged monkey experiences from around the world with mostly all of them being bad experiences with the angry miniature sized monkeys who thought they were doubles from the film, King Kong. From the one that wanted to attack me in Cambodia to the viscous one in Indonesia that wanted some bananas when I only had one that is not meant for consumption…I just don’t like monkeys invading my personal space.

As soon as I entered the animal refuge a spider monkey came to greet me being extremely vocal. Keeping my hand out I successful kept him away from me. Seeing too many monkey attacks in my life my body had a small adrenaline test to make sure it was functioning properly.

Then I saw a Howler monkey peacefully sitting in a chair…mentally I was waiting for it to spring on me. None of that happened and I didn’t encourage it either as I walked way, way around him. But then something did happen when I was about to leave. I met some other tourists and in the process of talking to them, the howler monkey had his chance when my guard was down…climbing up onto my shoulders, sitting there with an unbreakable grip around my neck.

That was all that was needed, as he somehow single handily smashed my fear of close contact with monkey. For the next few hours, I played with the monkeys that roamed freely around the sanctuary making it the highlight of my trip here in eastern Bolivia.

The next time I run into a monkey on the street I don’t think I will not be such a hater. I will still be cautious and ready to break some tails if they get too close…but, I will at least know that not all monkeys think they are Kong.

This experience easily tops my past week here in this region. From the stripper I met who wasn’t a stripper to the time I was hysterically laughed at by an entire village of school children as I was trying to find a horse to take me back out of the middle of nowhere to the main road (long story…see photos) – fortunately I succeeded and it was only a village of 100 people.

Donkey research continues…

October 6th, 2010: During the Che tour, besides taking notes for work…I decided to continue my personal research about donkeys here in Bolivia - more specifically...donkey lovin. Knowing that is takes place in the countryside of Colombia, Venezuela, and Peru I need to know how far south this type of activity takes place in case PETA or some other organization would ever be interested into shifting their efforts in saving innocent donkeys virginity from horny boys and men.

Asking the tour guide Marteen, who moved here from Denmark about 3 years ago ended up not being a very good person to ask. He has never heard about the phenomenon. That is fine but how he looked at me after I asked the question, I thought now that he might think that it was me who is into donkey lovin. I should have said nothing…but it was too late, the words were already out and there was no way I could take them back unless I quickly gave him a major head injury so it would be possible that the short term memory loss he would suffer might encompass our last conversation – but, I couldn’t do it…he was too nice.

So the rest of the conversation about this subject was trying to make sure he didn’t think I was here to exploit donkeys. In the evening I could see that he kept a careful eye on me. Perhaps it was due to his concern for the donkeys, or that…he wanted…seconds.

This was a minor setback but my research will continue. Mental note: be more careful when doing donkey research, asking only the toothless locals that are live in the countryside…not the expats. FYI: me profiling the toothless locals is not due to their economic situation…it is because perhaps at one point they lost grip and took a kick to the mouth, being a more credible source for my research project.

All Che’d out

October 6, 2010: I am so exhausted from my outdoor classes the past few days: Che History 99, Che History 101 and the more advanced Che History 256. I traveled to the tiny village of La Higuera, to see how he lived his last few days before his final battle with Bolivian Army Rangers (NOT the US Army Rangers) who were trained by the CIA.

This village was the area where he was shot in the leg, then later shot in the lower parts and finally was finished off after inconveniently being shot in then the upper parts before being laid out for the world to take photos. Thinking about it, for my non-South American friends…do you even know Ernesto Guevara (aka Che)? He was the man who in 1959, helped Fidel Castro overthrow a Cuban dictator and who also enjoys being on lots of tee-shirts, wallets, hats and wall paintings all over South America.

The best part of the trip was standing at a museum looking at the photos of a man's transformation from an innocent child to who he became...Che...a traveler, a world traveler and to the man who enjoyed starting revolutions and infuriating the French in the process. He somehow single handily destroyed the image of the French beret that as he was photographed in everywhere he went as he smoked fat cigars and held machine guns instead of the typical petite French cigarettes and a paint brush.

The saying is true: “People change”…sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse – it all just depends on what side you are on.

*Photo pulled from dailymail.co.uk

Unauthorized titty feeding

October 1st, 2010: My body lately has been itching so badly the past few days, I feel at times like ripping off my own flesh with my stubs for finger nails, thinking that I would help me for at least a few days without having to scratch - that is until a scab starts to form, starting the viscous cycle all over again. I can feel things moving on my skin and when I look I see nothing...no crabs, scabies - not even a small community of lice - nothing. I even thought that my mind is playing tricks on me but I seem to be accumulating more and more bites everyday so it can’t possibly be just my imagination. I seem to have about every different type of insect bite. If it wasn’t for me wondering why I had the strange urge to keep scratching my nipple in public all day, I might have missed two of the multitude of feeders.

Two plump freeloading healthy ticks decided to take a little ride and have a meal on the house - the house being me. One was nice and warmly tucked into on my nipple and the other on my leg. I was going to wait till I got back to the hotel later in the night to pull them out…but after some thinking, it disturbed me on how they were doing their unauthorized feeding, wondering how responsible they were for my excessive itching the past few days - perhaps hiding in my butt crack or even deeper during my previous body searches. This is where I failed earlier…stopping at the body search and failing to do a body cavity search. It is awkward enough being in these strange positions already when checking my body for bugs with my legs thrown over my head with a tiny mirror and flashlight trying to find the cause to my itching.

Not wanting the ticks to escape and not wanting to titty feed the one who was on my nipple any longer, I ripped him out with my marker sized human handed tweezers - as for the other one...he was experienced the same painful death – decapitating him, leaving his head perhaps still in me as I tossed his limp body to the ground. I knew that I shouldn’t have just haphazardly pulled them out, but it briefly angered me as I saw their legs just sticking up in the air, as I quickly put an end to it as I prematurely stopped their feeding.

As I edit this getting ready to make the post…I have my hands down the back of my pants scratching like a madman…looking as if I am having great pleasure – I actually am…it feels good (there is about 15 bites back there). As long as I don’t smell my hand when I pull it out…the girl that sits across from me who seems to be staring, might not think of me as being THAT…strange.

In Monkeylike fashion

September 29th, 2010: For breakfast I stopped off at the central market to grab a sandwich for breakfast. Decided to be extra healthy today and instead of having a soda to wash down the nutrition…I chose to get some freshly squeezed juice. Walking up to the first juice stand, I noticed something that could have been a scene in the local zoo with the monkeys – no specific species of monkey…just monkeys. The scene looked a little something like this: A woman was hovering over her friend surrounded by a nice variety fruits and a blender…extremely focused as she was going through her friend’s hair with a pair of tweezers…picking out, something.

I can only assume it was lice that she was picking out in monkey like fashion. I decided to go over to the next stand to get my orange juice where the woman…didn’t seem to be as busy.

A nudist colony in its infancy?

September 28th, 2010: Sitting at a roadside restaurant today - sort of a restaurant…it has chairs and tables – I ate a popular cuisine throughout all of South America, so far as I can tell…chicken and french fries.

A pregnant looking man in his third trimester was not far from me, cutting a bucket of potatoes as he sat on a bucket almost naked (I am sure it was for sanitary reasons)… in his underwear and sandals as his man boobs were reaching for the rim of the bucket as the sweat would roll off his nipples naturally salting the fries. It was fortunate that he didn’t have any Italian in his bloodline because if so, besides the bucket of salty fries, it might have contained another foreign additive…chest hair.

When the man finished cutting potatoes, he walked by me saying that it was hot out, probably knowing that it wasn’t normal that he was walking around and working in his underwear on the somewhat busy road. His wife was standing close by not seeming phased by her husband’s lack of clothing. Moments later, another old guy past me in his underwear and he too just said it was hot out - as I was trying to eat without laughing at the strangeness that seeped out of this midsized developed Jungle town of Villa Tunari. Is this town about to become a full on nudist colony and is in its infancy…or was it just too hot?

60 Vampires in my Shower

September 28, 2010: There were 60 bloodsucking vampire mosquitoes (remember guys always like to exaggerate) in my shower yesterday…and 66 vampires in my shower today. All of these insects were possibly carriers of the wonderfully pleasant Malaria virus. I say this because the CDC randomly sends me an email for Malaria area updates and today, I happened to get one – hmmmmm…coincidence or a sign? I am currently not taking any medication due to me being a genius a while back mixing all my malaria pills in one container to save space in my backpack…once one of my three Costco sized bottles expired, I couldn’t tell which ones did or didn’t by looks, touch or smell.

I had only a few options to resolve this matter. I could have taken the expired medication but reading the warnings on the internet, this could give me some serious trip ending side effects. My other option was to give some to one of the mangy dogs or kids in the form of wrapped sweets who are walking around the street and see if he or she still looks as mangy as the next day or sadly, worse. Being much too complicated, I decided it was easier to flush them all and just kill a few fish.

Thankfully, once standing in the shower I was safe from these vampires since the sign of the cross with my two fingers didn’t work nor did my wooden cross. Hollywood is once, again a bunch of liars…or…the cross is not as powerful as it use to be. Never the less, being in the shower for extended periods of time was not bad because I could live in the shower if I was given the option…you could then call me “shower boy”. But, I am now not shower boy and meaning that I had to get out. Also, when I pay so little for a room…I actually feel bad if I take too long of a shower - if the workers are nice.

Standing there, the mosquitoes were surrounding me…waiting for me to make my exit. Looking at my towel, my clothes, and my soap dish I did a precise calculation on every move on what will take me the shortest time to get out of the shower and out of the kill zone. My best bet was to wrap the micro towel that covers half my body (a little more than half - from my Oscar Mayer Wiener to a little over the crack of my butt –laughing…I haven’t used the word wiener since I don’t know when) , don’t dry off in the shared bathroom, grab my clothes and soap dish and make a crouched dash out of the bathroom toward my room hoping nobody will see the partial streaker…even though this place is a nudist colony in its infancy.

The scene worked out like an old B&W western movie as we were waiting to see who made the first move in the dirty shower. My calculations worked out quite nicely as I made my mad dash out the door and to my room with zero injuries.

Now if I could only master going to the toilet without having to look around the whole time afraid that these vampires were going to give me a surprise attack from below, or all other imaginable direction as they decide to pull a Japanese-like kamikaze attack on me as I am trying to peacefully drown my kids in the pool.

As I keep trying to tell everyone...amazing adventures or misadventures don’t just take place in the jungles or high on the mountain tops. It can happen in the depths of your house, toilet bowl or even at your cage in the office…adventures happen every day, everywhere…you just need to, open your eyes.

This is not just a bus…but a super bus!

September 27th, 2010: Took a bus that ended up being a super bus with a super but forgetful driver (didn’t stop at the town I asked him to stop at). A strike was taking place locking up the traffic today – Bolivians like to strike – and our bus decided to take the high road in the hills of Cochabamba driving the bus as if it was his personal compact 4x4 except for it not being so compact coming in at 14 or so meters (no idea). At one point we had to disembark the bus to clear a drainage area. The locals seeing this giant bus were too as surprised as me on where we went. One little girls eyes were about to pop out of her little skull as we went by her mud house on the hillside mini-farm.

On the bus, there was a girl in front of me that seemed quite hungry. As she looked at me she picked and pick and pick her nose and consumed the treats one by one. I was grossed out but strangely, I kept watching. She was a cute plump baby whose mom didn’t seem to want her on her lap anymore so she gave her a bag to sit on in the aisle. I was just waiting for a quick stop so that the 3 year old would take off to the front window but it thankfully didn’t happen.

I have seemed to not worry as much the more I travel about the safety of others. Not that I have become cold or insensitive…my standard of safety is just a lot higher from living in the US my entire life.

I missed the city I wanted to get off at, the bus driver seemed to have forgotten. It could have been much worse if it wasn’t for the guy who I did know - nor did I know he knew where I was going - but thankfully he came up behind me, asking me if I was going to Villa Tunari because we just past it.

That was nice of the Good Samaritan to help me because I never spoke to the gold riddled gangsta. Though, we did have a friendly connection earlier when we were waiting for the bus to fill up as we stood outside the busy main street in Cochabamba. Our connection was through us both being caught checking out at a girl who was walking by on the sidewalk. I am not sure if we were checking her out for the same reasons though. I was looking at her because she had enough tape on her face to wrap a Christmas present - the skin colored tape teenagers seem to use to cover acne here in South America. He on the other hand was thinking about other features that I am unable to say without ruining the vision of the Good Samaritan that went out of his way to help me. A Good Samaritan, Saint or Pope…a guy will always be…a guy.

Aint no trapping me foo

September 26th, 2010: Getting dropped off at the end of the van drivers route as I returned from deep inside the national park, he told me I would have to say in town for the night (if a few buildings makes itself able to call itself a town) and that there was no transport out until the morning.

For starters, I don’t enjoy feeling trapped. So being in a town, in which someone who I don’t believe (taxi driver and van driver fits into the same category – thief on wheels) tells me I am unable to leave…didn’t go over well with me.

Secondly I didn’t bring…my toothbrush. As for showering, that didn’t matter much since the house I was staying only had water in the morning. Yes, I would have rather stayed at a hostel, hotel or even the town jail but since the towns 2 hotels were full with 3 – perhaps 4 people due to being the 2nd Annual Piano festival, this guy saved me and let me stay at his house for a fair price.

Walking down the small road I stood on the side of the main road and began to work. After about an hour of flagging down wrong cars, buses, trucks, motorcycles and anything else with wheels and a headlight, at about 9:30pm I was finally picked up. Almost freezing from the hurricane like cold gales of wind on the side of the dark road, the shared taxi that stopped had space in the back of his station wagon who already had 7 people in a car that is made for 5 – now making it 9 after including me and the guy who was sitting off in the grassy side of the road who was wrapped in a blanket ball (I could see that he has done this plenty of times before - making me do all the work).

While heading to town in the small confines of the station wagon, me and the other guy had to perform the fetal position around a bunch of bags that only a baby could do better (you see, babies are more flexible).

During the drive it seemed as if I went into a time warp as I looked up at the billions of beautiful starts that spattered the sky. I truly felt as if I was taken back into time when I was a wee little kid again looking out the back window sitting in the family station wagon (it could have been the Blazer), feeling as if my brother Joe was right next to me. It was a great, but sad moment somehow magically braided into one another.

Clinging to a dried up waterfall…

September 26th, 2010: Walking out of the house in the wee hours of the morning, I thought I should try to get to Carrasco National Park as early as I can - knowing it was going to be difficult since nobody in town seemed to know how to get there except for a one of taxi driver's I asked on the street. With ZERO tourism offices, I realized I might be in the wrong town to take a trip to the park.

Listening to the Taxi driver from the night before I made it to a small town I waited for a shared van to fill up with other people going toward a village in the national park. Sitting in someone’s house/restaurant I could tell that it was not typical for them to see my kind around since I was the main topic between the 12 or so people inside. Knowing that I speak enough Spanish to hold a basic conservation, the Sons a B#tches switched to Quechua – the common language that is spoken in the Andes in South America.

After a about 2 hours of waiting around we loaded up into the 4x4 van testing its ability to climb, descend and cross rivers to make it to the town the rested at the end of the yellow brick road (which is going to made within the next 50 or 100 years). The driver wasn’t leaving to return to the town I originated from for a few hours until he has enough people to come out of the trees to fill it up. I decided to walk around town and take photos, but some locals were determined for me to not go down this trail and to go fishing with them. This place is a huge coca growing region so I jumped to some conclusions on why he did not me to follow the trail I was on. Fishing sounded better anyhow, so I didn’t say anything and turned back to join them.

Walking for about an 1 ½ hours we cut down into this deep canyon using the dried up waterfalls for our path…figuring that going down was the hard part, it was only going to be easier going back up.

Making it to the bottom of the canyon, it was beautiful. Being at the bottom can give you a completely different perspective of the surrounding area. Following the guys along the river as they tried to catch some fish, I spend most of my time taking photos of them and relaxing on the side of the river. The canyon was steep and narrow on both sides and at one point I couldn’t go any further unless I wanted to get completely into the water…the cold water. Putting some…DEET on early to fight the insects, I…thought it wouldn’t be wise to have it get into the water – potentially hurting the fish. So for my love of nature (not my hatred toward cold water) I decided not to go and I let them go ahead as I waited for their return, which never happened.

When I felt I was going to miss the last bus out of the area, I went back to our stuff that where we first entered the river and wrote a note saying thank you and gave them my email so that I could send them my photos. Happily I left them the boots they let me borrow, not sure if I was going to see them again.

What I thought was going to be easy to climb out of was completely the opposite. For starters, it was much easier to go down than up (not usually the case), as I didn’t remember so many different routes to choose from. And do I even need to say what is next? I got disorientated going the wrong way – which is common for me. I did not originally think that this was a real problem at the time because I knew that there was a road up on top, I just didn’t know what dried waterfall path to take.

I was not listening very well to what I use to tell the kids back at home when I would teach them to climb…that you must have 3 points of contact at all times. And here I would only have two points of contact and at the worse times, only one. In one spot I had a hand grabbing a questionably stable rock and only one foot on a protruding lip, jumping with the intention/hope that I would land far enough on my chest so that I can wiggle up to the next ledge. Each ledge up, the worse off I was becoming because I was making it more and more impossible to make it back down if I could not go any farther up. I felt committed at that point and that there was no way back, but up.

Clinging to a rock wall looking around, not sure what to do…and at that moment, I strangely smiled and even laughed thinking how I got myself into this predicament. At one point I began to think, worse case scenarios…such as what if I have to spend the night on the ledge because of limited daylight hours, having no option but to turn around…or, what if I fell.

Thinking that I heard someone, I did a casual blow out of my whistle that is attached to my backpack hoping they would hear me, though it ended up being my imagination. Why didn’t I wait for them I thought? Why? Why? Why?

Finally I made it to the top covered with dirt, ticks and scratches from all the crawling, climbing and hugging of the rocks I was doing. Walking back I was exhausted but had some new energy that must have been hiding in my body somewhere. As I went along the gravel road that ran around the mountainside I mentally skipped back to the village having more of an appreciation for already made hiking trails instead of the self made ones by a Polish self.