Saving a Chinaman’s life with fishlike eyes

February 18th, 2011: Waking up this morning I thought I was going to do a lot of things in Antarctica but one of them was not saving an old Chinaman’s life. Did I really save his life? – well, let me say that I saved him from some great discomfort and perhaps some broken bones perhaps limiting himself from some late night action with his 70 year old wife in his suite on our ship.

Clearly Mr. Chinaman was walking up a snowy trail to a summit that he obviously shouldn’t have been on. Telling by his drunken walk of exhaustion, swaying left and right I was waiting for the obvious fall off the side...in which the right side of the trail was a steep angled slop supporting a high number of incalculable degrees with some rocks patiently awaiting a visitor.

Tipping over, he went to the right going face first with his $3,450.89 Canon camera necklace. My brain conveniently slowed time as he began a slow motion penguin slide on his man boobs down the slope. Quickly I lunged forward off the trail grabbing his toe of his boat with my pencil like fingers that somehow locked as if my hands morphed into the strength of pitbull’s jaw. His eyes became bigger than his oversized circular glasses as he looked at me in a panic.

As a scene from a poorly written action movie starring Keanu Reeves, I calmly said, “I got you buddy” to the old Chinaman. He tried to curl up to me with the abs that he lost some 40 year ago. As I managed to switch my grip to his frail forearm, I felt someone else grabbing my ankle to keep me from doing a head slide down the slope with the Chinaman.

Today, I was a hero to the Chinaman with big fishlike eyes as he graciously thanked me, when I should have been thanking him for a little bit of unexpected excitement for the day.

The wonders of Mr. Allah with a sharp sterilized ice pick

January 31st, 2011: Just came back from “W” in Torre del Paines National Park which was perhaps the best trek in my entire 38 years and 5 months of life. It was as if Mr. Allah himself picked into my brain with a sharp sterilized ice pick and miraculously pulled information out of my grey oversized mass in the depth of my skull and built my vision of natural perfection.

The 5 day trek itself provided nonstop visual beauty and a nice physical beating upon my body. Goliath mountains with white snow hair in all different lengths and thicknesses covered them with surrounding lakes speckling the land in a variety of shades of blues as a multitude of waterfalls from little and great heights pouring into the rivers, feeding this great natural machine. If it wasn’t for the obese backpack with unusable wheels that I hung off my back…caring everything but the junk in the trunk, it might have been a simple 7 – 9 hours a day walking up, down, around and under the trail as the vision of pizza, hamburgers, soda and thoughts infiltrated and stuffed my brain.

With it not getting dark until around 10pm, it was hard to not to stop hiking at a reasonable 5 or 6 pm. Not wanting to waste valuable daylight hours my friends and I ended up calling it quits from the trail averaging around 9:04pm with some extra time to add some spent calories prior to bedtime. I do love nature and I do enjoy hiking, but I feel that I might have been coming down from my hiking vertex/peak for the past 19 years.

The weather in Patagonia changed as quick as the Dow Jones Industrial Average for the better and worse. It ranged from the beautifully warm sun rays containing a ton of vitamin D with a strong dose of UV cancer burrowing additives, snow, horizontal rain and category 1 hurricane wind that happily kept away all things that fly – ALL things that fly…from drunken Japanese Kamikaze pilots off course to all hated horse flies.

The forces of Patagonia happened to create the perfect storm one night and great stories as I was natures toy as it violently shook my tent in as if it was Regan MacNeil’s bed in the film, Exorcist during the night with gale force winds…hearing it tear across the land prior to impact as I leaned against one of the tent poles as the other side of the pole was supported with my backpack to keep my tent poles from buckling, eventually flooding my tent in knuckle deep water - breaking my rental shops dreams of hiring a waterproof tent. Thankfully I didn’t drown since I was in a large sleeping bag that seemed to suck up a large part of the water during the night.

From the overall great weather for Patagonia standards (and mine), perfect views, wonderful memories of witnessing the glaciers suicidal jumps of faith off the face of the mountains while experiencing it all with my friends from Israel whom I met on the trail who so kindly let me join them on their honeymoon for the past 5 days – helping make this trip to Patagonia a hard place to forget…even if did happen to have a lapse in memory in the near or distant future.

REMINDER: Click on the Photo Album for Chile to see a fraction of my trip photos

Hiking with Jesus

January 20th, 2011: Today I did my last hike in the Lake District before leaving to Patagonia…with Jesus. He was the spitting image of the man that you see plastered and marketed all over the world because this man was the real thing – and French never the less! I didn’t see him walk on water or anything extraordinary but I did see that he had a large following…unfortunately they were horse flies and not the sluts at the Playboy mansion.

As I walked along Jesus’ side I thought about how much I dislike these…these…darn horse flies wondering why I felt bad for them the other week when I saw a father and son from Chile sodomizing some, laughing at how they couldn’t fly with this log sized piece of grass impaled in there anus. But I now see the entertainment value on this harsh punishment for these flies who were clearly invading my personal space. I myself cannot do such an act and it is not just because I am now walking with Jesus. Hmmmm…WWJD?(What would Jesus do). I suppose he would kill them sons-a-b#tch@s, but…WWIK? (what would I know).

I intentionally climbed a smoking bomb

December 29th, 2010: Today I woke up and intentionally climbed a smoking bomb with an unknown length of a lit detonating cord. To be more precise I climbed Volcan Villarrica, one of the most active volcanos in Chile that has a nice hot lava lake in its crater. There was so many others climbing the volcano that the 300 or so Gortex, ax carrying climbers in perfect lines that they reminded me of the stores in the US at around 5am the day after Thanksgiving (also know as Black Friday – the most popular holiday in the US for people with nothing better to do with their time).

I thought seeing the center would have been the best part of the 6 hour climb to the top, but…I was wrong. The best part was the a possibly Guinness Book of World Records length slide down on our butts / butt sleds on the snow to the bottom. This is a time it is good to have some extra natural fatty padding in which I have a minimal amount – reminder: Most people get fat after they get married and not before.

Today was one of those days my smile looked like the Joker (Jack Nicholson’s version) as I tore down the mountain uncontrollably at times almost colliding into the scared others who scooted down as snow sprayed my face impairing my vision, at times shoot off the track of the others going into a wild tail spin as I would attempt to straighten myself out with my ice axe being careful not to imbed it into myself or another. Today I came to the conclusion that bombs can be fun...when wearing Gortex.

Racing a bunch of international antisocial mutes

September 14th, 2010: Today I stumbled up Chacaltaya which tops 5,450 meters (17, 880 feet) in the mountains outside La Paz in Bolivia with a bunch of antisocial mutes from all around the world. This exceeds my prior 5,093 meter (16,170 feet) hike by…a lot feet. Just because I have been at a high altitude e for quite some time, didn’t mean it was any easier. I internally raced everyone to the top without them knowing about it, beating them all – I was the champion of the international antisocial mute world for a brief 20 or so minutes.

I would have taken more breaks and enjoyed more of the view while going up to the summit but it is so much easier to just look down and keep stepping up, trying to walk that straight oxygen sobriety line, trying to not pass out from the dizziness due to the lack of oxygen at this height. Today would have been a day to have hauled up my sack of coca in my cheek…but, it was forgotten back at the hostel.

For those reading this in the US…the highest mountain in the lower 48 states is Mt. Whitney coming in at 4,417 meters (14,494 feet) and the highest mountain in the US is Mount McKinely at 6,193 meters (20,320 feet).

I finished up the day taking a series of photos of the mud creations what they call “Craters of the Moon.” This sort of mud…is the type of mud I feel that it is worth seeing - the type that is not manipulated by the hands or feet of man, woman or child.

Deeper is not always better

August 4th, 2010: Did a 3 day trek to Colca Canyon…supposedly the 2nd deepest canyon in the world. Not to sound biased, the Grand Canyon and the Canyon Lands National Park crush this hyped up Peruvian tourist Mecca proving to me that, deeper is not always better. The trip had some highlights which I would like to tell you about but I am extremely busy at the moment…traveling, so I unfortunately don’t seem to have the time.

Hiking down into Colca Canyon I was seeing a lot of donkeys…reminding me the lovin that goes on between them and some of the Colombian and Venezuelan men in the countryside - who lose their virginity to these love machine perhaps a little too often (never asks the local Ecuadorians so this I don’t know). Walking the road with my guide, I looked over and said, “Can I ask you a strange question?” Giving me permission, I asked her if it was common for men to have sex with donkeys. She confirmed it…Peruvian men love donkeys too. Every region in the world seems to have their secrets…whether it is a whispered in the ear of a donkey, sheep, chicken or even prostitute – men can at times can truly fit the saying, “Men, will f@#k anything.”

I did see some amazing stars on this trek (a trend it seems in Peru), beautiful trails, condors and even a dog with its eye hanging out - just wanting to cut the connecting string like tissue so he can continue his life lounging around in the canyon.

This hike to Colca Canyon officially, officially, officially confirmed that I am not going to do a 3,4 or 5 day trek to Machu Picchu. I decided to hang with my people…the old balding men and grey/purple tinted haired ladies and capitalize on the easy access via train. Even though I get great internal satisfaction after every struggle up or down the hills, mountains or canyons…I think at this point in my adventure, I need a break and am not going to do what a large majority of people my age are doing. So, yes…the train will be fine, thank you.

Massive coca intake at Lake 69

July 17th, 2010: Hmmm…who was the innovative person who came up with creative name Lake 69? Why couldn’t it have been Lake 21, 50, 68 or better yet…Really Blue Lake – better describing what it really is…not what people do here? This lake is the BLUEST lake I have yet to see. Bluer that lake Tahoe in the United State and bluer than the blue sky on a clear unpolluted day. It was so blue it looked as if I had some sort of blue enhancing filters wedged into my eyes as I gazed around after our 3.5 hour hike up to the top.

Today was my last day of enjoying the surrounding mountains area. Taking an estimated 51,200 steps to reach Lake 69 in which the pounds of coca leaves I dumped into my mouth - consuming more than 10 free range goats…still didn’t help provide me more oxygen to my blood. I am beginning to think that coca leaves really doesn’t do anything besides provide an excess amount of spit that I have to constantly swallow in addition to leaving a bitter taste in my mouth with that mild numbing effect.

Out of my group of about 14 people, Myself and my legalized drug dealing pharmacist friend (my primary dealer the past month when I was sick) reached the top…dead last, with just enough time to take some obnoxious photos and eat a quick lunch before having to head back down to our bus – in which we were sadly 20 minutes late.

Lake 69 was a nice grand finale hike in this region. Most people can safely say that the most rewarding things in life are the most difficult to achieve. Today’s hike was difficult for me, but the reward reaching the top was worth the struggle to get there…every breath and step forward.

I will be heading off to Lima on Tuesday morning instead of my intended Monday due to the bus company I wanted to go with did not have a front seat available on the top of the double decker bus. The luxury of not having a time schedule…

Now it is time that I see some massive manmade pavement creations in the ever so crowed city of Lima and to enjoy all of the places I miss back at home without having to go through customs, pay an airport tax in addition to an excessive baggage fee. Such places on my “to visit” list, includes McDonald’s, Taco Bell, KFC, Burger King, Wendy’s, Papa Johns and Little Caesars – did I forget any? – Oh, and yes…Starbucks!

During the next week I will have no food budget and will be eating everything. When my stomach reads “full,” I am prepared to revert to vomiting any previous value meal so that I can consume another as I attempt to show my love and support of Corporate America who successfully infiltrated these foreign lands to provide locals and travelers a piece of the US without ever having to leave. If I don’t leave Lima with a Buddha Belly…then I didn’t really enjoy Lima.

Santa Cruz Trek

July 14th, 2010: I just came back the other day from one of the most popular hiking trails in the Cordillera Blacno Mountain range. The 5 hour drive getting to the trailhead in the van made for either those who stopped growing at age 7, midgets or amputees was one of the best parts of the trip. The vans shook as it went along the crater riddled dust filled roads so much it didn’t just help me see double but offered a free massage from the luxury of my own seat, without an optional happy ending…but, with views that are still embedded into the depths of my brain. The ribbon-like mountain views here might just have topped whar I saw on my trip to the Himalayas years ago which I thought were not toppable.

Along the trail the first day, junk food addicted children would come from the depths of the countryside…with most of them looking as if they were coming down from a serious candy crash as they would stand straight, slurring some words in Spanish, repeating it several times…”sweets”…”cookies” as they would follow us with their emotionless expressions with dried snot and caked on remnants of their last feeding, reminding me of the old film, The Night of the Living Dead.

The nights were cold and uncomfortable but the morning sunshine was gratefully rewarding. The stars once again provided a good show and even provided me with an opportunity to make a wish as one came tearing between the mountains. I do believe in wishes and I am hoping that one day my patience will pay off and that I will be able to capitalize on at least one of them.

Having the option to bathe in the fresh cold water the slithered through our campsites, I decided it would be best for me to get back to the “Ice Box” (Previous blog post) to take care of any hygiene matter...using baby powder to mask any unpleasant order I picked up over the 4 days - to make my time in my sleeping bags (2 sleeping bags) more bearable.

Since donkeys carried all my stuff except for my water and a few personal effects, I was able to proudly be the slowest person on the hike as I concentrated on trying to walk a straight line (with the assistance of someone’s hiking pole) and getting enough air into my lungs as we climbed higher and higher into the clouds topping 4750 meters (15,583.9895 feet) - at times feeling as if I was being invisibly choked. To help combat altitude sickness Peru has this thing for consuming unprocessed coca leaves to increase the absorption of oxygen in the blood – yep, the same coca that can be placed into your nose or even your veins when illegally processed. For me, drinking coca in tea form or by placing the bitter leafs into my mouth and chewing them had enough of an effect for me, numbing my tongue and the side of my mouth.

A question arose on our hike. Was it the lack of oxygen that made it so funny or was it really that funny? Our guide called the man responsible for getting the donkeys from Point A to Point B a Donkey Driver. That just didn’t seem correct since he never really sits on the donkey. Putting our minds together, I came up with a new title…Donkey Handler. One of my friends came up with the term Donkeyboy deriving from Cowboy – but I, for some gut feeling think, Donkey Handler sounds more proper.

The group of individuals that I was with for the 4 days and 3 nights were great. I haven’t laughed or had that much fun in the longest time. My English did not have to be altered or slowed down, since most of them were at a level that helped me feel I was back at home as I was able to act as silly/stupid as I wanted. I have a strong inclination that it will not be that last time I see some of my newly acquired Facebook friends. Perhaps someday, our friendships might grow to become a coveted Hotmail friend…time will tell.

Back from the trek, I am sitting here and I cannot believe how much time I spent in this small town, Huaraz. As the saying goes, “time flies when you are having fun.” I feel I need to move on even though inside I am not ready. I can’t explain why but something inside is telling me to pick up the pace. So…I will be leaving here…Monday, to make my way to Lima to meet my Peruvian friends living there, giving me a little extra time here to finish a few things that I came to do.

1 man + 4 women camping trip = Human mule

July 8th, 2010: My friend and I all made it back from the backcountry at Lake Churup, unscathed from our one night trip…packing for what seemed a 1 week expedition. I went with my 4 women friends who all but one have never been backcountry camping. They all came to the hostel dining area with itsee bitsee teeny weenie backpacks when it was time to distribute the weight. This obviously made me the human mule since I had the largest backpack.

I rarely go backcountry camping with anyone besides myself since it is so difficult to round up people who are willing to do it – so this was a treat to go with such a large group of women who were all positive about the limited luxury’s from going to the toilet on the hillside, too filling up their water bottles from suicidal insect filled lake

In the evening, my friends made a fire to boil our massive amounts of ramon noodles with the assistance of my portable compact tree-like notebook and a lighter. During the slow process of building a fire, I became more appreciative of my camping stove which makes life so much more easier. These are one of those luxuries you don’t appreciate until you are laying on the ground blowing air into a fire, taking some big hits of campfire smoke every few breaths as I was effectively charring my lungs for some future High School science class jar.

For everyone who knows me…I had no part in the managing of the fire except to randomly poke sticks into it, as I poorly listened to the commander of the fire and unintentionally destroyed it as I tried to make it larger when nobody was looking - since deep inside there is a controllable little pyromaniac in me.

The evening was beautiful when the stars decided to expose themselves as they were so plentiful and seemed to overpower our fire at times as we all pleasantly sat around the campfire taking in the warmth.

When heading back from 1 night of camping, we needed to avoid the park ranger who we lied to at the entrance, saying we were just going up for the day as I passed him with 4 sleeping pads strapped to the outside of my pack in addition to the exposed sleeping bags of my friends with their childlike size flimsy school packs. When the park ranger saw my stuff, he stopped us and said we didn’t have to carry our gear up and could leave it at this local’s house. He was told we wanted to be comfortable once we reach the top. Hmm, anyone with an IQ of 10.43448 would have known we were going to camp at the top.

There was a reason for this lack of truth besides being a group of compulsive liars. If the truth was told we would have had to pay the $23USD entrance fee for each person instead of the $1.75USD – a lot of money for my 3 Peruvian friends – including myself.
Taking a shortcut down the mountain through the marsh and through the grassy countryside, we escaped the grips of the park ranger making it to safety. Lying on the roadside, relaxing we waited and waited and waited for a local van/bus as the sun began to bake us a nice golden brown or red. Seeing some mules coming along the road, we ended up hiring them to take our baggage to the next town for about $0.30USD as we cut through the tiny towns on the mule paths. Our packs didn’t stay on very well on these animals as they would fall off, scaring them as they would perform mini sprints dragging the packs tied by ropes down and off the road. It was more of a laugh and an efficient way to prematurely wear out our packs rather than making it easier for us.

Now back in Huaraz, I am currently in the process of taking off again to the mountains for 4 days to do the Santa Cruz trek. This time I will be with an organized tour, with myself carrying zero equipment. It should be easier on the body, though it will have a different feel being with other customers rather than friends, but still good times.

The man with a permanent "hang loose" sign

May 30th, 2010: Took a trip up the Nevado del Ruiz which is the highest active volcano in Colombia reaching 17,457 feet. Of coarse I didn't make it to the top...I just walked with a bunch of others for about an hour up before turning back around. Hiking this high again reminds me that no matter what shape I am in...I can always blame being out of breath because of the altitude, not because I haven't worked out since I climb out of my mothers womb - and that was tough. Thinking about it...perhaps it has not been that long ago, but it has been a while.

When heading off the mountain our 2 wheel drive van seemed to try to bury itself in the mud, starting wheels first. After getting out of the vehicle, by the time I tip toed through the mud pit, the back of the van was already filled with hands all shapes and sizes. Pushing forward the tires spun, thinking it was not a good spot standing directly in the back, doing nothing. Feeling as if I needed to help, I placed my hand on what I thought was a locking sliding door on the van. Little did I know as I pushed forward it was going to bite my fingers...every one of them minus my thumb and little ole pinky.

I don't know how I managed to get it out of the door before they were decapitated, but I somehow did. I didn't do anything but feel the aftermath. It looked like I will only be losing 3 finger nails and fortunately no need to visit the doctors to sew those nuggets back on. Close call to being the man with a permanent "hang loose" sign...forcing me to move to Hawaii or some other surfers paradise without being looked at as a freak.

The Lost City Trek

December 14th, 2009: Today I experienced why most of the travel guides inform backpackers on how demanding this six day trek can be, completing several kilometers and seven hours of hiking for the day…reaching a mere 660 meters higher than I started after a roller coaster of hills and a multitude of river crossings. Unfortunately for me, the final stretch to the Lost City had no escalator to whisk me to the top, meaning that I was forced to put my weak chicken like legs to work. Slowly, I made my way up, one step at a time climbing up the 1200 awkwardly shaped steps as my body threw a tantrum as I painfully directed it to continue moving forward, vowing that I am going to give up hiking in three short days…questioning why I agreed to write this tour up.

Reaching the Lost City, I was clearly reminded on why hiking can be so rewarding as a smile of accomplishment came tearing across my face as I stood there with a temporary loss of words, trying to describe on paper what rested in front of me. Here I had magnificent views overlooking the dense jungle and rugged terrain, enjoying the sight that a miniscule amount of the white wheel chaired license plate holders get the opportunity to see back in the U.S., making the moment even more special.

Hiking at 16,170 feet

August 4th, 2009: Stepping out of the Toyota VI land capsule, I made one small step for man and one large step for mankind as I faced the elements on Mt. Cotopaxi. It seems as if I just walked in on a 1,000,000 plus year battle between the wind and the mountain as it rips over its surface, trying to peel its loose lifeless skin. With no trees to hug or bushes to hide under, I had nothing to keep me for being involuntarily lifted off the mountain as the wind pushed me around. Leaning deep into the wind I was able to walk in somewhat of a straight sober-like line until it would take a breath, falling forward as I leaned into what was no longer there. The small rocks tried to escape the mountain by sneaking in from the tops of my shoes, hoping that I would transport them to safety. Helping weigh me down, I was initially happy to assist a few refugees… until they tried to completely occupy my shoes. Not wanting to be selective, I dumped all of them on the side of the trail.

At about 15,180 feet, I thought I would have had more serious issues adapting to the thin air. Initially I felt as if each breath was a challenge and every movement seemed as if I was on my third and final set of resistance training at the local gym. The immense sound of the wind doing its war cry masked all other noises, preventing me from hearing the sound of my lungs struggling for air and the impact of my feet as it made contact with the snow and rocks. As time grew older…instead of being weakened by the altitude I began to feel extremely light and powerful. For some odd reason, it didn’t even seem as if I owned my body…it was a machine, moving to its destination. I experienced almost no pain except for when the wind performed an unqualified acupuncture session on my face with what felt like frigid needles. Either I was actually getting stronger as the trail moved us higher up the mountain or I might have been - just maybe…suffering from a lack of oxygen and didn’t know it.

After an hour of hiking, my group and I reached the refuge at 15,840 feet. Standing here, for the first time I thought that it would have been amazing climbing to the peak. When I say climb, it is more like a stroll since Cotopaxi is the place where you can see a pregnant woman with a bad fitting artificial leg and her 6 year old son strapped to her back summiting the top - as long as she has the $190…for each of them.

Intending to make it to the base of the glacier, we left the safety of the refuge and headed up the trail. As the elevation increased, the trail began to hide from us by going underneath the snow. Standing there naked, with no gear, I noticed the angle of the slope with dramatically increasing. I am not calling myself a mountain climber, but having watched enough Hollywood films to know that if there was a slip, we would be performing a high speed slide, without stopping until striking the jagged rocks sitting below us as bumpers in a pinball machine. Just as I internally thought that I really didn’t want to play follow the leader anymore, our guide turned to me and said that we could not go any further. Thanks beejesus…he reads minds - stopping our ascent at around 16,170 feet.

On my decent from the refuge, I felt the hood on my jacket filling with air, creating a miniature parachute carrying me down, as my steps were more like record breaking long jumps on the loose tiny stones. Reaching the Toyota VI capsule, I childishly called…shotgun. Slightly chilled, I climbed inside sitting in front with my hands resting on the vents…hinting to our driver that I was anticipating the hot air…that never arrived. I would like to think, it was broken. Today, Mt Cotopaxi…tomorrow, Mt…Rushmore.

Another day at Purace National “Water” Park

July 19th, 2009: This morning…the rain clouds once again welcomed us to Purace National “Water” Park. Martha and I headed back to Purace, starting our day by hiking to the condor viewing point where the lazy beast is fed since some of his other mates died from starvation. While crossing a mine field strategically laid by the rebel cows that dotted the landscape, I inadvertently stepped on an explosive…covering the sides of my shoe. Fortunately my shoes are not just waterproof but poo poo proof too.

Since the condor didn’t want to take in the prime views on this rainy day, I decided to climb up to his spot to enjoy a…birds eye view. Making it only 2 feet from the top, seeing the condors very own excrements on the rock, I lost my footing…slipping - finger tips becoming ridged, I tried “the cat” pose but I remembered that I have no claws. Catching a hole in the rock, I stopped myself from an extremely unpleasant landing.

With the rain coming down…horizontally, the next item on our, “to do list” was to hike up the active volcano, Purace, to a point of interest that Martha wanted to show me. Today, I was not extremely motivated to hike up or to anything…this is including the coffee shop at the entrance into the park before venturing off to the vertical hike of no interest. Hoping Martha would be like most of my other woman friends, I was thinking the weather or high altitude was going to break her down telling me that she is ready to go home before we even start. I was…wrong. I should have been wiser with my educated guess that a professor in civil engineering, specializing in…water, would fold because of bad weather.

When leaving the coffee shop, some climbers that were denied by Purace looked like a bunch of monkeys, huddled at the fire in the ranger station trying to bring life back to their extremities. Looking at my fingers, still swollen like bloated waterlogged earthworms from the day before, I slowly put down my head…following Martha up the hill, not wanting to tell her I didn’t want to go.

Each 10 steps up, I gasped for air…because of…the… altitude- not fitness level. Each 5 steps, Martha gasped for air - I had the advantage, meaning I would only have to work half as hard as her. Still not giving up on her potentially wanting to turn back, I wasted my breath pumping her mind full of information about the affects of altitude on the human body…forgetting she is at times like a senior citizen – or international traveler…saying yes when she has not a clue what I am saying.

The rain continued to flow, creating a river of water that followed the trail down the hill trying to make it to a more constant water source. With little success, the water either made pleasant mini-waterfalls or beautiful deep dark muddy trails.

Hiking up Purace I noted the locals had some creative means to protect themselves from the elements. I saw plenty of guerrilla boots, one piece painting suits, unisex garbage bag skirts, green industrial strength rubber gloves and the more fashionable food handling gloves. Some of these outfits today have seen more quality outdoor time than the expedition quality outdoor gear of others back at home…only enduring the elements when heading out of the cubical cell for a smoke break or to their car.

Due to time limitations we were only able to do a three hour hike up Purace, unfortunately not making it to our destination – Martha’s destination. Everyone I saw coming down didn’t make it to the top so I was obviously happy that time constraints saved my body from burning more calories than absolutely necessary. With my garbage bags over my socks failing me and my fingers again not wanting to function…this was a good ending point.

Waiting for a bus to take us back to civilization, we were invited into a local woman’s house to warm up next to her wood burning stove. I stood there in the dark blackened kitchen with my hands over the fire as it kindly brought feeling back to my 10 little friends. Watching the woman’s children playing marbles on the cracked cement floor…I built up enough courage to challenging one of the kids to a game, knowing he was the Tiger Woods of marbles. Hearing the bus tearing around the corner, our game was cut extremely short, since we didn’t even start. Sprinting out of the house we were able to catch the attention of the driver without me having to sacrifice Martha by pushing her in front of the bus, to create an effective but one time use speed bump. Unable to sit under the tent like tarp on top of the roof with the others, we slid into a row on the side of the bus feeling as if I was on a train circling a zoo. We had seven people on the bench in my row of this massive bus that engulfed the dirt road as a Humvee would fill a suburban street. Every inch of the bus was maximized…with the back half of the bus filled with individuals’ cardboard luggage, potato sacks and livestock.

As we moved onward to Popayan, I looked around realizing that I did not blend into the crowd very well as it seemed that I was the only one who was excited to be on this local bus. The people on the bus looked like liked they were “pigs in a blanket” with the blanket wrapped around them having just a nose or eyes peering from the opening… as I sat with my head sticking out my door like a dog, letting the cold wind dodge my face.

A man, shuffling along a 6 inch sideboard that went along the outside of the bus, was hanging from bar to bar… collecting the fare as the bus was quickly moving along the poorly maintained gravel road. It was amazing…a real life Colombian stuntman. What an amazing job…when the weather is nice. I am curious if this was the company policy for collecting fares?

We made it back to Popayan just in time to head to a local pizza place before they closed. I was thinking about pizza for two whole days – actually 41 hours, 11 minutes and 24 seconds. What is it about food when traveling? It seems to be a top item of interest for me in situations such as these. Here we sat right next to the oven in front of the pizza place absorbing and storing the needed heat. Recapping our weekend into the wild…I think the trip to Purace National Park has been the best part of my trip up to this point - it could not have been any better. The weather, the mishaps…it was the makings of a perfect weekend.

Into the Wild

July 18th, 2009: Waking up at 3:12am, with a puddle of saliva on the pillow next to the corner of my mouth and a hot water bottle that has chilled onto my back, I slowly rolled out of bed. Taking a 2 hour bus ride up into the Purace National Park, my friend Martha and I are on a mission…to be frugal and see the park without paying for an overpriced Jeep tour.

Down a wet desolate muddy road, we departed the local bus at the ranger station in Purace National Park, rushing inside to get out of the inverted lake of water that was being poured on us from above. Putting on my hat, water resistant gloves, raincoat, pair of rain pants and my waterproof shoes…I was ready to enjoy the elements from the safety of my own clothes. After building some inner strength, enjoying a warm beverage in a roadside shack, we left the building that provided us a temporary refuge to begin our journey down the trail into the wild.

As the hiking trail bent around the corner I was able to get my first glimpse of the thermals…I had to take a moment to absorb what I was looking at. The colors were so vivid and the smell of sulfur was so strong, I had difficulties focusing, becoming dizzy from my overloaded senses. The gray wet skies pleasantly contrasted the bright shades of green that lined the banks of the crystal clear bubbling water with bleach white sediment that peacefully rested at the bottom. The lack of signs labeling every thermal and the absence of warning signs at every hazardous location was refreshing that the legal system has not yet destroyed this country.

Walking back to the road we were able to jump into the back of a small off-road vehicle and headed to our next stop a few kilometers down, stopping at the San Nicolas waterfalls. The muddy trails were a huge obstacle for those - myself - who didn’t have waterproof boots, just waterproof shoes…almost effective as waterproof sandals. Not that I didn’t want to get muddy…I just didn’t want to lose a shoe or be soaked so early into the trip in this defrosting freezer like weather. I tip toed along the side of the trial as would an unskilled ballerina minus the artificial bulge and white tights so that I can submerge myself into deeper pockets of mud without it seeping in from the top of my shoes. When possible, I would swing from the base of the trees, vines, fragile plant life and bushes to avoid the pockets of knee deep mud that would clearly make my waterproof shoes ineffective.

Martha, wearing “guerrilla boots” which I am told that is the current fashion for all of the guerrillas’ fighting the Colombian government, has the advantage of being able to walk in mud at knee level. The boots resembled gardening boots without the overpriced Smith and Hawkin label. Not being able to always follow her path, I had to sometimes locate my own route.
Seeing a small piece of wood in the middle of the trail I jumped and safely landed on in the center. With the mud feeling firm I saw a branch peacefully resting on the trail and fortunately within my reach. Jumping off the wooden platform, I landed with great accuracy onto the branch as would a squirrel jumping from a tree. Unfortunately for me, landing on it perfectly didn’t do me any good…it was a trap strategically placed by Mother Nature. My foot was immediately consumed by the mud – running on the top of the mud as Jesus did…in…Rome, I made it to the shore with little damage and my shoe in tacked. The mud only briefly making it just past the rim of my waterproof shoe…I could not complain on the lack of severity of my mistake in judgment.

Hearing the waterfall in the distance, getting closer and closer as we were trudging through the mud, I was getting excited to see this water show that was calling me. Reaching the top of the trail I could see the mist going horizontally into the jungle, violently being carried by the wind. Here was my first view of the mighty San Nicolas. The water barreled off the top as I looked up seeing the beauty of water being rerouted by the rocks during its decent. Trying to take photos without getting my camera completely wet, it was impossible – even when holding Martha’s poncho over my head for protection. I continued taking photos, figuring the risk of breaking my camera was not as great as the risk of forgetting this moment.

Leaving the waterfall, we caught a ride to the Lagoon by the means of standing on back of a Jeep’s narrow back bumper. The bumper holding less than half of my feet and my hands supporting an awkward grip on the roof rack, I was of coarse in some sick way…happy. As time passed, I looked over at my friend…slowly seeing her fake smile going limp. With her hands looking uncomfortably contorted on the bar, she quietly tells me that she was getting tired and didn’t know if she could hold on any longer. Advising Martha to adjust her grip, we continued down the road as the rain pelted us from above. Not looking like she was having much fun, I asked her if I should tell the driver to stop. With a dazed look, she says she is okay - clearly going to hell for such a blatant lie. I was not sure if she was just cold or at the point of unintentionally letting go so as a precautionary measure, I swung my leg around placing one leg between her legs and grasped the bar outside her grip with my arms under hers - confidently telling her that I would not let her fall – thinking, I probably will and that I too will be joining her in hell.

After a long bumpy ride to the trailhead at the Lagoon, we made it without any injuries… just a lower core body temperature than we are comfortably use to. Walking down the trail, it quickly ended. Breaking off into several different paths, they all looked muddy, wet and not extremely inviting. Wanting to make it to the lagoon, we left the trail jumping from one grassy island to another, as if we were playing doubles in a life size game of Frogger with only one life left. The closer we came to the lagoon, the firmer the ground felt with the mud and water slowly disappearing. We were walking on what seemed to be an enormously beautiful sponge that held so many different colors as they weaved between each other holding us up from the elements below us.

Done with exploring for the day and not wanting to seem like a quitter, I informed Martha we might be going too far out…reminding her we needed to get back to the road before dark. She wanted to make it to the edge of the water more than myself. We continued to move on, until…Mother Nature assisted me in my desires.

“Help me!” Martha yelled as I snapped my head around, seeing her on the ground. After several false cries for help with minor sinking’s, I casually laughed as her poncho covered the reason for her request. I slowly began to make my way over toward her. Her poncho moved during her struggle on the ground, exposing her leg. I then realized that her entire leg was missing as if it was taking off by a piranha with a glandular disorder - she broke through the sponge! Remembering how she told me she can’t swim…I had to quickly react. Treating the moss as a sheet of ice, I decided to lie on my stomach. Making it to Martha, she laid on the edge panicking, as she thought she was going to be completely consumed. Reaching into the opening of the moss, as a doctor would reach into the abyss to grab a breached child, I grabbed her leg and attempted to pull her out - my grip slipped. Reaching in again, it too slipped. My fingers were swollen like bloated waterlogged earthworms from the cold wet weather…not properly functioning and failing to listen to my commands. Reaching in for the third time…I managed to get her leg out, pulling it up for its first breath. With Martha’s boot dangling on the end of her foot, I managed to get it on…successfully performing my first sponge rescue.

Making it out of the marsh with many carefully planned steps and a much better route than the one that brought us out there, we needed to get back to the town center to find out if we could get a place to stay for the night. Walking along the road, we tried to hitch a ride without the signature “thumb sticking out on the side of the road” method – since my hands were occupied, making fists under my wet gloves, looking like I had no fingers… trying to keep my hands warm. We were painted with mud that the rain could not wash off, no matter what the angle or speed, preventing us from getting a ride in the nicer vehicles that passed us along the road. Walking and walking and walking, we became more and more silent the colder we became. I began hoping the cars that passed us who didn’t give us a ride…would break down or fly off the road - none of my hopes came true.

A small pickup truck in the distance was coming down the muddy road. Waving it down, the truck stopped. Going to the window, a woman gave me the sign that is was okay to jump in the back…in the back of the narrow pickup that was fully loaded with flattened cardboard boxes, covered with a thick plastic tarp. This load exceeded the height of the cab and clearly exceeded the weight capacity of this circus sized pickup truck. Not sure how we were going to get on, I ended up making a step with my hands for Martha as she squirmed like a slug to the top. Sliding along the plastic she laid on her stomach holding onto the plastic covered wooden 2x4 that went horizontally along the back of the cab. Using the wheel well, I was able to get a few toes on the tire as I boosted myself up, wiggling to the top. With my right hand, as I laid on my back…I was able to grab with my highly nonfunctional finger tips, a vertical 2x4 that was tightly covered in plastic.

Whatever the rush was, the pickup took off down the winding muddy road riddled with water filled creators and ponds. Still raining, we were on the first known mobile slip in slide – it was not yellow, nor would Mattel ever endorse such a liability. The vehicle would quickly steer right and left avoiding the obstacles with no railings to prevent us from slipping off. Making it more of a challenge, I could not rest my head on the roof due to it making a banging noise as it would strike the roof each bump, confusing the driver thinking we wanted to stop. After a about a 20 minute ride we made it to a bus stop…transferring to the next town to find a room for rent.

Finding a place to stay, I laid in a rented bed at someone’s house above a restaurant… with a smile fixed to my face…thinking that having a car and good weather would have definitely ruined, this perfect day.

Oh where oh where can the trail be?

June 15th, 2009: Going straight up this hill, that by definition could potentially be considered a cliff – I extended my leg straight ahead of me, one after another, passing the scattered coffee plants that clung to side of the trail that barely existed. Half dead, walking as if I was a zombie, thinking on why am I trying to do all these fuuuuu – dang tombs in one day. My last stretch of tombs is El Aguacate, which I was not even really interested in seeing. Reaching a rundown wooden shack along in the hills, thinking that this is where a guy suppose to run out of the door swinging a chainsaw, making sausage out of me to sell to the secret society that lived in the hills. But unfortunately for me, this was not Hollywood and not the country where everyone owns cars let alone a chainsaw.

Making a lot of noise so I would not startle anyone inside, I called out to get the attention of somebody that might help me get back onto the right path to the tombs. The linen sheet that hung in the door frame moved and out came a thin, frail, half blind woman – having no idea how she was able to get up here or how long it has been since she been down. Asking her where El Aguacate was, she turned and pointed up and continued to go about her way. Thinking that perhaps I should just make it back down to the trail which I knew would take me back to my hotel…I was drawn to go to the tombs. Not sure what was drawing me because my body and brain did not want to go anywhere else. Looking for my ruby red…hiking shoes, wanting to slip them on and click my heels and say, “There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home!” until I realized…why in the hell would I ever own a red pair of shoes!

I continued my journey up the hill internally crying. Up and up and up and up I went. After each burst of energy, which I thought would bring me to the top…another hill was waiting for me. Knowing now that I was not on the right trail, I was hoping at one point I would intersect the proper tourist trail with wonderfully placed signs confirming to me that I am struggling for a reason, and will not have to backtrack later, meaning all the ground I covered was wasted energy.

Dragging my body onto someone else’s property that was clinging to the hillside, I met a pet…a scraggly guard dog, standing in front of the house. Hoping for a leash that did not exist, I called for the owners. Barking crazily as a dog infected with rabies, I knew there was a reason I should have watched more TV, specifically…the Dog Whisper. “What would he do?” I thought. I continued to call for someone hoping they would come out - there was no response. Hesitant to pass the dog, I wanted to avoid a full confrontation and headed back down the trail in the other direction. Stopping, I had a feeling that I needed to go past the dog. Pulling out my knife, I hid it my hand just in case someone did come out of the house and headed back to say hello to my little friend – happily thinking that I had my rabies shot before leaving the U.S. if something did manage to happen.

Not looking at the dog I tried to follow the trail right next to the house. Understanding that I shouldn’t be there, I respected the dog’s job as that he doing what he suppose to do. The dog did a fine job making noise…but this time, he dashed forward. My knife was drawn, quickly I tried to cut up the hill past the house. He continued toward me, not knowing the proper thing to do I turned toward the ragged beast and accepted his challenge, running at him making a loud noise - he took off backwards barking. I called his bluff as sweat dripped down my face, adding to my drenched shirt of stench. I hurried past him and choose the path that look most like a trail.

Still lost, I went further up, swaying as I attempted to walk straight, my body hurting…I exited the real world and went into my own. Somehow I made it higher up the staggering steep hill, eventually making it to a wired fence. Trying to bend down to go underneath the obstacle, pain shot through my back. Again the thought about turning around clouded my mind but still I continued forward. Running into another house I startled a girl standing outside the door. Asking where the El Aguacate tombs were…she pointed…up. Asking her again hoping she was going to change her mind...she again, pointed…up.

Finally I made it to the top of the ridgeline. I wanted to pull out an American flag sticking it into the soil as a mountaineer would do when reaching some famous peak and name it after me. But seeing the well traveled trail, I knew I was not the first person to concur the hill. Making it to the tombs, my body was hurting so badly, I decided not to climb down into the run down tombs, looking at them from above quickly passing them. Making it past about 9 tombs, I stopped. Turning around, not my own doing, I went back to see the tombs I worked so hard to see. I climbed into the first tomb…then the second one…the third one…the fourth one…the fifth one…and said f@#k the rest. I couldn’t do it. Heading along the ridge I had to drop back down into the valley. Two more hours of stopping every few minutes of painfully steep steps down the mountain, hoping that somewhere along the trail they thought about using switchbacks to help make my trip down a little easier - I wanted it all to end. I eventually made it back to the village and thought, “Is this what it feels like to be old…or…is this what it feels like to be stupid?”

Hijacking the San Cipriano trolley

June 3rd, 2009: Running late for a day trip to San Cipriano, I chose the lazy route to the bus station by hiring a cab instead of doing a brutally easy 3 km walk. The taxi that I flagged down was driven by a twelve year old looking boy who must have borrowed his father’s cab after picking up his comatose body from an early morning at the bar, conveniently tossing his lifeless body into the truck. The five minute ride turned into a somewhat enjoyable 30 minute metered tour of Cali, taking me all throughout the city exploring areas which I would not even have even thought about going. During my tour, I would periodically gaze at the taxi meter…slightly concerned as the numbers continued to grow. Not sure if he understood my original instructions, I kindly repeated to the driver where I needed to go - mumbling something I could not comprehend, he drove faster.

The meter did not take a break, but kept moving, climbing higher and higher. “Am I going to have to pay this,” I thought? Immediately I began to look through my Latin American Spanish phrase book, to say something about the taxi fare when it was time to pay. When the driver finally made it to the bus station, the meter read $9.50. Compensating for traffic, the trip should at the most have cost me $2.50. So, I smiled as I gave him $3.00 (just in case I was wrong in my calculations) and used my new phrase that I learned as we were touring around town, “That’s too expensive.” The expression on his face looked as if I took a sucker away from a child, as his head lowered and a small whimper escaped between his lips. Slowly, I left the cab…hoping he wasn’t going to create a scene since my phrasebook book didn’t contain enough words to properly defend myself.

After getting out of the cab…I quickly located a microbus that was leaving toward the village of Cordoba. Jumping into the front seat, I was officially on my way with a full frontal view of my driver’s madness. Every so often I would check my seatbelt to make sure it did not somehow disengage as we swiftly moved along the road as the driver performed the signature blind curve passes with finesse and still had enough concentration to honk and lock eyes with at all women who were old enough to bear children. Sitting there, I was hoping the sign of the cross that the driver made before we left, along with some of the other passengers…was enough spiritual strength to get me to the village. A few hours later, the microbus swerved over to the side of the road in some obscure location and the driver signaled to me that we were at Cordoba, saying nothing, just looking at me…starring.

As three fair skinned people exited the microbus – it was obvious that we were the tourists. Six local trolley conductors were dispatched toward our location, doing a full on Olympic qualifying sprint, making it across the road risking life and limb as if we where home base during a brutal game of tag. Rapidly trying to explain to the other two individuals from Britain, that we need to negotiate as three people, not two - they failed to listen…leaving me to fend for myself.

The San Cipriano trolley is nothing like the trolleys you would see on the hilly streets of San Francisco, with the Rice-a-Roni advertisements plastered to its sides. It is powered by a moped bolted to a wooden platform connected to metal wheels from what resembles old school roller skates with the back tire of the moped lying on the rail road track. The passengers either sat or stood along the wooden bench that went along one side. Being that there is no traffic control system, the trolley is a highly mobile contraption that can be quickly removed on and off the tracks in case another trolley is coming down the tracks or even worse a train.

The Brits, made a poor choice agreeing to the first hyper inflated tourist price. I was able to negotiate my trip to be much cheaper but it ended up not getting me anywhere since the conductor who was taking the others, ended up securing the only trolley set up for transportation. Jimmy, my conductor with no trolley, signaled to me to get on anyways, but it ended up not being that easy. As soon as I would get close to boarding the trolley, the grouchy conductor would make the ugliest face and would accelerate moving forward, yelling, “NO” - making it impossible for me not to laugh.

After doing this a few times the two individuals began to yell at each other, as the conductor slowly moved away leaving us both behind. Off Jimmy ran down the tracks chasing him, as the moped’s engine screamed as he tried to get away. The moped did not having enough power to outrun Jimmy, as he easily caught up – as I anxiously waited for a fight to unfold. Nothing happened besides a few exchanged words…no rocks thrown, no sticks wacked over anyone’s head, no gun was pulled, no exciting fist or knife fights, no eyes torn out of the sockets…just some extremely boring words being exchanged. Now…why travel if nothing exciting ever happens? Eventually, I thought something was worked out since I was permitted to get on. As I sat on the bench, the conductor gave me a pissy look, yelling, “YOU WIT HIM OR MAY?!” Realizing that I was not getting on for the price I originally negotiated since Jimmy was not in no means a decision-maker or a fighter, I folded and paid $1.00 more than my originally negotiated price, settling the labor dispute.

Finally getting out of Cordoba we headed to San Cipriano. Around each corner, I would envision me jumping off the trolley to avoid being tangled up in the carnage of a head on collision with another trolley or train. The farther we went into the jungle…the higher the price became to get to San Cipriano and back. Kind of late to be negotiating I thought. The Brits, kept agreeing to each raised price as I did the opposite and kindly objected, sticking to the originally agreed upon price once on his trolley. At the vertex of his madness, he told me $19.50 each way when $2.00 was the going rate. I tried to enjoy the scenery as we moved along the tracks, but it was difficult as he would not stop trying to see how much more he can legally rob me without physically assaulting me. Thinking about casually pushing the conductor onto the tracks and hijacking the trolley, I refrained.

The conductor was obviously not going to make me get off the trolley, nor was I going to pay the ridiculously inflated prices. I was willing to spend the night and would negotiate with someone else in the morning if paying his prices was my only way to get back. If the prices were still not reasonable…I decided I would walk back following the tracks and knife fight any one of the machete toting individuals with my enormous 3 inch pocket knife, but smartly run away from the gun toting F.A.R.C. members who wanted to obstruct or delay me from going to Cali. The conductor eventually accepted the price we originally agreed on - but not wanting to make anything easy, he now wanted me to pay upfront for the ride back to Cordoba. This was an obvious, “no” and this too he accepted after his angry rants.

My initial impression of San Cipriano was not the greatest, partially due to what I had to do to get here. This region had a completely different feel than any other spot I have been to so far in Colombia. This feeling I was experiencing, is difficult for me to describe. Perhaps it was because I felt locked into a village with no easy way out and even worse, in an area in which a smile didn’t exist. Not that they were not happy people…it just wasn’t easily visible. I could have tried to see how many people were happy by getting the village people together to sing some songs...starting off by singing, “When…your…happy and you know it clap your hands.” But…this probably wouldn’t have worked.

After having a decent lunch in a kitchen that would have been nice not to see, the Brits and I hired our very own machete touting guide and headed off to visiting this beautiful region I came so far to experience. An immense variation of the shades of greens filled the dense jungle we explored. Hiking along crystal clear stream, we reached a swimming hole that rested at the base of the small but peaceful waterfall. Temporarily escaping the heat we emerged ourselves into the cool refreshing water, swimming underneath the thick canopy of the jungle. Here we were able to take some waterfall photos of each other that will eventually be lost amongst the thousands of photos taken throughout this trip – or deleted due to the embarrassing glow of my white pasty skin, not understanding the huge resistance my skin is putting up to the suns poisonous rays. The peacefulness of seating beneath the falls too floating around in water unfortunately dissipated as soon as I heard a screech rip through the air. The girl I was with was attacked by some sort of fish leaving a blood blister on her leg. Being thankful that this was not a region for piranhas, but still not wanting to get bitten…my legs quickly fluttered back and forth as I swam so that the fish couldn’t grasp on to me. Making it to the bank on the other side, I stealthily held my…goods, to block any of unauthorized sampling from the local fish as I exited the water.

Finished with swimming, we started to make our way back to the village. Along the trail, we came across an unmarked ant crossing - not just an ant crossing, but a high speed super highway ant crossing. These ants are not the type of ant that is easily bullied or easily ignited with high powered magnifying glasses, they were Raspberry Crazy Ants. In large numbers such as this, they have been known to asphyxiate small animals. The ants viciously covered the feet of the others in front of me... making it difficult to see their once white skin, as they were being bitten. Seeing this quickly unfold, my body moved instinctively before I could even tell it what to do, running on the tips of my shoes passing the Brits, stopping farther down the trail. Banging my feet on the ground, I was able to break the grip of most of the ants that were on me, swiping the others off with my hand and zeroing in on the ones that made it higher up my leg with my finger, smashing them into my skin. The second biting experience within minutes, I came to the conclusion that the jungle seems to be the home to a large variety of grouchy creatures…big and small.

Having to head back to tracks to be picked up, I was hoping the conductor was there at our agreed time and extraction point. Arriving 15 minutes early, I was yelled at with words I did not know or care to know, by the big grouchy creature, my conductor. I smiled, when he struggled to place the motorbike onto the track, as I pretended to help…grabbing onto the trolley giving him 5.68%. Asking for a photo he grunted and a head nod was given, which translated into, “sure I would love for you to take my photo – which side would you prefer?”

Making it safely back to Cordoba, I trekked up the hill to the main road, stopping the first bus back to Cali. Exhausted, I sat down with my oversized legs in the aisle due to the bus being built for hobbits. Moments later I was peacefully sleeping, having wonderful dreams about the conveniences of having my own car…and pushing my grouchy conductor onto the tracks, hijacking the San Cipriano trolley.

Hmmm…which way do I go?

May 30th, 2009: Flying down the back roads the Jeep violently shakes, hitting the potholes that riddle the dirt road as I stand on the back bumper, holding onto the metal roof rack with the wind blowing through my 12 o’clock shadow…on my head. Looking over at 70 year old man and 14 year old girl…next to me, a gargantuan smile is fixed to my face as the tears of speed go running into my ears.

Stopping at the Valle de Cocora, we disembark the Jeep…and so the journey begins. This area is the home of the Colombia’s national tree, the wax palm - the world’s tallest palm, reaching 196.80 feet in height according to Wikipedia. Going with six others from the hostel, I thought today was going to be a day of following people, being able to take a break…not having to figure out how to get to the trailhead or even what trail to take. Moving at a pace I became so accustomed to over the years when hiking with kids, not to mention my ability to take an obsessive amount of photos…the gap between the group and myself became farther and farther each photo I took. The scenery was spectacular, slowing my pace even more…adding another 12 to 18 photos to my memory card every 3 to 3 1/2 steps I took.

While hiking, I failed to calculate how well I knew the individuals I was with. Leaving me behind as they sped up the hill, I was forced to make some big decisions when looking at the complicated trail signs in Spanish…not knowing which way I needed to go. Since I was not paying attention on what town we started in or even our route, I resorted to following them by looking for familiar shoe prints in the muddy areas to help me decide which path to take. The drier the trail became, the greater distances I would have to cover before knowing if I was going the right way. Hours into the hike I decided to follow a sign I did understand, leading me to someone’s house tucked away deep in the hills, which conveniently sold refreshments. Not having my Spanish phrase book for obvious reasons, my plan was to communicate with the individuals at the establishment by using the infamous, “charade method” to know if my pseudo friends passed by in addition to getting back to where I started…without backtracking. Right before reaching the house, the red glassy eyed Brazilian guy in my group was sitting on the trail alone, taking photos of flowers. He was more than likely left behind because of his frequent plant smoking breaks and his need to visit the house for some indigenous munchies. Relieved that I met him, I capitalized on his ability to speak Spanish - but even more so…he knew where we were and where we needed to go. Not in a rush to conquer the trail in record timing, the Brazilian would kindly wait for me when I would take my photos, as I would do the same for him when he took his…smoke breaks.

On the way down the hill we noticed there was a soldier in fatigues holding an automatic rifle standing amongst the trees. Thankfully, he was a member of the Colombian military and not F.A.R.C. or some other insurgent group. His function was to keep an eye on the town from above as Batman would Gotham city. After talking to him for a while, he showed us a short cut that followed a ridgeline down toward the town, taking us off the trail. Following the direction he pointed to, we ran into a camp where his unit was based. The majority of the soldiers seemed very young, standing there as if they were children dressed in military clothes…confused as for what day Halloween was.

Here we sat along the ridgeline, having a deep discussion about what most men in the military think about while in the field (besides food)…which is women – or course. Ironically, not far into our discussion on what Colombian city harbored the most beautiful women, we were asked if we wanted something to eat. Accepting his offer, I was excited to see how the Colombian M.R.E.’s (Meals Ready to Eat) tasted compared to the M.R.E.’s I had when I was in the military. One of the soldiers went into a makeshift tent and prepared an amazing meal, adding a little touch to the prepackaged meal by mixing some rice to the beans. Either I was starving or it was actually a good meal as my face hovered above the glossy green foil bag, as I inhaled the contents – only looking up when taking a drink of some Kool-Aid like beverage that was prepared for us. Even the item that resembled a piece of bread was good, even though it was more than likely made when I was in the military 18 or so years ago.

Departing the friendly group of soldiers that were young enough to be my kids – oh my - I passed an older soldier who was walking a German Shepherd up the hill, as the Brazilian guy I was with, cut sharply to the left off the path - obviously avoiding him. This was not because he was mentally damaged due to being attacked or molested by a dog at a young age…he was scared of not knowing the purpose of the dog – whether he was used for drug or bomb detection and whether the military capitalized on the dogs love for human chew toys when locating offenders. Since his smoke breaks were not the normal smoke breaks people have during their mandatory 15 minute breaks when gainfully employed…I could see the reasoning for being nervous around this well trained canine. Though, thinking he should not worry too much since there was a questionable plant growing outside the food tent, with the strong likely hood of it not being…a, wild plant.

On the way back to the hostel in Salento, I was able to secure a spot on the bumper of a Jeep Willie. The bumper was much smaller than the last vehicle, causing me to have one foot on the bumper and one foot wedged between the tire mounted on the side. In total, there were 16 people traveling on the vehicle made accommodate 6 comfortably: 4 people sitting in the front seat, 4 sitting above the front seat, 1 standing in the back, 4 people sitting on the benches facing each other and 3 others standing on the back bumper. Passing some of my fellow comrades as they patrolled the streets, they waved as I waved back, feeling I formed a better understanding of the Colombian military - happy that the separation from my original group helped lead me to every I was able to experience.