Ascending Longs Peak

Longs Peak, Rocky Mnt. National Park, CO
August, 2014

Our first day in Estes Park, Colorado, my husband and I parked our converted van home in our campsite on national park property and set out to explore our new backyard. Behind our campsite was a steep hill (or perhaps it would be considered a mountain–perspective is strange in the Rockies) called Eagle Peak. We started off our day scrambling up through the aromatic Ponderosa Pines and onto the rocky peak. When we crested the ridge we felt like we had stepped into a photograph–below us was a lush valley with a sparkling stream winding through its grasses, and surrounding this on three sides was the most spectacular panorama of massive snow-laden peaks I had ever seen.

After a few moments of silent admiration I pointed to the largest, snowy peak–the one with the steepest, craggiest point of rock for a summit–and said, “We are going to climb that.” Tyler looked at my skeptically, but I was determined–that mountain was calling my name.

It was a busy summer of hard work, but every break we had we took the opportunity to climb one of the endless peaks which surrounded us in every direction. But that first peak whose challenge I had accepted we continued to push off till later in the summer. We found out its name–Long’s Peak–and that it is the highest peak in the Park. Every year hundreds of people make the ascent and this year already there had been several rescues and several deaths. We wanted to be prepared, we told ourselves. But all summer that looming face watched over us–visible from nearly every corner of the park–taunting us.

It was nearing the end of August when the cool mountain summer suddenly turned to fall and we knew we could wait no longer. The window of time when the snow and ice was likely to be clear from the treacherous summit ledges was nearing its end–perhaps already passed.

The night before our ascent we drove to the trail head and parked our van. I slept fitfully–dreaming of all that might go wrong on the morrow. I was awake when our 3 am alarm went off and we fumbled in the darkness for a light. It was cold and we bundled into layers of wool socks, leggings, sweaters, and jackets–though it was not quite that cold it would be much colder at 14,259 ft. We climbed out of our van and headed for the dark trail head–tired and anxious as we went.

We began trudging up the path under a thick canopy of pines. Our head lamps illuminated our immediate path, but made the darkness around us all the more intense. Within minutes Tyler began chattering away excitedly about goodness-knows-what. He was nervous and excited and needed an outlet. But I was still wrapped in a heavy layer of sleepless-exhaustion and did not like to be pulled out of it. For ten or fifteen minutes I gave barely audible grunts in response to him–hoping desperately that he would take the hint–he didn’t. Finally, I turned to him and said, “I’m sorry, but you are really going to have to stop talking now.” Wonderful man that he is, he gave me a sheepish grin and fell silent.

I sighed in relief and my tired senses gradually began to absorb and appreciate the cool, darkness of the forest, the soft earth underfoot, the silent sounds of the night all around us. We climbed steadily and quietly upward and the time passed quickly. Before we knew it we were breaking out of the woods onto a little rock outcropping and we could see out over the trees and knew we had made good progress. Above us the the stars peeked in through the trees and we were enveloped in the beauty of the night. The last of our exhaustion and nervousness dissipated and was fully replaced by a thrill for the adventure we were embarking upon.

As we re-entered the forest I picked up the chattering where Tyler had left off. I jumped from topic to topic–anything to let out the anticipation building inside. It was still completely dark when we broke out above the tree-line. Spread out before us was open tundra and spread out above us and reaching down far below to the horizon was a brilliant canopy of stars. In front of us the mountain rose in invisible blackness, but its blackness cut a shape out of the stars and we could sense its vague and menacing form. In the trees below us we could now see an occasional point of light bobbing along–a fellow traveler far below us. Looking up ahead, these same points of light were scattered up the slope.They were all distant enough to allow us to feel solitary in our venture, but at the same time gave us a faint sense of comradeship on this journey.

Climbing up through the dark tundra, under the stars, heading towards dangerous precipices while the rest of the world slept below us was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. As we climbed and talked the air got sharper and colder, even as the world began to grow slightly light. There is nothing quite like that magical time before sunrise when the world grows brighter but the light seems to come from no particular place. Its almost as if the world itself is producing a soft glow. Then, gradually, a faint bit of color appears on the eastern horizon and the sunrise begins.

We watched as one by one the lesser lights of the heavens went out in anticipation of the appearance of sun on the edge of the earth. What had before been formless shapes and shadows began to solidify into rocks, boulders, and outcroppings. Towards the rising sun the earth fell away and we could now make out the steep ascent we had made in the darkness and already far below were other mountains we had conquered on previous ventures.  Meanwhile, towering over our heads we began to make out the looming shape of the mountain peak–our destination–which had been hidden from us in the darkness.

We were nearing the end of the first portion of our journey now. To successfully (and safely) summit this mountain it is necessary to complete the long, gradual ascent to the base of the peak by sunrise. There are two reasons for this. The first is purely the length of the hike and to complete it in one day you must reach the summit before noon. But the other, more menacing reason is that dangerous and sudden storms are common at the peak and it is imperative that climbers be off the summit before they roll in, usually around noon or after. Though the first portion of the hike is the longest in distance (6 of  the 7.5 miles to the summit), it is also the easiest. As the sun finally shone its rays upon us and we neared the level field at the base of the peak we knew we our journey was really just beginning.

The mountains and valleys below were now bathed in light and the blue and white lines of the mountain ridges on every side stood out sharp, and vivid, and the sight was breathtaking. Our path was no longer skirting the outer edge of the mountain, but had turned inward, directly towards the peak which was still not entirely in view. The wind was biting now and found our layers insufficient to stop it. Our bare hands grew stiff and red. Underfoot we now saw occasional puddles frozen solid. Somewhere miles below it was still the end of summer, but here winter had already descended–perhaps it had never left.

We meandered through some boulders and over a ridge and suddenly found ourselves at the base of the peak–a massive pinnacle of solid rock. In the shadows and crevices of the rock face hid heavy layers of snow. Between us and the path we had to take up to the peak was a vast field of boulders of every size up to as big as an SUV. The icy wind blasted at us across this open field and stole away the last of our warmth. We found shelter among the boulders and tried to regain some warmth while eating a huge turkey sub we had brought along. Though we were hungry we did not make much progress on the sandwich as our hands were too cold to even hold it. And though we had some protection from the wind we did not grow any warmer and soon gave up and proceeded across the boulders. The best way to traverse the expanse was to climb onto the larger boulders and leap from one to another–at any other time we would have made a game of it.

When we finally reached the other side we found a handful of other hikers lingering around the opening in the rock face that led to the back side of the mountain and marked the beginning of the real ascent. The opening in the rock is called the Keyhole. It is like a picture frame through which you can look to world beyond. Through this opening gale force winds rushed through. We climbed to the frame and peered through–carefully bracing ourselves to keep from being tumbled back down the rocks. The far side of the mountain was still in shadows of various shades of blues and grays. Just through the opening the mountainside dropped away to nothingness for thousands of feet. To the left of the a narrow ledge of jumbled rocks formed the path which led across the top of this abyss and up the back side of the peak.

We stepped back from the opening and pondered whether it was wise to go forward. Snow and ice would make the narrow path treacherous and combined with the intensity of the wind we were concerned that to proceed might be foolish. But as we rested and pondered a group of hikers emerged through the opening. We questioned them and they had already been to the summit and back! They assured us that the going was better and the wind less strong as soon as you got through the opening.

We looked at each other questioningly and both knew the other wanted to proceed–and so we did. Climbing through the opening with the wind tearing at us was terrifying. But it was true, once we were through and reached the narrow ledge the wind subsided. This portion of the trail is called the Narrows. We proceeded cautiously, but found secure footing and felt fairly confident in spite of the ledge to our right. The drop was not quite 90 degrees, but though the solid rock slope had an angle to it, it was just enough that should you fall you were guaranteed to bounce along the rock the whole way to the rock floor thousands of feet below without the slightest hope of ledge or handhold to save you.

This stretch went smoothly enough and was mostly a horizontal trek and therefore not very tiring. We took this restful opportunity to admire the surrounding landscape–blue and white capped mountains in the distance and the nearer, sharp spears of rock surrounding us. It was awe-inspiring to say the least.

At the end of the Narrows we came to the Trough, a chute of tumbled boulders covered in powdery snow. Here we stopped to put metal ice grips on the bottom of our shoes. This portion of the climb was much more arduous as the ascent was fairly vertical, with the boulders we had to scramble up covered in slippery snow. Here there was much less danger of an instant death fall, but the prospect of tumbling down the slippery boulders was not an appealing one and we climbed cautiously.

At the top of the Trough there were several, enormous boulders that could only be climbed by shimmying up the space between two, chimmney-style–with back braced against one and feet against another. Tyler helped me to my feet on top of the highest boulder and we found ourselves looking out through a gap in the rocks, down another side of the mountain. We scrambled over a ridge and down onto another narrow ledge–this time the drop was a sheer free-fall of thousands of feet.

The ledge here was even narrower and covered with ice. It was more apparent than ever that one wrong step could lead to a swift death. I was grateful for the grips on my shoes which I could feel biting into the smooth ice with every step. We tested every step before putting weight on it–before trusting our footing. I’ll admit, there were a few times here where I was scared. But for the most part as long as I tested each step I felt confident in my footing. This continued for some time before we rounded an outcropping and saw the final stretch before us. Here the narrows began to widen out a bit, but even as they did the smooth rock slab began to increase its angle until it was nearly vertical with a clean-cut drop on the outer edge.

To make matters worse the smooth rock had rivulets of frozen water running down it–covering and obscuring many of the already too-few handholds. We began to climb on the inner edge closest to the comforting rock wall, but as we navigated the ice patches and attempted to find satisfactory hand and foot-holds we often found ourselves closer to the outer edge and the sheer drop than was comfortable. At this point there were also a number of other climbers on this portion of the slope and I was very aware that should one of them slip (or should I) it was likely they would take others behind them down on the way. But we were so close now, there could be no going back.

My frozen fingers fumbled stiffly along the rock, searching for a grip. I found myself in a position where there were no hand-holds. None within reach, that was. I saw what I had to do–I had good footing and I would have to push off and attempt to spring to new grips for both hands and feet. I had to be confident in myself. To falter here would certainly mean to fall. And to miscalculate would also certainly mean to fall. But it was the only way. I closed my eyes for a moment, then looked down at Tyler who was looking up at me–studying me.  It was now or never. I held my breath and jumped, praying I would reach my aim. I used the momentum to propel me, and scrambled up a few feet, grasping as I did onto some good holds. I was safe. I had done it. It was just a short scramble now over the edge and onto the summit. Exhausted I pulled myself up, and then reached a hand back to Tyler. Together we crawled onto the peak–onto the top of the world.

In every direction we could see endlessly–nothing could obscure our vision at this height, we were above it all. Clouds hung below us and a few sailed towards us, directly on our level. We rested for a while, soaking in the beauty around us and the triumph of our ascent. Now that we were on top, however, I began to feel the adrenaline that had been propelling me on begin to dissipate. I felt exhaustion begin to creep over me.

It was growing late in the morning and though the sunlight was piercing at the moment, there were clouds in the distance that could pose a threat and we knew we must begin our descent. I had heard before that descending a serious mountain can be more dangerous than the ascent and I instantly realized the truth of this. The mountain was conquered and the adrenaline gone and with it the extended strength it had provided. As I braced my body against the pull of gravity and began to slowly lower myself down the steep, icy, slope I felt the weakness and the exhaustion of my arms. I realized the toll that had been taken on them in the ascent that I had barely noticed before.

As I braced and lowered, braced and lowered, my tired arms threatened to fail me at any moment. I mostly slid down on my butt, trying to do most of the hard work with my feet. Finally, we reached the bottom of the wall and were faced with the long, treacherous narrows. The sharp awareness given by adrenaline which had aided us in our careful steps in the ascent was gone, and it took great effort to pay such close attention to each step–to put each foot forward delicately and gingerly, prepared for anything. By the time we reached the bottom of the Trough I was stumbling–and we still had the longest stretch of the Narrows ahead of us. A little ways into the Narrows I stumbled, and fell forward, catching myself with my hands. Tyler rushed to me and looking up at him I saw the fear in his eyes.

I summoned what little strength and energy I had left for his sake. I’ve never felt that exhausted in my life. My bones felt empty, hollowed of all life. I felt so tired it was almost like pain–and I don’t mean muscle pain–the pain of pure exhaustion. I told Tyler I didn’t think I could go on and again saw the fear and something like desperation in his eyes. I had to keep trying. I could have curled up on that rock face and gone to sleep. But I kept going. I stumbled again, and again. Tyler was nearly on top of me now, trying to keep me from falling. The Keyhole came into sight. We were almost there. Almost.

The final climb up through the Keyhole was treacherous and my broken body raged against me for forcing it forward. But then we were through, and the sun shone bright, and weakly warm on our faces. I found a large, flat rock and stretched out and didn’t move for a long time.

Finally, Tyler woke me from my petrified state of exhaustion and said we had to move on. The boulder field stretched out like an ocean before us. I looked from the boulder I was standing on to the one a few feet away, knowing I would have to jump to it. But all the spring was gone from my body. What nearly as natural as walking on the way up now felt like jumping the Grand Canyon. I forced my body to make the leap and I landed awkwardly, the impact jolting through my whole body. I had to rest between each stumbling-jump and our progress was slow and tedious. When we finally reached the end of the boulder field and and were able to walk on the packed dirt trail again I could have cried for joy. We had six miles left to go, but I could stumble my way down from here on.

We turned back and looked at that menacing, black peak which had taunted us for months. We had been on top of that. We had conquered it, experienced it, and now that we were safe from it it could be a friend–it could threaten us no more. We stood arm-in-arm marvelling at the power of the mountain and at our own ability in having successfully reached its summit.

Pefki–A Journey Through Mountains, Desert, and Time

Island of Crete, Greece
August, 2013

We had spent the first few days of our honeymoon laying in the sun, playing like giddy children in the gentle, clear water, and trying all of the quaint, family-owned, water-front restaurants near our villa–the obvious activities for a vacation in a beautiful Mediterranean village. But the dry, rocky mountains at our backs had been beckoning to my husband since we had first arrived. He would never be satisfied until we had explored and conquered at least one of them. To me they looked rather dull and uninviting at, but as the days passed the barren landscape began to have a draw on me as well. Finally, one morning, when Tyler again raised the idea of venturing into the mountains, I agreed to (to his great surprise) to make an expedition.

By the time we had eaten breakfast and set out, however, it was already late morning and the sun was well up and as we headed away from the refreshing sea breeze the heat became oppressive. But we plunged into the desert hills nonetheless. We had a vague idea about finding a gorge we had heard about that was supposed to be a few miles inland. But the trail we thought would lead to it soon began a steep ascent and, though we suspected it would not lead to the gorge, we decided to see where it would take us. We passed through an olive grove and up past a few houses before we broke out on the side of the base of a mountain with our little village and the brilliant blue ocean sprawled out below us.

We continued on this rocky trail as it wound up, along the side of the mountain. Here in these vividly barren mountains little grew except for some coarse, stunted little bushes and shrubs, but the air was filled with a wonderful herbal aroma that rose from the dry, shriveled plants. The scent was elusive at times and pungent at others. Those warm, fragrant wafts of air further contributed to the feeling of adventure–the smell was foreign yet familiar, soothing yet evocative.

The path led steeply and quickly up the mountain and we soon found ourselves scrambling up the crest and onto the crown of the first small peak of desert mountains which extended as far as the eye could see. The steep face of the mountain fell away before us and we could see the tiny dirt path we had come up by snaking down it and on through the olive groves. Beyond the olive groves we could see the small cluster of white washed buildings lined up along the vibrant Mediterranean blue which stretched on infinitely beyond them. It was a strange contrast to see–that endless blue which through its very intensity seemed to cry of refreshment and life. And yet, at the edge of the blue the dry, empty world began. A world that could not receive the life of the sea–though they touch for a moment. And here we stood–in this other endlessness of dry and crumbling rock.

Something about that contrast–and maybe the fragrance in the air–made me feel invigorated, curious, expectant. I needed to see more of this crumbling land. And so we headed back down off the peak and onto the trail that continued into the heart of the mountains. The path followed the curvature of the mountain we had ascended and we anxiously awaited to see what would appear beyond each bend. We seemed to be gradually ascending again with a deep gorge appearing below us and another craggy mountain on the other side of it. We realized we had found the gorge we had been seeking, but were instead passing over top and along side it. Through this mountain pass we could see more hills in the distance–some appeared to have cultivated olive groves on them which piqued our interest–who could be farming out in this barren, alien land?

A few more bends and curves and the trail and we once more found ourselves with a clear view through the pass; but this time another world had appeared on the other side. It was like looking through a veil on a time and place from ages past–a fantasy that would pass in a moment. Beyond the high walls of the mountains we were passing through, the land seemed to open out onto more rolling mountains. And perched on the edge of these–with the gorge winding past underneath–was a tiny village of square, rambling houses–bleached white and shining in the sun. But more surreal still was the sharp peak–like a finger of rock which loomed over the town. A narrow path meandered out of the city and up the hills to the peak and then wound up the side of it to the narrow summit where rested a small white building–a monastery, we excitedly speculated.

We stood there, staring, for a while, marveling. We turned to each other, hardly believing the other could be seeing the same thing through the veil. But we were. And tired, and hungry though we were, we wanted nothing more than to press on to this place before it vanished. But we had already hiked several miles and it was at least another three to the village. We were out of water and had no money to purchase food or water if we made it to the town. And so, with great reluctance we turned around. But I was the first to say, “We are going back tomorrow. All the way to that town. And we will climb that rock tower and visit that shrine.” Tyler looked at me with surprise. “Really? You will want to come all the way out here again?” I looked at him with eyes that I can only imagine looked bewitched and said firmly, “Yes.” There was no question in my mind or his–we had to visit that town. If it was still there on the morrow, that was.

The next day we rose early; we packed extra water, food, and money for our trip. This time we found the path to and through the gorge we had been looking for. A wooden sign pointed into the gorge with the single world “Pefki” on it. We decided this must be the name of the town we were pursuing. When we reached the gorge we found ourselves entering into the cool shade of the rock walls rising high on either side. The rock was bare but had beautiful streaks of various shades of reds and yellows and the artistry of time had worn and carved its face into beautiful, interesting forms. Through the gorge ran the smallest trickle of a stream and around it had sprung up life. Grasses, shrubs and even some small trees filled the canyon. We followed the faint gurgling of the stream further into the shadows and as the shadows grew so did the stream. At one point a smaller path broke off of the main one and meandered down and into a cluster of small trees. We had to see where it went, of course. Inside the shelter of the trees we found a small, round pool of water–cool and clear. The water trickled over moss covered stones and frogs swam around the pebbled bottom. The air here was particularly sweet and refreshing. We spent a few moments absorbing the beauty of this secluded place and then continued on our way.

After following the trail deeper into the gorge, through rocky, mossy, damp places illuminated only by light filtered green by the trees above, the path began to climb upward again. Soon we were scrambling up a steep, narrow path that somehow wound up the wall of the gorge. Suddenly we were above the gorge and bathed in the bright, hot, desert sun. We had covered a significant portion of the distance to the town, Pefki, on the hillside; further than the day before. We could now see the whole path laid out before us. To our right–across the gorge–there still rose a sheer wall of mottled rock. We were catching our breaths and appreciating the view when I heard a distant sound coming from the rock face. My eyes instinctively scanned the flat face and were snagged upon movement halfway up. Goats! Four goats were hopping around on invisible niches in the rock wall.

After watching in bemused amazement for a few minutes we continued on our pilgrimage to the mysterious town and the distant mountain-top shrine. As we walked we discussed the possibility of whether the town was actually inhabited and what we would find on top of the peak. We made up our own history and mythology for the origins of this place that had captured our fascination.

Finally, we reached the outskirts of the town. We passed rambling shacks with vegetable patches; a dog here and there lying in the sun. Up a cobble-stoned path, under the shade of olive trees we climbed. We entered the town, walking down narrow streets with houses on our left and a low wall on the right, beyond–the gorge, the mountain pass, and far, far in the distance a sliver of blue ocean. Some of the houses were dilapidated, but others had fresh, brightly colored doors set into clean, white-washed walls. Vines climbed over the walls of private gardens and heavy clusters of grapes dangled down into the street. We picked handfuls and ate as we walked. The streets were empty. Silent. We walked as ones afraid to break a spell or wake the dead. When we spoke it was in whispers.

Though the town seemed deserted the occasional sign of life continued to present itself–a massive Greek urn with potted flowers, glimpses of carefully tended gardens, a cat resting on a wall. We wandered the empty streets, climbing higher into the town by way of staircases joining the street levels. The first person we encountered did not fully confirm to us that we had not entered a dream. We were climbing one of the aforementioned staircases when we pulled up short at the sight of an old woman asleep in a chair on her door step. We peered at her from around the corner. She was dressed traditionally–skirt, shirt, headcovering–all black. The hair that showed beneath the cloth was pure white. We waited, but she did not move. We passed quietly by, watching her as we went, but she did not stir or make a sound.

We were still speculating over this scene and, whether we had indeed been transported back in time, when we found the street we were on opening out into a sort of stone-paved patio, shaded by a huge tree and looking out over the valley below. Under the tree were several tables and chairs set with tablecloths and silverware. The door to the building closest to this layout was open and a chalk board stood alongside it with meals and prices written on it. Faint sounds of kitchen activities drifted out to us. We looked around, but no one was in sight. We peeked in the doorway just as a young man walked out.

The sight of someone so fresh and alive took us completely off-guard. But after a moments mumbling and confusion we asked if we could have lunch on the patio and a moment later we were seated under the tree, looking at menus. We enjoyed a wonderful lunch there, all the time marveling, delighted at the strangeness of this experience.

When we had finished our meal and felt thoroughly refreshed, we knew we had to complete our journey. The rock thumb with loomed over us, beckoning us on. We climbed up through the rest of the town–not encountering a single soul as we went. Another wandering path lead up, out of the town, over grassy hills, towards the rocky pinnacle. We followed this, occasionally looking back to see the miles we had traversed and the small town growing ever smaller. Beyond the rock that we pursued the grasslands ended–or rather harsh rock had been forced up through the earth, or perhaps the earth had worn away from them thousands of years ago. They formed impressions against the sky and enticed us to investigate. But we would not be distracted. We would make this pilgrimage that had undoubtedly been made by many before us. Finally, we were at the base of the rock. The path had no pity for the pilgrim and climbed as steeply as could be allowed–a small rail separated the path from the sheer drop on the outer edge of the path.

And so we climbed. Feeling every step to be full of meaning and wondering what that was. The sun was overhead now, and we climbed straight for it. Our legs were strongly protesting long before we reached the top and, when we at last stepped out onto the flat pavement at the top, they trembled with exhaustion. But there was no place for weakness here. We had reached the top of the world and below us was a detailed map of the many miles we had traversed. Though the view was beyond magnificent we were drawn to the small white building which occupied most of the peak. Two small windows and a wooden door between them. A bell hung from a little arch on the roof and the rope to ring it hung down beside the door. Tyler grasped the rope and rang the bell–breaking the bright silence which had engulfed us and signaling the end of our pilgrimage. We held our breaths as we tried the handle–it opened. Inside, a small room, candles, icons, the cross, and the face of Christ. It wasn’t a monastery; it was a shrine. We felt the devotion, the sorrows, the prayers of generations, and we were silent. When we stepped back into the bright sunshine we stood for a while and marveled at the world below and this small, white shrine quietly above it all.

The Descent

Leon, Nicaragua 
We were not long on the peak before a ridge began to chip away at the circle of the sun and we were reminded of the shortness of days near the equator. It had taken hours to reach this height and now there was certainly less than an hour before the quickly fading sun would be fully obscured. And so with this realization upon us we fled the mountain top. We  knew there was no possible way to reach the bottom before dark if we descended the same way we had come. Our friend suggested an alternate–hopefully more direct route–but one that was unfamiliar to all of us. We weighed our options and decided we would have to take the risk of the unknown path.

Our pace began at a rapid clip, but as the shadow of the mountain began to extend across our path we broke into a jog and soon after a full-out run. We fled the mountain we had spent the entire day conquering. Behind us the shadows reached out their arms to engulf us and we raced to escape their embrace. Down, down the narrow, winding path. Down through the underbrush and the fields, down past the tree of paradise where we had lingered too long in its shade such a short time before. Then we had seen the shadows as friends, now we saw a looming enemy at our back.

Soon we came to the fork in the path where we were forced to leave the familiar and trust that this new path would bring us safely out of this wilderness. We took this path still at run; and as we did the trees closed in overhead and we were instantly submerged in the twilight we were fleeing. Roots and rocks and slippery leaves threatened to send us sprawling at any moment and we were forced to slow to a jog and then soon–as the twilight thickened–back to a walk. The world grew grayer and grainier–like a faded photograph–and our eyes strained to find the way. We hurried on as best we could in this manner for some time. I could not pinpoint the moment it happened, but suddenly I realized that the last of the day’s light had left us and darkness had fallen, thick and complete under the trees, and my eyes groped hopelessly had vague shapes in the blackness.

We had only one headlamp between the three of us and though our friend walked between us to share the light it was hard to say if it did not actually worsen the situation. If we walked behind we walked outside of the swath of light and though the way ahead was lit, our own steps were in darkness. If we walked in the light our own shadows obscured our immediate path and the light destroyed any sensitivity to the darkness and we were again left blind. But we stumbled on as best we could.

By this time my feet (foolishly clad in thin-soled hiking sandals) were so sore, bruised, and tired I could barely walk. And with every step I was likely to feel a sharp rock underfoot or to stub a toe on a root–each step more painful than the last. It was when we finally seemed to have reached the base of the mountain and the steep descent had ended that the worst of the trek began. We found ourselves on a road of sorts with steep dirt walls rising on both sides. The road was covered in deep, coarse gravel. I cannot express the horror of walking on this material with bruised and battered feel in unprotective sandals and to make matters worse the gravel slid under our feet making progress slow and exhausting. We were all feeling done in by this time, but I was in the worst shape and kept falling behind no matter how hard I pushed myself to continue stumbling forward. A fear had begun to rise in our minds that we might not make the it to the main road in time to catch the last bus back to the city–that we might be stranded in this wilderness until morning. Another, even worse fear was also brooding in our minds that this path might be leading us entirely astray and we were actually wandering farther and farther from civilization. We were keenly aware, now that the warmth and security that sunshine offers had left us, that we were three young, vulnerable gringos, stranded in the back country of third-world country–helpless and exposed should human or animal decide to give threat.

The ring of light provided by the headlamp grew further and further out of my reach as my husband and friend trudged anxiously in the direction they hoped was leading out of this dark wilderness. A rustling in the undergrowth on the steep embankment to our left stopped us in our tracks. The light swung in that direction and we saw the reflective glow of eyes peering at us. We all held our breaths for a moment and then I hurried to reach the light and the safety of numbers. By the time I reached the others the eyes had disappeared. We looked anxiously around us and then began our journey again with even more urgency than before.

When we had traveled in silence for a while and no sounds of pursuit or flickers of eyes appeared in the shadows we began to relax a little. We took a short rest to catch our breaths and give my aching feet a chance to recover. In spite of our fears we allowed ourselves to revel for a moment in the incredibility of our situation. We turned the light off and looked up at the brilliant array of stars overhead. It was a beautiful and familiar sight; but something about it jarred me. It took me a moment to realize why–these were not the stars I knew. This was a different sky, a different configuration of pinpoints of lights. I saw for the first time constellations I only knew from textbooks. The feeling that came over me then was one that made my skin crawl and made me shiver–one of unearthliness. Can it be the same world if it does not share the same sky?

Standing there in the heavy silence of night we were all in awe and fear of what we were experiencing–and in spite of our fears we loved it. I felt the smallness of my existence in this wild, foreign land with its unfamiliar sky. I felt how vulnerable we were–but also how alive. Sometimes the most wonderful moments in life are also the most terrifying. Sometimes fear is the recognition of the greatness of a thing–that it is beautiful, wonderful, even terrible.

We were shaken from our reverie by that faintest sound far off in the distance. We strained our ears to catch it again but it was elusive–leaving us uncertain that we had heard anything. But then it came again–a melody–music, coming from somewhere, far, far away. But it was something. A sign of life in this world we had felt for a while entirely alone in. It seemed to be coming vaguely from the direction we believed the road to be. And so we set out again on this seemingly endless journey.

Time seemed to stretch on and on and the sound at times seemed to become more distant and again the fear that we were lost rose in us. But we knew nothing to do other than to continue forward and  strain our ears for the sound of vehicles in the distance. When we were again nearing despair and the pain in my feet was so bad that I was nearly crippled our ears caught the sound we had been hardly daring to hope for–an engine–a car whizzing down a road in the distance. The other two hurried ahead leaving me stumbling in the darkness–but I could hear their excited cries up ahead as I struggled to follow. A few minutes passed and my husband was hurrying back. “There is a bridge and a paved road ahead!” He called back to me. And at that moment I saw headlights through the trees. Soon I was crawling up an embankment and onto the road. We were all laughing and smiling in our relief. And a moment later our friend had waved down a vehicle and then we were inside, sitting down–finally–exhausted, happy.

Later that night–after a huge dinner and a hot foot bath for me–we scrambled up onto the red-tiled roof of the compound; precariously balancing mugs of tea as we climbed. We sat there looking out over the rambling city roofs and reliving our wild adventure, and discussing our dreams and plans for the future. We lay back against the hard tiles of the roof, listening to the sounds of the city around us, and feeling the tiredness of our bodies which gave evidence to the reality of our surreal adventures.

The Earth is a Living Myth: Looking Upon the Heart of the Earth

Leon, Nicaragua

I woke to a knock and a voice at the door of our sleeping quarters. My feet made contact with cool, dusty concrete as a I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I woke my husband and we entered the courtyard together and crossed to the kitchen where our friend fed us rice, beans, and hard cheese. By the time we had each downed our cups of coffee we felt alive and ready for the long day ahead of us .

We packed a few essentials–water, a machete, a book of poetry, a hammock, a few baloney sandwiches–and then we were ready to set out on this adventure. Stepping out onto an empty, stoned-paved street we were hit with a wave of morning heat. Down one street, then another, through an alley and out into a busy market our friend guided us. People on foot, in carts pulled by donkeys, on bikes, and motorcycles all swarmed around us.

We plunged into the covered market area–a maze of booths and stalls selling everything imaginable. Freshly arrived from a world of neatly, packaged sterility, I was overwhelmed, invigorated, and intrigued by the myriad smells and sounds attacking my senses. Piles of strange fruits and vegetables, pungent cheeses, and raw meats surrounded us on all sides and the merchant of each product yelled out a price and promotion. I could hardly move for desire to soak it all in; but my husband and our guide were rapidly disappearing into the labyrinth. I ducked quickly through the crowded space to catch them.

We headed towards the light and open air on the other side of the market; stopping on the fringe to get bags of juice for the bus ride (like a gold fish at the fair would come in). Our friend led us seemingly arbitrarily onto one of a line of retired school buses. We sat aboard drinking our juice bags through straws and waiting for the bus to start.

Soon we were leaving the narrow streets of the city and driving through the dusty countryside. The others chattered and joked, but I couldn’t draw my eyes from that hot, dry countryside with its scattered tin-roofed huts. The world was so foreign and strange and soon the sharp, smoking triangles of the volcanoes appeared in the distance.

We were dropped on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. We began our trek up a dirt side road with the largest of the volcano peaks looming in the near distance. Halfway up the road a young horse appeared trotting down the road towards us. We watched bewildered as it drew nearer and then passed by–unaccompanied and intent on its destination.

After a while the road came to an end and we found ourselves at the head of an unmarked trail heading up into some sparse trees and meandering in the general direction of the faintly smoking peak. We paused for a few moments before beginning the real portion of our adventure. Up the rooted, rocky trail we climbed–grateful for the thin shade that the trees provided to protect us from the sun. It was still early in day, but the air felt like it came from an oven–so hot and dry.

We climbed through the woods for miles, up and up. Finally, we broke out of the trees and passed through parched fields on a path so narrow, dusty and hot that we were soon covered in a fine layer of brown dirt clinging to our sweatless skin. I would not readily admit that I was tiring, but once or twice suggested we stop to eat–anxious to have a rest before I had to break down and demand  one. It had been a long and sunless winter for me and I bitterly found my body weaker than I was accustomed to. But I soaked in the hot sunshine like one starved–feeling it heal and warm me to my bones.

Finally, after many miles through this desolate unmarked wilderness–when we all felt at the end of our morning strength–we saw it. A massive, lush tree in the midst of all of the dry shrubbery. It was surreal–like seeing a mirage of an oasis in a desert. We did not fully believe it until we reached its shade and entered instantly into another world. Under the thick, heavy canopy of this massive mango tree was an atmosphere of peace, still and cool.

Our friend strung his hammock and we sat on a rough wooden bench already there. In this haven of coolness and quiet we devoured the most delicious baloney sandwiches anyone has ever eaten and gave sighs of relief and contentment. We reclined and relaxed and read a few poems. We sat quietly and melted into the earth and the tree and felt that it would be best to never leave this place.

I don’t know which of us broke the spell and suggested moving on. We emerged from the shadow of the tree and instantly were returned to the ordinary world. It was still brutally hot, but the sun had shifted in the sky and we saw that we would have to hurry to complete the miles to the top and then begin our descent.

Revitalized, we set out with renewed briskness. The climb grew steeper and the undergrowth thicker but shorter. The path began to switch-back up the side of the cone–we were on the side of the volcano now. The climb was backbreaking and my heart was pounding harder than it had in a long time when we crested a hill and broke out of the undergrowth. We scrambled up through barren, rock strewn hills; one after another. Finally we reached the summit of a hill like the rest but instead of another hill beyond it we saw that we were now on the backbone of a ridge leading directly to the crater. Beneath us was a flat field strewn with rocks of all sizes thrown from the mouth of the crater. A few tents were being set up there for other pilgrims to spend the night. We speculated about how awesome that would have been to do (but when we woke in our beds that night to a massive earthquake we were grateful to be safely away from the power of the mountain). Ahead, looming over the boulder field was the massive crater, the sun just behind it, veiled in a thin cloud of smoke and outlining it to make it look even larger and sharper.

The narrow foot path lead on through the boulders and up towards the crater, and so we followed. No signs showed the way or told where not to go. No barriers to stop those who made this pilgrimage. At the end the path grew very steep and we scrambled excitedly, anxiously to the top, to the rim. When we reached the level ground around the rim we walked slowly forward, slack-jawed in amazement.

Our friend directed us to a rock at the edge where it was “said” to be safe to stand. We all stood in silence staring into the vastness before us. The opening of the crater created a sheer cliff dropping away hundreds of feet to the floor of the pit. As the smoke shifted you could sometimes catch gray glimpses of the rocky bottom far below. The crater produced a mind-filling, brain-numbing noise of its own. I cannot quite describe it–whether it was a roar, a hum, a whirring. But it was there nonetheless and combined with the fumes and the enormity of it all I felt off-balance–as if I might at any moment pitch forward head-over-heels into the abyss.

We morbidly speculated over what would happen to one who fell in–would they die first of impact, heat, or suffocation–as we peered into crater. As we looked into the shifting depths and our eyes tried to focus on some end point something gradually began to appear to us–a glowing red-orange orb. We could not believe our own eyes at first. It could not be, could it? The orb grew larger, pulsing, unmistakable now, then vanished in a swath of smoke.

My eyes searched for what they were sure of a moment before, but was now gone. And then again, out of the swirling depths a glow appeared–faint, but unmistakable. The veil of smoke that threatened to hide it once again from my eyes did not lessen the effect–it made it feel all the more real, and threatening; a monster in the shadows. I knew then that I was seeing the living world beneath our feet and it looked back at me, and I trembled. I felt naked and vulnerable, but also more alive and aware of my own being than ever before. I was looking upon some mythical, primal force, some power I did not know until that moment that the world possessed. I knew of magma, yes, but when I looked upon the exposed, pulsing heart of the world I knew I would never be quite the same again. The world was a new place for me–more terrifying and wonderful than before. I felt that I had been looking for dinosaur bones and instead found a living, breathing dragon–looking for the incredible and finding the mythical.