Chasing Two Olympians up an Andean Pass Was an Exercise in Humility
After hiking the Inca trail, part of my heart will remain forever in Peru
I’d grown accustomed to leaving an hour before the two Olympians, so I was well on my way to the Yanama Pass when Roberto came trotting along. He flashed a smile and asked how I was doing.
The air was already so thin it took me a moment to catch my breath. “How high is this pass?”
“Oh, a little over 15,000 feet.”
I blanched at that. I’ve struggled with asthma all my life and I was concerned about how my body would respond to the challenge. We’d been in the mountains for several days but never anything this high.
“Just go slow, it will be fine,” Roberto said. Then he slapped me on the shoulder and went on his way. A little while later Martin came hiking up. He was a former World Champion cross-country skier, and a bronze medalist. In the last week I’d learned that Martin didn’t like to be behind, so I wondered if something was wrong.
“He’s going out too hard,” Martin said as he came within earshot. “You must take altitude seriously. I’ve had teammates get sick during training camps and we had to rush them to the hospital.”
I wasn’t reassured to hear that even the world’s top athletes could succumb to the dangers of thin air. I gave Martin a nervous smile. He responded with an indifferent shrug. “Stay within yourself.”
Within myself? I was already close to my limit and it wasn’t even 8AM.
Martin tended to grumble talk, but he usually ended his observations on a joke. At least, that’s what I thought. He was from the Czech Republic, so it’s possible I didn’t understand him at all.
He sputtered for a while like a car that didn’t want to start. He kept me company until he got bored with my glacier pace. Then he too slapped me on the shoulder, offered a wave, and accelerated.
It would be a different kind of day for the Olympians. I probably weighed more than the two of them put together. A strong updraft might sweep them off their feet. For me every inch would be a struggle, and if my asthma proved to be too much to overcome help would be a long time coming.
But I felt excited rather than concerned. The valley stretched out before me, a long approach to the mountain almost like a runway. Altitude is eerie because the landscape is so enormous, yet there is nothing but silence and peace.
It seemed as if the snow-capped peaks should thunder with the sound of enduring majesty, but even if you yelled the noise was quickly swallowed up and forgotten.
Humbling.
I walked.
My companions were sponsored athletes covered in modern, high-tech gear. The scratchy wool shirt I wore cost me two dollars at a second hand store. It might have insulated some poor soldier in the Balkan Wars before eventually making its way to Northern Wisconsin.
You never know.
That I had come to that stretch of terrain was almost as improbable. There are few people in Peru who know what cross-country skiing is. Roberto had learned about the sport in Seattle. Skiing allowed him to qualify for the Olympics. I knew about the sport because I’m from a place that has a race that is among the largest in the world.
I breathed in the thin, cold air of the Andes. I watched the two athletes scamper over the landscape like scraps of paper getting pushed around by a leaf blower. I adjusted my hydration pack and moved on.
All of this took place more than 10 years ago. My first daughter was a baby, and my second daughter was on the way. This trip would end up being the longest I’ve ever been away from them. I’ve found I don’t like not being close.
I don’t remember all the details from that day, but there are moments from that hike that I can return to simply by closing my eyes. The slate of the stone beneath the snow has become a foundation for everything I am and will ever be.
I set out at sunrise. I wasn’t even thinking about the descent, I thought only of making the pass. We’d been walking for days through rugged terrain and the nearest road was 15 miles away.
15 miles and up.
I didn’t have a choice. If I wanted to see my family again, I had to struggle through the altitude. I’d deliberately waited to ask Roberto about the height until it was too late to turn back. I sometimes do that to myself. It’s a way of circumventing fear.
It turns out, sometimes fear is warranted.
Hiking in the Andes is both magical and mysterious. You see your destination point all day. It seems close, like you can reach out and touch it. Then you put down your head and you hike and you hike and you hike, but the peak doesn’t seem to have come any closer.
You repeat this process again and again and again. After a while, you start to look around wondering if there’s something you missed. Have you died and been sent to purgatory? Is this some unique form of eternal torment?
The best practice is to push those thoughts away and resolve not to look at the mountain. The mountain will trick you.
I remember crossing the snow line. Snow scares some people but not me. I’m from Wisconsin. I was born in snow. Years ago I had the opportunity to ski in Australia, and there too I remember driving up to the snow line. We felt ridiculous in our cars with our ski gear driving through the villages along the way, but once you got to the snow, it all made sense.
Snow feels like home to me.
After the first day of hiking, Roberto confessed that there are some people he had to discourage from making the trip. “I’ve gotten so I can tell just by looking,” he said. “They’re the type of people who wear ‘punisher’ shirts, or they pretend to have been in the military even though they never served. You can’t have people like that along.”
“Why not?”
“Because they can’t make it,” he said simply. “They break down in tears, they can’t deal with the challenge.”
“You never asked these questions of me,” I said.
“Oh, I wasn’t worried about you. You are always making jokes and laughing and smiling. People like that can handle anything. Plus, you’re a cross-country skier.”
Ice crystals reflected brilliantly in the light of the sun. The footing was more difficult. The air was cold, but the sun’s rays were hot. The cooling effect of the snow was welcome, but it was also like walking on the surface of a mirror. It was so bright!
The last stretch of trail before the pass meandered through a kind of bowl-shaped depression. I could see the pass up in the corner, but by then I’d learned it was impossible to judge how far I had to go.
I focused on moving. I knew I couldn’t allow myself to become short of breath, so I counted fifty steps and then stopped. I did this over and over.
Around me, there was nothing but space, but I felt oddly claustrophobic. The lack of air did it. The lack of air and physical exhaustion. I knew that if a storm blew in, I wouldn’t be able to get down fast enough. There was no running. I was trapped in a wide open space.
I realized these thoughts were unproductive and I went on.
50 steps, stop. 50 steps, stop. 50 steps, stop. The trail turned, and turned, and turned again. I looked at an impossibly blue patch of sky that rested in the crook of the stone. The elevation was such that it almost seemed I could see the blackness of space even though it was the middle of the day.
I hiked to the false summit, expecting the trail to turn and make me climb some more. But it didn’t. Instead, I came upon a vision of the world laid out at my feet. It took me a moment to realize I’d reached the top, the climb was over.
Relief flooded through me. Exhaustion and desperation melted away. It didn’t matter that I was only halfway done with the hike, the journey that remained was all downhill. I wished I’d brought a sled.
It’s a humbling thing to tangle with the mountains. The air is different. It’s dry. You become dehydrated just by breathing. The petty things that concern you become inconsequential.
Theme parks pack everything into a small place so kids can feel big. The mountains allow you to unpack yourself within a vast space. Perhaps what adults need most of all is a moment where they can feel small.
If I should ever cross the Yanama pass again, I expect it will be in the company of my wife and kids. It would bring me comfort to create with them a memory as enduring as the mountains.
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As always, your writing ✍️ grabs and holds my attention. In my mind, I was on that hike, although at 71 years of age, it shall remain only in my mind. You did a great job of transporting me to Peru from Florida!
You write very well Mr Walter. I enjoyed reading. Thanks