Trekking with Pacha Mama in the Andes

Not until a train car full of foreign travelers listening to us in awe and wonder demanded to know how we came to have such an amazing fifteen day trek in the Andes Mountains did we understand the full extent of our blessings.

Gloria Fisher, long time Oregon Mazama hiking club member, moved to Peru, adopting four boys off the streets in Cuzco. Gloria’s love of Peru and Vincent R. Lee’s book Forgotten Vilcabamba, the Last Stronghold of the Incas put us on the envy map.

Gloria Fisher

Vincent, an architect and explorer, definitively proved which was the last stronghold of the Incas; and Gloria wanted to follow some of Vincent’s expedition routes. Little did we know we were guinea pigs for Gloria’s planned expedition as well as to help her friends create a guide business.

Seven of us from Portland, Oregon met up with Gloria in Cuzco and headed out on one of those lovely bus rides hovering on the edge of unpaved roads with at least a 3000 foot drop off to get to the village of Mollepata to start our trek.

In Mollapata before the start of the trek.

The magnificent seven plus Gloria (all strangers to me except for Catherine) coalesced immediately into a tightly knit, supportive group. Nary a harsh word or argument was spoken the entire trip. Penny (who was in need of new knees) and her friend Phyllis (our medicine horsewoman) travel the world hiking mountains together. Their goal is to teach The Hokey Pokey to all children they encounter in the mountains. We also brought school supplies for the children in the mountains. Cynthia, a teacher out of Salem, Oregon trekked the Andes Mountains not only fifteen days, but went on to do five more with a broken wrist. Limp wristed with an eternal smile on her face Cynthia gave new meaning to the word “spirit”. Martin, our Englishman and Rodney (alcohol counselor) were long time friends. Catherine and I met up in graduate school years ago; and there’s no trip Catherine is not up to doing.

Washington.

Gloria, our laidback intrepid leader, a supreme role model that, yes, anything you love you can make happen. Gloria found our twenty-two year old wonder guide Washington (Washi) Gibaja Tapia. Washi with Peruvian/Inca/Shamanic heritage ran for mayor of Ollyantaytambo and got 47% of the vote. His spirit and heart so great I predict years from now books will be written about Washington as a major historical Peruvian figure.

Other international tourists camped with us that first night at the base of Mt. Salcantay. After two days we no longer saw any tourists. After four days we no longer saw any garbage. With a band of horses and good humored attentive wranglers we made three mountain passes at 15,000 plus feet.

The first morning.

Trekking up Choquetacarpa Pass (which we called “Chuck in the Carpool” Pass) at 15,320 feet it was snowing, snow on the sides of the trail up to shoulder height. At that juncture I was on my horse Tio Sam who liked to eat bread, cookies and potatoes. One wrangler, Rojer, hung with me. Knowing it was a 15,000 foot mountain pass and snowing I thought, “Donner party”. Rojer who spoke only Spanish and Quechua smiled at me, a dazzling white smile so I said, “Ok, you’re smiling, so I know we’re going to be ok.” I did notice at the summit our rock ceremony was pretty darn quick and they got us moving down the mountain out of the snow.

In the "Donner Pass"

I started out as the weakest member of the group and ended up the strongest. We trekked five to nine hours a day. I probably lost a pound a day. My body seemed to be in some kind of vision quest mode. I ate little, much to the gratitude of our two men on the trek who sat next to me in the dinner tent and got my leftovers.

We're having fun now!

Rodney called us “a herd of turtles”. Washington called us “Pacha Mama’s children” (Mother Earth’s children). Heading out in the early morning Washington would say, “Pacha Mama’s children, we go now…slowly.” Martin, our lovely Englishman, had a sort of Michael Caine dry sense of humor. He trekked the Andes like a proper Englishman with his hands behind his back, a sort of sauntering up and down the mountain trails as though strolling through an English country garden. On the last day walking behind Martin as we were hacking our way through the Eyebrow of the Jungle I watched as the vines slowly wrapped themselves around Martin’s ankles. Martin ever so properly kept to his English stroll then in slow motion fell down backward onto his backpack. Martin, without missing a beat, “I wanted to rest anyway.”

Coming back from Rosapata

After ten days of total trekking and camping we came to Huancacalle where Vincent R. Lee’s guide for his expeditions now had a little hotel. We were so excited to point out his picture to him in Vincent’s book (like he didn’t know). We did a day trek up to Rosaspata, the second to last stronghold of the Incas. Coming down those Inca stairs I got a fasted pace rhythm and rhyme going with a little help from gravity; I felt like a little girl running and playing with abandon (I’m in my fifties).

With Washington in the "Donner Pass"

The last five days Washington had to leave. Our new guide spoke no English and did not have Washington’s organizational or directional skills so each day we were losing time. Coming down an extra long Inca trail one day, my knee hurt; I awkwardly limped along when all of a sudden Rojer passed me like a bullet with a rifle over his back. That was how we got our protein, that and fishing.

Penny and her 'knees'

Rojer comes back, takes my hand, supports me…takes me off the Inca trail. In a wink of an eye he has me running and laughing. The knee magically heals. The landscape is ribbed below my feet sort of like running on rolling logs in a bay. I am once again a child fully in the moment of having fun. Rojer sees supper. Three coca leaves, a prayer ceremony and off he goes. I am alone with no other person in sight. It is a powerful feeling to be alone in the Andes Mountains. Then I think, “I hope Rojer comes back.” He does, without supper, and off we go again running like the wind. I feel powerful. We make our next camp site a half hour before the others emerge from the Inca trail.

Feeding my horse Tio Sam the rest of my potato lunch.

I now only want to run like our Peruvian/Inca friends. I am alive and happy as my feet lightly touch the earth. As we come into the valley from the mountains before we hit the Eyebrow of the Jungle it is the wetlands; and running lightly is a good skill to have. One of our mules sinks to his haunches and patiently waits while the load is taken off of him so he can get out.

We ran across a group of men with pack mules who frowned at us. We were told those men had never seen a tourist. Later we learned we were in a part of Peru where contraband is brought across. Indiana Jones adventure!

A beautiful view.

The next year on another trip I stayed the night with the author of Forgotten Vilcabamba: the Last Stronghold of the Incas, Vincent R. Lee and his wife Nancy, in Colorado (a whole other story to write) and got to know the man who inspired Gloria to create our unforgettable trip