Peaks, Valleys, Beautiful Views, and Dung

Today was the last day of our trek.  The day prior, I reminded myself to just embrace it all, to commit to memory the views, the sounds, the smell, the trail under my feet, the way my body felt, all of it. I knew that I likely would never ever have this experience again, this trek through the jungle.

It is Friday and we’re heading for Plantera, a foundation by g-adventures, our tour company, that funds community efforts and culture preservation by local people.  We would be off the beaten path, taking a trail that in the past had only been used by the local people.  This option had been opened up just a month ago; we were the third group to take this trail. It was much narrower, with the surface maybe a foot wide.  Foliage often grew over the path and brushed our ankles.  I had worn long pants and they ended up with little green burrs all over them.

At one point I checked the grade of the trail with my phone – 24 degrees.  Not a big deal if this is for ten feet but it was for an extended stretch.  At another point, it was 34 degrees – a shorter section but nevertheless, that was the trail.  I was grateful for my trekking poles; I shortened them up and would reach ahead with them, dig them in and pull myself up.

The rain the night prior had made the trail slippery.  I went down one time (that day), very gracefully, as confirmed by my fellow hikers.  The trail consisted of a narrow trough with a ledge on both sides.  So the choice was to straddle the trough, attempt to walk on just one ledge, or just go for the gusto and tramp down the middle of the trough which was muddy and scattered with mule dung.  I elected for the trough and was more or less skiing along (it was downhill), using my poles to propel me.  At one point something went array – perhaps a particularly slippery pile of dung? – and I slid onto my backside – but promptly popped up and kept going.  Those kind of falls are the best as you’re hitting a soft surface versus a hard rock.  It’s funny though – when something like that happens you don’t even look to see if your backside is covered with mud or dung, you just keep going.  Don’t sweat the small stuff . . . or the dung in life!

I was also grateful for my waterproof, high top hiking boots . . . when there were muddy sections, I would just tromp through, feeling safer than if I attempted to skip from slippery rock to slippery rock.  Tromp, tromp, tromp, often the mud and slop splattering out the sides of my footsteps.  At the same time, I could hear, feel, the rumbling of my fellow hikers as they navigated along the trail.  It was a soothing sound and feeling, hearing their footsteps both ahead and behind me.

We had several water crossings . . . while most stopped to take their shoes/boots off, by this time I was just done.  Boots aren’t the easiest thing to unlace and pull off your sweaty feet when you’re sitting on the ground, and even harder to put on when you’re feet are still wet.  So I just plowed into the river with them on.  Got part way across before the water started spilling into my boots.  I was wearing heavy wool socks and of course they got wet too – but once back on the trail the water seemed to quickly drain out and I continued on my way.  No blisters, nothing.  But must admit my wet boots were pretty rank by the time I got home.  Made sure I put them in the overhead on the plane so the other passengers wouldn’t be disgusted.

Our journey took us through a Wiwa homestead; they were building a new structure and it was super interesting to see how the walls were formed – with forms, just like (kind of like!) we use for pouring concrete.  But it was mud!

At the plantera foundation we had an opportunity to meet with a Mamo.  Again, we were asked to rid ourselves of any negative thoughts – frustration, anger, sadness – and then he placed a white cotton cord on each of our wrists as he gave us a blessing.

That day the majority of our group developed the belly button down disease. No doubt it was something we ate or drank but we were grateful it was fairly short lived and toward the end of the trek! And that it wasn’t both the belly button up and belly button down disease!

I had travelled to Colombia on my own.  I reflect back on that painfully shy little farm girl who had no confidence, who didn’t say boo growing up, who was so timid and backward.  I’ve come a long way. As the decades pass we all come a long way though, don’t we?

Back to that solo traveling thing.  Some people have told me – oh my! You’re traveling alone, that would be horrible!  Not so. On tours like this, you’re not alone.  You get to know other people very quickly, like the real stuff, and while you begin as strangers you become friends.  While we share just a snippet of life, there are so many fellow travelers that I will never forget.  And some that I’ll meet again, which makes me just smile. Of course I also love to travel and explore with family and friends, which is the bulk of my travel, and I absolutely love this.  And lastly on this topic, it’s been a big step for me to let go of fear and pre-disposed ideas of how things should be and just live my life. Still have more work to do but making progress.

Saw these worms on a tree; I just shudder looking at them and had to share the photo!! It’s one of those things where I don’t want to look but I just can’t stop looking at them!

Over the course of the five days, I showed 96,000 steps (about 43 miles or 64 km) on my tracker.  The trek is said to have an elevation gain (and corresponding loss) of 9,000 ft (2700 m). Maximum elevation is at The Lost City itself at 1,150 meters, around 3,800 feet, which meant no altitude/oxygen issues.

And as my feet touch Ohio soil, I again count my blessings, that I am returning home safely, that my loved ones are well.  I learned so incredibly much, from the Wiwa practice of casting out negative thoughts to the sounds of the jungle to what it’s like to sleep in a hammock.  Really, isn’t that what life is about – expanding our horizons, learning and growing (and sometimes, just keeping going)?

We all have our journey with hills and valleys, beautiful views, and then really crappy sections. If you happen to be reading this while you’re mired in mule dung, please know that there WILL be beautiful views again and that this too shall pass. The good passes, the bad passes. At least that’s how it’s always worked for me.

Thank you for sharing yet another adventure, another small piece of my life with me.  And so I close (again) with one of my favorite quotes:

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do, than by the things you do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

–Mark Twain

Random Pics

Day Three: The Lost City

We were up by 4:45a.m. for a 5:15 a.m. breakfast and 5:45 a.m. departure for the Lost City.  The goal, of course, was to hit the trail as soon as light allowed and be in front of the other groups.

We had about a twenty minute hike and a water crossing before we would reach the 1200 steps that led to The Lost City. The hike was an easy jaunt as we were well fed, rested, and the temperatures were cool.  Climbs and descents are pretty insignificant when all those things are in your favor.

I had seen photos of the steps.  They looked wide – maybe five or six feet wide, evenly spaced, and they were straight.  I was looking forward to going up this nice flight of stairs.  Just trotting on up!  The REAL 1200 steps are a bit different than that.  I should have known better; these were placed there in the 8th century, by hand, and one can assume the goal was just to get some rocks in place to make it easier for the very fit and spry Taironians to get up the mountain.  The steps/rocks were uneven in size, the trail curved and twisted, it would often be narrow . . . but what was delightful about it was that you knew just how long it was and that there was something really cool at the top!  One of our group tracked it and called when we were half way, which came pretty quickly.  And then we were there; we had found The Lost City.

 

The Lost City

So this was our destination, The Lost City, or Ciudad Perdida, the ancient ruins of the Tairona people which had laid undiscovered by the modern world until 1972, when looters came across it.  Over the centuries though, local tribes were aware of the city – but they kept quiet about it. The city is believed to have been founded in the 8th century, 650 years before Machu Picchu in Peru, and inhabited until the 16th century. As many as 10,000 people are believed to have lived in the regions (2,000 within the city and the remainder in the nearby regions) until it was abandoned during the Spanish conquest.  Today, only 40% of the city has been excavated, including around 200 terraces/circles.  The only way to The Lost City is to trek through the jungle, as we had done.  There is also a place where a helicopter can land (I believe on a terrace) but this is used only for emergency situations.

The inhabitants of The Lost City were known for their intricate use of gold and looters retrieved these artifacts from the graves there in the 1970s, bringing attention to the existence of The Lost City.

No other metal has been found on the site and it is a mystery as to how stones were cut.  The Taironi left no written records, although there are several large boulders with carvings believed to be maps.   No animals were used to assist in the construction of the city.  Nor were animals believed to have been domesticated by the Tairona people, other than perhaps some birds (e.g. turkeys).  A trail led to the coast and fish could be carried back to the city in less than one day.

Still today, The Lost City continues to be a sacred place for the indigenous people of the Sierra Nevadas. The spirits of the Tairona that have lived there over the centuries are believed to continue to watch over those who visit.  Prior to entering, Jose shared a handful of coca leaves with each of us.  We each placed these on a rock as an offering to the spirits, and then paused for a moment to rid our minds of any negative thoughts we had.  As I understand it, this is a regular practice for the tribes that inhabit these mountains, that ridding/purging of negative thoughts.  I wondered how different our world would be today if all human beings did this on a regular basis.  Surely, it would be a better, more peaceful place.

We saw a number of military personnel; in 2003 eight tourists visiting the city were kidnapped by the National Liberation Army in a demand for a government investigation into human rights abuses.  The hostages were released three months later.  Following that incident, military protection was brought in and there have been no issues since.

We spent a fair amount of time walking the grounds.  I could not help but think of the many Tairona people who had walked the same paths as I was now walking.  What was their life like, what were their struggles, their joys?  One can only assume that life was hard.

There were probably 200 people on the grounds of The Lost City.  Not a huge amount and no comparison to the crowds of Machu Picchu.  But no doubt this will continue to increase as the years pass; for those of you who are interested in visiting it may make sense to go as soon as possible to have the least commercialized experience.  Plus . . . well, none of us are getting any younger :).

 

 

Our tour of The Lost City was complete; we continued our trek down the mountain, reversing our path.  About fifteen minutes into our hike a group of young men passed, and within a minute we came upon several standing on the trail who were quite distraught.  One of their group had gone over the edge; we could see him lying at the bottom, maybe a hundred yards down, on the edge of the Buritaca River.  The trail was clay and it appeared the edge gave way and he slid down through the foliage to land at the bottom.  There were many others on the trail coming to his assistance, including our guide, Jose.  He and several others stretchered the young man back to the Lost City – up the 1200 steps, and two hours later we heard the copter go through.  We never knew the full extent of his injuries, although we understood it was serious.

This shook me; I was reminded of the reality of the danger, and just how important it was to use caution with every step.  To not become complacent.  To not rush.  To be aware of fatigue.  And yes, frustration.

 

One of our group members, Janet, navigating the trail

After lunch I was just beat; it was extremely hot and we were doing an enormous amount of climbing yet again. I focused on putting one foot after another, looking immediately in front of me on the trail, and over time I made progress.  For a long period I would count each step; one-one thousand, two-one thousand . . . very slow and methodically.  After 100 steps I would reward myself by pausing to catch my breath.  And then start again.  And then, for some unknown reason, I got my second wind and was good to go!

Of course there was a necessary option of riding a mule if a hiker was unable to continue the trek – or just wanted a break from walking.  I considered this, but after talking to several who had ridden decided it sounded pretty miserable and I just kept trekking.  Perhaps mules are over-glamorized?

We had several more water crossings, many that were small and we just danced across, others where we exchanged our hiking boots for sandals, or bare feet.  On one crossing we passed either Kogi or Wiwa doing the crossing so naturally and effortlessly.  No doubt it was part of their everyday life, as familiar as us walking . . . well, today, we often don’t walk much!

 

We returned to camp and again, glorious showers.  I’m being a bit facetious here . . . it was the usual cold stream in a concrete box with no place to hang your clothes.  But it was a chance to scrape off the sweat and grime of the day, and I felt refreshed when I came out!

 

Toilets on the left, showers on the right, and the inside of a shower stall.

A group of older people (hmmm . . . how does one define “older?”) passed us several times; I made a point of talking to them over dinner. Two of the men were 70 years old; one mentioned that he had never hiked until he was 61 when he retired. Another mentioned that this was his 22^nd tour since retirement and that he was heading to Iran next month to hike up the second highest peak in the Himalayans. It is never too late!

We were on the trail for more than ten hours; my tracker showed over eleven miles.  I treated myself to an ice cold Club Colombia (beer) when back at camp; it was amazing!

 

 

Day Two: The Trail, The Pig, The River, The Kogi, and More

Expect The Bizarre

At orientation, Felipe mentioned that we should “expect the bizarre.”  Must admit, I was intrigued by that.  A few times that day I found myself singing along with ORC in my head “How bizarre, how bizarre . . . ” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oGUMsxVt4YU

The roosters woke me at 4 a.m. Crowing solo, crowing in stereo, crowing to each other, crowing a capella.  Why in the world do roosters feel the need to crow at 4 a.m.?  Seriously!  Shortly thereafter, the cooks began breakfast preparations which was a good thing as I was hungry, despite a generous meal of rice, smashed plantains, salad and chicken the night before.

We were out of our beds at 5 a.m. for a 5:30 a.m. breakfast and by 6, heading for the trail (and they call this vacation . . . well, more like “adventure!”).  Today would be a shorter day and the early departure meant we escaped some of the mid-day heat. While we had only 10 km (6 miles), it was tough. At one point I was again walking on my own and there was a gap between the hikers in front of me and those behind. I am going down the trail and then . . . I couldn’t figure out where the trail was. There were just huge boulders piled around me, and the Buritaca River down the bank to my left. I paused as I searched for the trail, concerned that I had somehow meandered off the route. I decided to backtrack to find the obvious trail to ensure I wasn’t lost – and once found, turned around to continue the trek. As I walked I searched for shoe prints of other hikers; here and there I could find them, and I quickly ended up right back at the piles of boulders. So THIS was the trail. Yes, it was bizarre, that they called this a trail.  Up and over I went, crawling on my hands and knees with my poles dangling behind me, trying not to think about the fact that one misstep could cause me to fall down the cliff and into the river on my left. But I kept going and in time, the boulders turned into just big rocks and an obvious trail appeared again.  But it was a bit harrowing.

It’s funny how fast your mind can go in those situations. I began running through what I had in my pack in the event I had to spend the night in the jungle alone. I remembered the whistle that I had thrown in, thinking as I packed it that it was silly to bring it along. But I was back on track and no need to worry about such things.  How often in life though don’t we go “there” . . . thinking of the worst that never happens.

We quickly discovered that most meals were a combo of rice or pasta, chicken or fish, a salad, often smashed plantains, rounded out with a glass of fresh squeezed juice. There was usually a sweet treat to finish out our meal – quite often with a bit of chocolate. Seriously, after all that trekking, we deserved every morsel of chocolate we could get!  While the food was local and wholesome, it was designed to serve a bunch of people quickly, and this is likely not the tour for a foodie.

Mid morning we passed a Kogi Village; see section below for more info on that.  I continue to be so fascinated with the cultures of the indigenous tribes!

Throughout the trek there were two items that were absolute necessities: water, and toilet paper.  When you’re out on the trail and dumping out sweat it is hard to stay ahead of it and you simply can’t drink enough water.  I have a two liter water reservoir/bladder in my backpack and would fill it at every stop.  There is a hose/straw attached to this which allows you to drink hands free while you’re walking, and I always manage to get more water down this way.  We had rest stops periodically and there were always large containers of purified water available.  At some stops fresh fruit (super good pineapple and delicious watermelon) were provided.  Also want to add that most North Americans aren’t able to tolerate Colombia water that is not purified.  Of course you can drink it, but . . . well, you’ll likely get the belly button down disease.

And then toilet paper.  In Colombia, toilet paper is typically not provided (not even in the airports!) and thus you need to carry your own.  It also isn’t flushed as doing so clogs the plumbing.  So having a supply with you is a big deal.

First, let me say there are no pics pertaining to this paragraph.  There are times when you’re out on the trail that you just nature pee.  Sometimes it’s a matter of necessity, other times it’s just convenience.  At one stop I was in a long slow moving line to use the toilet and became impatient. I decided to slip out into the trees instead; another woman who had the same idea was emerging and she pointed me toward a canopy of leaves on a gentle downward slope. I ventured there, got into position (gals, you know the drill), dropped my shorts to my knees, and squatted, all the while surreptitiously peering behind me to ensure I didn’t have an audience. I finish and attempt to stand up. I can’t. I had forgotten to take my pack off and it was dragging me down (keep in mind I had just refilled my water reservoir, which added another five pounds).  I try again, mustering up every little muscle fiber in my exhausted quads to try to bring me to a standing position. No luck. I grab at surrounding brush and try again. It just slides through my hands. So there I squat, pants at my knees and unable to stand up. I envision myself tumbling down the slope and “they” find me, lying at the bottom, my white butt cheeks shining like a beacon with my shorts bunched around my knees. Ughhh. I decide to try inching backward, right foot, left foot, scooching across the ground till I reach a level spot. Slowly, as though I am in slow motion, I pull myself to a standing position and tug my shorts up. In retrospect, I should have just unbuckled my pack, dropped it and stood up! That would have made so much more sense! But it’s a great story!

Here are a few pics of the trail, which was ever changing, awesome, and . . . challenging.  I found I would go for hours breathing hard, my heart pounding.  Again, the temps were in the mid-nineties which didn’t help.  The inclines were tough, going downhill was tough.

Throughout the trek we had a number of water crossings.  Some were actual river crossing where we took our shoes off and were mid-calf in water; others we just plowed though, others we attempted to balance as we stepped carefully from rock/boulder to rock/boulder.  And then we had the occasional bridge.

My trekking poles became my third and fourth legs; I depended upon them the entire trek and was so in awe of those who could just pop up a ledge or over a rock without poles to pull them. And also those who just sauntered along, never seeming to strain or trip or fumble.  That was not me; I needed all the help I could get to both keep from falling and to pull and push.

For me, every step was calculated; I was constantly looking down, making a decision about what step will be the most efficient, and which would be the safest. Should I go left which is a bit longer but no huge rocks or ledges, or right which is very direct and short but there are a number of rocks and steps up or down?  Will I slip if I step there?  Will I be able to even “make” that step; are my quads strong enough?  All the while, I try so hard to not lose sight of everything around that is so incredibly beautiful.  With 96,000 steps in this trek, that’s a lot of decisions!

We made it into camp around 1 p.m.  What a great afternoon we had; rather than heading into the showers we jumped into the nearby crystal clear (and ice cold!) Buritaca River for our showers and laundry.  Yes, this is how you shower and do laundry on The Lost City trek.  Seriously, the water is likely purer than what most of us have in our homes . . . albeit a bit cooler.  So much fun!

When you least expect the bizarre, it happens.  So I head into the toilet . . . there is a bank of three, each with a door with an open bottom.  I’m sitting on the john like all people do and I feel something against my ankles.  I look down and there is a pig.  Yes, there is a long haired gray pig in the stall with me.  He heads for the open trash can. Ugh.  Now I know why this pig is there.  He really IS a pig, rooting through people’s used toilet paper.  He left my stall and headed for the next . . . Felipe told me the next day that he wasn’t just your run of the mill pig, but a unique kind (I forget the name).

That night, I slept in a hammock.  A hammock with a mosquito net.  One of about ten hammocks in a bank, all strung out close to each other.  You roll over or stick your butt out too far and you’re going to bump the sleeper next to you; it’s really a funny thing.  I kept imagining that we were like the stainless steel collision balls that people keep on their desks . . . bump one and it bumps the next and the next.  We discussed hammock sleeping tactics, how to lie, getting in and out . . . who knew it could be so complicated?! Anyway, I was able to get a few good hours of sleep and had a very entertaining dream.  I dreamed I adopted The Pig.  Yes, I adopted him and took him home.  Had all my friends over to meet him.  The Pig was house trained.  And no, I did not allow The Pig to play in the bathroom.

What a full, full day on the trek to The Lost City.

The Kogi People

There are four indigenous tribes in this region; we were exposed to two of these tribes, the Kogi (hard g, pronounced Ko-gee), and the Wiwa.  The Kogi are the most untouched by the modern world and they shun the influence of outside society.  We passed by a Kogi village on Tuesday morning.  About 45 families live here, although most don’t truly “live” here, as they are farmers and they spend the majority of their time on their farms in the mountains.  They will return here once a month for a meeting with their tribe, the men meeting together for their issues in the ceremonial house, and the women meeting to discuss theirs, for maybe four or five days.  They bring their belongings with them, which may include a couple of pigs, some tools for farming, and their bag with all their earthly possessions.  They have very few material things.

The Kogi base their lifestyles on their belief in The Great Mother, their creator figure, who they believe is the force behind nature.  As I understand it, The Great Mother is the equivalent of their God (they have but one god).  Their focus on more on their spiritual development than physical.  When death occurs, it is celebrated as a “fulfillment of life.”

Every village has a “Mama” (pronounced ma-moo) who is the spiritual and political leader as well as the healer of the village.  A Mama is generally chosen while still in the womb and is always male.  He will spend the first nine – and ideally eighteen years of his life in a cave, never exposed to daylight, only leaving the cave after dark.  He is also not exposed to females during this time.  The ruling Mama and other male tribesmen serve as his teachers during these years, passing down the teachings, wisdom, and knowledge of the Kogi since the beginning of time.  A Kogi Mama always has two Kogi apprentices.

The average lifespan of the Kogi is around 45 years old.  Forty percent of children die before they are five years old, at birth, or from accidents, bites, or diseases.  My heart breaks for the Kogi mothers.  Babies are typically delivered by the Mama’s wife.  There is no typical number of children in a family, although I did gather that the Kogi are quite familiar with a woman’s reproductive cycle.  I think it’s also important to note that there is no violence against women, and I don’t believe violence period in the Kogi society.

All Kogi wear a white gown, as you can see from the children in the photos.  I took these photos in passing but they really are taboo; the Kogi are shy people and prefer to not have their photos taken.  Children all wear the same gown, other than girls may have a lace braid or necklace around the neckline.  When a girl reaches puberty her gown changes slightly (I don’t recall the specifics on this though).  When a boy is declared a man (an adult) he begins to wear pants.

Women carry their babies in a white sling on their front.  Babies don’t wear diapers but instead, the mother periodically removes the baby from the sling/basket and washes the baby and the carrier in the river.

When women have their periods (yes, we women were all curious about this) they stay inside and sit on leaves to absorb the blood, occasionally leaving to wash in the river.  I have gathered that the Kogi people don’t wear underwear, although I didn’t specifically ask about this.

The Kogi men all have long hair and grow little to no facial hair.  All were short in stature.  When a boy becomes an adult he receives a poporo, a small, hollow gourd that is filled with “lima,” a type of powder that is made by heating and crushing shells to produce lime. The men continuously chew coca leaves, a tradition followed by many indigenous tribes to connect them to the natural world. As they chew the coca leaves, they suck on the lime powder in their poporos, which they extract with a stick, and rub the mixture on the gourd with the stick to form a hardened layer or crust. The size of this layer depends on the maturity and the age of the Kogi man.

There is so much to be learned about the Kogi culture; I feel as though we just touched the tip of the iceberg.

Hot, Sweaty, and Tired: An Amazing First Day of The Lost City Trek!

We sat eighteen strangers around the table on the terrace of our hotel in Santa Marta, Colombia, people coming from all walks of life, from all parts of the planet, spanning more than forty years in age. We introduce ourselves and I try to commit names to memory.

Our guides were native Colombians, Felipe coming from Bogota and Jose from one of the indigenous tribes, the Wiwa. We would place our lives in their hands this week.

Over the course of the next five days we would be trekking to The Lost City (Ciudad Perdida) in the Sierra Nevadas de Santa Marta in Colombia. (Note: it is Colombia, not Columbia!). The Lost City is the ancient ruins of the Tairona people, a city that was constructed around 700 BC and inhabited by up to 10,000 people at any time until the 16^th century. While some of the indigenous people knew of its existence over the centuries, it was unknown to the outside world until the 1970s when looters discovered it. Treks to see the Lost City began to be offered in the 1990’s, and the only way to get to the ruins continues to be to trek through the jungle.

Since we would be carrying our gear, Felipe emphasized that taking the minimum was critical. No more than the equivalent of 10% of your body weight. One outfit to trek in (yes, the same outfit for five straight days), one to sleep in. A long sleeve shirt in case the evenings were cool. A pair of long pants. Sunscreen, deet, after-bite for the inevitable bug and mosquito bites, medication, personal hygiene products, and the essential toilet paper. Water to start the trek and something to carry it in. A sleep sack or sleep sheet. Sandals for water crossings. That’s it. Even still, it’s a lot when you’re carrying it on your back and it doesn’t take much to hit that 10% limit!

I left the table feeling that warm rush of adrenalin, so excited and curious about what was ahead.

My roomie and I woke at 5:40 a.m. on Monday morning and grabbed our bags for our 6 a.m. departure. We checked our phones one last time before we lost electronic access to the rest of the world. Yes, truly disconnected! A short while later we loaded into two 4X4 vans, backpacks strapped to the top. We flew along the paved road, our driver slamming the pedal to the metal as he passed on yellow lines, hurtled around the curves, navigating amongst the many motorcycles and vehicles on the road. We transitioned to a dirt path and the vans rocked and lumbered over the potholes, dips, and mounds on the road while we clutched anything we could in an effort to stay in our seats. And then we reach Machete, where we would have a quick breakfast before strapping on our backpacks to begin the adventure!

We started the trek shortly after 8 a.m. I was concerned that I may not be strong enough, may not be able to stay with the group. I think many shared this feeling; you never really know what you’re getting into until you’re there. As we started trekking, I consciously positioned myself right in the middle. Like position #8. I didn’t need to be the fastest, but I also wanted to ensure I didn’t hold up anyone in the group. That lasted about ten minutes and I came to my senses. I decided to just hike at a good pace for me, put reasonable pressure on myself to keep up, but not rush. I fell into a good rhythm.

The only way to get supplies up and down the mountain was via mule; when one or more were approaching, trekkers would call “Mula!” and pass the warning along the trail. Felipe had cautioned us to get to the mountain side of the trail as a fully loaded mule could easily push you over the edge just by brushing you with their load. I always got a slight rush of adrenalin when I saw a mule approaching as I knew that no one could really control them as they made their way. But other than one slight brush that caused me to scamper backward, the mules were just that . . . mules on the trail.

While there were brief flat sections of the trail that weren’t laden with boulders and rocks, the vast majority was challenging terrain. Rocks, roots, carved clay, and of course the regular sprinkling of mule droppings.  Sharp inclines and declines were the norm.  There were countless times when we would approach a rise in the trail – perhaps a boulder, a ledge cut in the clay, a tree trunk – that was two or more feet high – and we had to figure out how to smoothly transfer up or down these with the least effort and without falling.  Ahhh, the burn in the quads, the exploding of the lungs!  But more importantly, it was beautiful.  Just absolutely beautiful, this jungle world that was so alive with nature. Really, think about that!  Who gets to do this, go tramping through the jungle like this?!  So incredibly cool!

A few samples of the trail.

On the trail with Samantha, one of our gang!

Temperatures rose to the mid-nineties by mid-day. We were often in full sun and of course there was the high humidity that goes with the jungle. It was HOT, and we sweat, sweat, sweat!  Sweat like never before in our lives.

This was our longest day.  Our tour company said it was 14 km, but my tracker showed 19 km, or 12 miles hiked. I cannot even begin to guess at elevation gain and loss – but it was A LOT.  I felt as though there were hours that I panted to catch my breath, hours that I could feel my heart pounding, exploding in my head.  I don’t know when I’ve ever worked this hard!

While I saw virtually no wild animals (mammals) in the forest, there were occasional farms animals here and there, no doubt tended by one of the farmers in the indigenous tribes.  Often, the pigs would be leashed, an odd sight for this Ohio farm girl!

One of several footbridges we crossed

We reached the Buritaca River that day, a river that we would follow and often cross – both by footbridge as well as by wading across.  I never lost the thrill at seeing the Buritaca!

Finally, after ten long hours on the trail, we arrived at camp at 6:30 p.m.  We were sweat soaked, tired, and hungry.  It was a really tough day, far more challenging than most of us anticipated.  But we made it.

Showers and laundry followed. Showering, of course, meant standing in a stream of icy water and gasping for your breath as you washed away the sweat and grime of the day. It was absolutely awesome, it really was. And laundering meant that you peeled your sweat soaked clothes off in the shower and washed them and wrung them out the best you could. And then you did the one-legged dance as you attempted to pull on your sleep clothes without them touching the floor.  I never really perfected any of this and always felt like I was just bringing out previously damp clothes that were now completely wet, and just as dirty!

Laundered clothes were hung on the lines that were strung outside with hopes that they would dry, but we quickly learned that while the temperatures were high the humidity was equally so and despite our best efforts, we would be pulling on wet clothing in the morning. But it was all good and after a short while on the trail, I became oblivious to whether my clothes were clean, dirty, wet or dry.  It just didn’t matter.

Monday night was spent in an open bunk draped with a mosquito net. A bottom sheet, blanket, and pillow were included. I had read that “usually sheets are washed daily” and prior to the trip, the “usually” troubled me a bit. But once I was out there, I could have cared less whether the sheet or the pillow were clean. I was just plain tired and crashed at 7:30 p.m. amongst the clanging of the pots and plates and the chatter and laughter of other trekkers.

Day One of the trek to The Lost City was complete. It was an absolutely amazing day.