Vultures After Me Again

It’s about a 10,000-foot drop from Huayna Picchu (‘Young Mountain’ at Machu Picchu) to the river bottoms of the Urubamba River. If you’re lucky (relatively speaking) you might bounce off of a rocky outcropping which would end any speculation in your panicked mind of the certain outcome below. If not, the gravel and rock-strung floor of the Urubamba canyon will end any question of what happens when you slip and fall off Huayna Picchu.

Now it looks like I’m going to risk life and limb in that mountain citadel resurrecting one of my first adventure/suspense/romance novels. ‘Follow the Cobbler’ is coming back to life. It was an exhausting pursuit the first time around. I expect this second rebirth will be just as challenging.

After an absence of almost five years I’m renewing my quest to ‘find the Cobbler.’ The pursuit began in 2010 and after a year’s worth of writing it ended up languishing as an unpublished novel.  Other projects crept ahead of its editing and the book lay dormant until a yawning gap in my writing schedule pushed it back to the forefront. This time around my editor has been engaged and we’re off to the proverbial races…around the world.

There are no 911 calls to make nor any medivac helicopter that can be summoned when you’re in Machu Picchu. If you fall off the mountain you die and then the vultures will eat you. Probably long before any recovery party can trek to the site of your scattered remains.

I thought about that scenario as I pondered my bad luck at not being able to climb Huayna Picchu the only afternoon I spent in Machu Picchu. If you want to climb this mountain adjacent to the ruins, you probably need to be in Machu Picchu for at least two days. Trains only arrive around noon each day and it’s safest to start climbing the mountain early in the morning at first light.

Above all, you must return before nightfall. After dark, your chances of missing a step or walking off a narrow ledge on the edge of the mountain increase expeditiously. And then you die. It seemed the perfect spot to place my two protagonists (Brian and Katherine) in pursuit of the Cobbler while being hunted down by hunter-assassins hot on their trail.

Machu Picchu is a pre-Columbian 15^th century Inca site that was created at the height of the Inca Empire. It was built in classical Inca style with polished dry-stone walls. No mortar was used in constructing the buildings. Yet the stone walls are so tightly packed together that not even a piece of paper can be slipped between their joints.

With its discovery in 1911 by explorer Hiram Bingham, Machu Picchu made its debut as an authentic archaeological enigma. For as much as the ruins have been picked and poked and examined, the ancient city still largely remains a mystery.

You don’t have to be a mystic or a shaman to appreciate the wonders of this lost city of the Incas. At almost 8000 feet above sea level, the ruins sit high on a mountain ridge above the Urubamba Valley of the Andes Mountain range in Peru. It seemed the perfect lair for a mysterious figure such as the Cobbler.

Standing among the ruins for the first time is breathtaking. Flocks of birds soar by beneath your feet and you look down on the clouds that gather in the canyons below. The thin air can wreak havoc on those with respiratory issues or are out of shape. Few people move quickly at that altitude unless K12 is their playground or they’re mountain goats.

In this age of computer technology and high tech medicine, it’s easy to look back at those ancients and laugh at their worship of the sun and the moon as their Gods. Yet their understanding of climate change (without Doppler radar), architecture (without 3D digital imaging), construction (without concrete or mortar) and agriculture (without computer forecasting charts) is quite remarkable. Their cures (now lost over time) for some illnesses would rival the best that the Mayo Clinic has to offer. For as much as they were behind the times, they were so far ahead of us.

To get to Machu Picchu, you must first travel through Cusco. Hundreds of years ago, Cusco was the historic capital of the Inca Empire. It’s an ancient city with many of its modern buildings built upon the ruins of its predecessors. Mayan culture abounds everywhere; in the people, their clothing, their mode of transportation and certainly in the central marketplace. Their lifestyle hasn’t changed for hundreds of years.

At over 11,200 feet, movement around Cusco must come slow and easy. You’re advised to chew on coco leaves to help cope with the altitude. I woke up at 3:00 am one morning unable to breath. If panic had set in, I’m not sure how I would have survived. Fortunately, I imagined a long slow run up a mountain trail and eased my nerves back into place and then steadied my own breathing. I doubled down on my leaf count after that night.

Of course there is a counter to the benefits of coco leaves. That would be forgetting you have them in your pockets or not cleaning out your pockets thoroughly of their residue before going through customs. At the airport a fellow ahead of us forgot that lesson and was quickly surrounded by machine gun cops and angry dogs. Then he was hauled off before he could explain his mistake.

There are two sure ways to get to Machu Picchu. Either by railroad or the ancient Inca Trail. Back in the 80s, the Shining Path (local terrorists fighting the government) were robbing and killing travelers along the Inca Trial. We opted for the railroad instead.

The ancient railway is a narrow gauge rail line that was recently washed out by the flooding of the stream, which runs alongside it for miles. The old wooden rail cars are as ancient as the locomotives themselves that pull the tourists and vendors to and from the ruins.

At every stop, tiny urchins and vendors flock alongside the rail cars, peddling their wares. Most of the children just have their hands out for offerings of money or food. It’s heart breaking to see those children begging for anything you have to offer. Many were about the same age as three of my grandchildren. There but for the grace of God…

At the base of the mountain you can’t see the ruins on top. The switchback that leads up to Machu Picchu only allows for two small vehicles to pass on the road. There are only inches between them when you pass. That gives you a taste of Huayna Picchu.

Besides the terraced gardens, the numerous outbuildings and clusters of stone structures not yet categorized, tour guides like to point out the three main structures of the ruins. The Intihuatana (Hitching post of the sun), the Temple of the Sun, and the Room of the Three Windows. All three are located in the Sacred District of Machu Picchu. All three are fascinating but they’re not the heart and soul of Machu Picchu.

If you want to truly feel and understand the wonders of that place, you must wander off by yourself. Get lost among the ruins and let the grass covered stone pathways lead you from

one cluster of buildings to the next. Walk along the terraced gardens where crops used to thrive.  Imagine yourself, some 500 hundred years ago, living in that vibrant city above the clouds.

 

The ruins are the same, the pathways remain unchanged and the mountains and clouds and flocks of birds are all the same as hundreds of years before when dark-skinned ancients went about their daily business. But instead of google, the Incas had their oral history. Without GPS, they relied on trail runners. They had no hiking boots so they wore thatched sandals instead. Woolen clothes were warmer than any Patagonia jacket.

I’m told the climb up Huayna Picchu is a slow and treacherous venture. The path up the mountain departs from the Sacred Rock area. The most direct climb to the summit takes experienced climbers several hours. Rising more than 1300 feet above the Principal Plaza of Machu Picchu, the pathway goes up an almost vertical stairway of more than 130 feet and passes through small caverns carved from rocky walls. Mountain mist can make the grass and stone pathway very slippery. High winds often buffet and pummel climbers even as the hot sun above bakes them.

Now I’m going back to Machu Picchu if only in my mind. Together with Brian and Katherine, we’ll explore the ruins once again and hike up Huayna Picchu. I’ll go slow and easy, trusting on my instincts and fear of heights to keep me away from the edge of the mountain. Brian and Katherine can do all the heavy lifting. I’ll let my fingers do the rewriting. It’s going to be one heck of a climb once again.

Even the sight of those circling vultures won’t keep me away from living my long dormant fantasy of climbing above the clouds and finally getting that story out of my system and into print.

Ditching My Son in the Amazon

Most sixteen-year-old boys should be sent off to military school until they’ve reached eighteen and are a little more mature. Sixteen is that awkward age between childhood and manhood; a time when their hormones are bubbling up and yet their brain hasn’t quite grasped its significance in their young lives.

Now send a sixteen-year-old down to South America on his own (actually part of a school field trip) and the equation changes even more. Leave him there for two weeks before joining him and you’ve got a stranger on your hands. He’s having a blast until you become his reality check back to the real world. It can be a hard adjustment for both of you.

Two weeks alone with a wealthy and lax family in Quito, Ecuador was enough to turn my son Brian into Jack London, Jack Kerouac and Tom Clancy all wrapped up behind the disguise of a high school sophomore, varsity wrestler, chess captain, honor student and overall macho man.

By the time I got to Quito, Brian had morphed into a self-reliant, somewhat self-centered young man. Probably very typical of any sixteen-year-old boy ‘literally’ on his own for the first time in his life.

Loosely organized by one of the teachers, the trip was supposed to introduce these sophomores from several area high schools to the cultural and geographical wonders of Ecuador and the Amazon. Yeah, not so much. But they did have a lot of fun.

Quito, formally known as San Francisco de Quito, is the capital city of Ecuador. At an elevation of 9,350, it is the highest capital city in the world. It’s a strange mixture of new buildings and old. New wealth mingling with extreme poverty. All of this surrounded by the magnificent Andes Mountains.

Once I arrived in Quito with several other chaperones, we were dispersed to various hotels until our bus left for the Amazon several days later. Brian became my city tour guide and all-knowing advisor whether I wanted it or not.

I’m not about to wax poetic about both my two kids. They were normal, healthy, active kids who acted like normal teenagers…much to my chagrin at times. This trip provided the perfect storm for this young man on the loose…until Dad came into town.

Attitude is a strange thing. Adults can sometimes hide it but kids usually don’t do so well. Brian was feeling very independent and not sure how to express it. So he did what a lot of other kids would do in a similar situation at home; ignore their parents and play the independent role.

At first I was amused by his new persona but after a couple of days it got very old.

By the time we got to some frontier town bordering the Amazon rain basin, Brian had shunned entirely me for his buddies and hanging out with them. He ignored me on the bus. He did all the typical, normal things most self-centered, self-absorbed young men do, especially in the company of young, amorous girls on the hunt.

At that point in the trip, I was ready to swap my little munchkin to some headhunter for three chickens and a goat. But frankly, what other parent hasn’t had to deal with an incident or two when their good kid was just acting like a little shit? No difference here.

An adjustment was needed. So I convened a ‘Come to Jesus’ meeting. The three of us sat down and discussed his attitude and lack of sensitivity. After all three of us had our say, Brian got his act together and it was never an issue after that.

Once we were out of Quito our transportation was quickly reduced to using the local long-range bus system. Built for stamina and very rough roads, these transportation dinosaurs could do the distance. But creature comforts were left back at the station. The buses were built for the locals, which meant that if you were over five feet tall, your head would bounce up against the roof every time the bus hit a pothole or rut in the road. It happened a lot!

The seats weren’t much better. They may have worked for high schoolers but not grown adults. Stationary crunches became the norm once we found our seats. We were cramped and close together. Some of the boys weren’t complaining, especially if they landed next to a pretty girl. As an adult, I sucked in my gut and put on my happy face. There was no room for our luggage inside so it all went on top of the bus. If it rained, everything got wet. Our luggage got wet…a lot.

 

Traveling down to the Amazon rain basin from mountainous Quito entailed harrowing bus rides on dirt roads that simultaneously hugged mountainous cliffs on one side of the road and sheer drop-offs on the other. Not for the faint of heart or those with altitude problems. Fortunately our attitude issues were long since forgotten and Brian and I spent a fair amount of time, hanging our heads out the windows for the view.

River crossings were always interesting, especially since this was the rainy season. If the bus driver wasn’t sure about the depth of the river crossing, we’d hop a pickup truck along with the locals and try to cross that way. We were like the proverbial canary in the mineshaft. If we made it across, the bus should be able to make it too.

The Amazon River, according to many accounts, was named by Spanish explorer Fransisco de Orellana in 1541. The name was in honor of the female warriors he encountered on his voyage through the territory previously called Maranon. The Amazon rain forest is the drainage basin for the Amazon River and its 15,000 tributaries and covers 2,722,000 square miles. The river itself is 4,195 miles long. We got just a small taste of river life.

River transportation in that part of the Amazon consists of mainly dugout canoes. Enormous tree trunks were hollowed out and a motor placed in back. Since it was the wet season, our pilot was always on the lookout for washed out tree trunks floating in the river. A collision with one of those battering rams could have easily turned our dugout over on its side and put bodies into the water.

The other word of caution was for us to watch out for snakes hanging from low-lying tree branches or snakes in the water. And, of course, the proverbial crocodiles, which loved to shadow our dugout canoe hoping to find a hand or two dragging alongside in the water.

Sleeping accommodations ranged from sleeping platforms in the middle of the jungle (Fortunately there were age limitations because I know where my son would have been) to sparse cabins. The only rule was to check your bedding every night for spiders, frogs and snakes. Then the next morning, check your clothes, boots, etc. before you put them on

The climate was warm and humid in the river basin, with an average temperature of 79 degrees and an average yearly rainfall of over 80 inches. In other words, it was hot and humid and nothing nor anyone ever dried out there. Wet, damp or moldy was the order of the day. Every day.

Brian and I agreed that the most memorable experience of the entire trip was our vision quest in a the pouring rainstorm. Each of us, student and adult alike, was marched into the jungle and then left alone (totally separated from one another) for a period of an hour or longer with only the sounds and smells and humidity of the jungle to assault your senses. It just so happened that our incubation period occurred during a very heavy rainstorm. I mean sheets of rain and visibility of about ten feet, if that, for hours on end.

The idea was to experience the Amazon rain forest in its entirety without the distractions of other people and outside influences. There was no way any one of us could have found our way out of there. We had to trust that our guide would come back and find us and lead us back to camp. It was awesome.

Brian and I both thought we’d died and gone to heaven. Hard to explain if you haven’t been there but it was a very thought-provoking experience.

The theme of torrential downpours continued with what could have been a very serious bus accident not long afterwards. Our bus was traversing some mountainous pass, climbing its way back out of the river basin toward Quito. In the early morning hours, our bus missed a small avalanche by mere seconds. Rocks and boulders plunged down the mountainside and crashed into a nearby stream. A torrent of water came roaring past our bus, rocking it on its springs. If we’d been broad sided by that mudflow of rock and debris, I’m sure our bus could have been swept off the road and into that stream. Kind of like, Ice Road Truckers.

Brian tried out a blowgun. He got pretty good at it. Fortunately you can’t buy a blowgun at Fleet Farm or Walmart.

Not to be forgotten but certainly not bragged about was my watching several amorous seniors come on to Brian as I was sitting at the same table. My young bon vivant laughed at my concerns and lack of understanding of the high school mating ritual.

Apparently they start even earlier in South America. And Brian, assimilating all things native, thought it only appropriate that he too initiate or at least assume their native ways.

Father thought differently and a compromise was reached. I kept my eye on him and he kept his eye on me.

Third place in memorable experiences would have to be the pool game Brian and I played back in Quito. While Snow White wasn’t there, we did play against three Israelis who were traveling through South America, a couple of Mexican nationals and several locals. A group of young girls from the neighborhood were our audience. And again I was struck by the irony of my sixteen-year-old son playing pool in Quito, Ecuador in the back room of a Pizza Hut with such an international group of players. Naturally, he thought it was no big deal.

Our trip to the Amazon was more than just a high school field trip. Instead it became our vision quest, a journey of self-discovery for both Brian and myself. For Brian, it was his first taste of other cultures, which only wetted his appetite for greater adventures ahead and inspired him to travel around the world while still in college. For myself, it was a continuation of my desire to explore options and opportunities that might expand my own creative horizon.

So while some other fathers might regale their buddies with their father-son bonding stories of camping trips or baseball games, I came to admire and grow very proud of my son in the dangerous backwaters and jungles of the Amazon River basin.