Editor’s note: Walt Amses is a writer and former educator who lives in Calais.
[I] was convinced I was the only sane one on the bus, including the driver. We were on a seven-hour trip through the Central Andes headed for Cuenca Ecuador as it slowly dawned on me that the entire route included no straight flat sections of road and produced the kind of G forces common in alpine ski racing or NASA training. Everyone else seemed strangely calm in a Stepford Wives sort of way while I was as agitated as a wildebeest crossing a river, alternately smashing into the side window or my backpack on the adjacent seat like Jerry Lee Lewis’ metronome.
I hate the dehumanization of air travel but I’ve never had the armrest on a plane repeatedly dig into my rib cage like a series of George Foreman left hooks, jeopardizing my spleen and whatever else is in there. Moving to an empty seat with no rear neighbor, I figured I’d be able to recline, perhaps even sleep a bit. That rationale was seriously flawed. Flipping up the armrest didn’t work either. The ensuing struggle to actually remain in my seat caused my thigh muscles to throb and eventually seize like unlubricated pistons.
I wondered what the qualifications were for a commercial driver’s license down here and if the driver might be depressed, maybe giving the route a go without medication for the first time. While the scenery was marvelous there appeared to be neither guardrail nor shoulder, proving unimpaired views of adjacent valleys as well as paranoia-driven fantasies about whether or not the bus might ht the valley floor on the fly or bounce several times on the way down.
I vowed never to get on another bus.
Cut to three days later. I’m on the side of the road in Caja National Park, 13,000 feet above sea level, soaking wet, freezing my essentials off, praying atheist prayers that Cuenca-bound bus will come and relieve me of my misery by either stopping for me or running me over. At this point it hardly matters. About 17 of us are huddled in a makeshift shelter designed for three. The familiarity with strangers happens more or less unspoken, as we huddle and cuddle, shifting positions so backpacks fall into slots like puzzle pieces and — psychologically at least — we benefit from what remains of our collective body heat.
We find ourselves in this predicament because of climate change — weather change really. The park is an otherworldly gem we’ve looked forward to hiking, although not without some trepidation because of the thin air, variability of conditions, and somewhat haphazard trail markings. All three eventually play a role in how the afternoon turns out, reinforcing our respect of nature’s ability to still do whatever it wants no matter what mere humans do to counteract it.
It’s cold, rocky and remote, but we resist putting on everything we’ve brought which eventually turns out being a pretty smart move. It’s cloudy but dry as we shove off, shocked at how quickly we become breathless even though the trail begins downhill. The concentration required to watch your step in a place like this is daunting. There are so many things that draw your vision that are so completely alien that every so often you have to make eye contact with each other to insure you’re both still real.
A little over an hour into it the wind picks up and it begins to rain. The dust quickly becomes slick underfoot as we reach a segment of trail that meanders along a sheer cliff for 50 or so feet. Although not particularly high, it’s enough to turn a couple of flips before hitting bottom. My vertigo considers the footing for about three seconds and decides for me, screaming “abort,” so we flip the switch and turn back. Considering our total unfamiliarity with our surroundings, it wasn’t particularly obvious when we zigged instead of zagged until Helena said, “I’m pretty sure we didn’t come this way.” The deep sucking mud trying to wrestle my hiking poles away had me thinking the same thing. How we lost the trail was almost as mysterious as we might regain some traction toward drying off and warming up.
The last hundred yards we’re stepping through numerous, inescapable torrents of icy runoff, our aching lungs protesting this final ascent to the small trailhead lodge we think we remember having some kind of food.
A few minutes later, rain and sleet are hammering the corrugated roof of the small shelter. I’m sporting dry socks, slurping a hot, creamy potato corn soup in front of a roaring fire, elated at not having fallen into a hypothermic coma. I’m reluctant to speculate on the final phase of this little adventure — the random bus back to twn crapshoot that occurs out on the highway, 100 yards away from where I’m contentedly nodding off, through the deluge. Slipping on my still sopping shoes, I find that the shelter — other than the spot I’d occupied in front of the fire — is freezing.
Stepping outside immediately negates any warmth I’ve gained. I don’t know whether my legs are trembling from cold, exhaustion or a combination of both as I take my place among the cowering souls on the side of the road whose conversation is punctuated by chattering teeth. I try thinking about anything else. Is that snow?
I’m roused by World Cup worthy cheers and bilingual shouting. The bus is coming. The bus is coming and it’s slowing down to pick us up. The windows are fogged, the heat is on. I love the bus.
