Traditional Peruvian villager Photo courtesy of Thaddeus Laird

Outside the bus, the golden stretch of pampa grass was rolling off toward the mountains like shag carpet. The laguna was reflecting a sky so spotless and blue that it was hard to judge the true scale of things poking up into it. About this time, I began to notice something protruding from the sky in the very far distance. Something we had overlooked while dealing with the swarm of tourists departing the bus. It was a daggering mass of black rock pin-striped with white runnels of ice, as if cut from zebra hide. It was a magnificent alpine peak, with a sharp and sweeping southeast ridge and a seriously grave south face. It was exactly what we had been looking for: an aesthetic peak standing at no more than 18,000 feet. A mere pup compared to the big dogs of the north. A sure bet in terms of untouched climbing routes.

"Wathefoks that there, Yank?" asked the Brit, a half lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. "Not entirely sure," I responded. "But we should find out."

"I’d bet the Queen’s bum that line ain’t been shagged yet. It’s a bloody newbie!" he said, pointing in the general direction of the mountain’s southeastern aspects.

Not fully understanding what he had just said, I nodded in agreement. But I was quite sure I had picked up on one thing: it might be a newbie.

Later that evening, having returned from the ancient ruins and the clichés of near-death while on a South American bus tour, the Brit and I were sitting in the upstairs bedroom of our hosteria in the town of Huaraz (kick-off point for all things climbable in the Cordillera Blanca). It was here that we decided the only way to get answers about that mountain was to start combing the streets.

We approached climbers in cafes, flipped through their torn guidebooks, and even discussed the matter with a few Peruvian mountain guides. But no one seemed to know what we were talking about. No one seemed to care about some meager 17,000-foot lump in the Southern Cordillera. One of the old-time guides perked up when I mention the bright blue lake and the steep south face rising above it, but he waved it all off, saying none of it had been climbed and besides, why bother? Shouldn’t we join the group of climbers in the room behind us who were waiting to ask him questions about conditions on Pisco, or Huascaran?

That night we sieged the local discoteca with a force that would have made John Travolta proud. "Forget the poor man's Himalayas," I thought to myself as I did my best white-man’s overbite out on the dance floor. This was a new game now. This was the Peru I had always wanted to see. A place where new routes could be gained as long as you were willing to look past the pitfall of "higher always means better."

Summits of Cordillera Blanca Photo courtesy of Thaddeus Laird

About that time, I noticed that the Brit was motioning for me to make my way over to him. So I clutched my pisco sour and maneuvered through the crowd, spilling most of my drink down the front of my pants.

"Listen Yank," he began yelling into my ear as I reached him. "I met these two lasses over there who are off for a bit of a tour up north. And then a wee dive with the turtles in the Galapagos. I've always wanted to see the Galapagos mate."

"Sounds great," I responded. "Maybe I could join you guys after we knock off the newbie." I did a little hip-dance to highlight my excitement toward this.

"Yeah, about that Yank, you see, they're off tomorrow, right?" he stated, sincerely I rested my drink against my chest, and pouted.

"But what about the newbie?" I slurred.

"Yeah, I’m sure you’ll getta, mate. Best of luck with that!"

"New routes and stuff?" I pleaded. But he was barely listening to me anymore. He was too busy giving a thumbs-up sign to the girls over at the bar.

"Sorry mate, I can't pass up a wee dive with these two lovelies, eh?"

The Brit then drained his pisco sour, pounded his hands simultaneously on my shoulders and finalized, "Well Yank, Bob’s yer uncle."

"He is?" I asked sorrowfully.

"Sure is mate." And with that the Brit dissolved into the crowd forever.

The following morning I awoke to a tour bus that was sending a horrendous horn-blast across the land. I knew that the horn was intended for the Brit and me. After all, we had arranged for it the evening before, just after securing our plans to head back and tackle the untamed beast.

I slumped out of bed and glanced around the room. There was no sign of the Brit. So I cradled my head between my hands and imagined what it would take to bag that mountain on my own. I imagined the self-talks I’d probably go through while standing in my crampons, pasted to the ice face. I imagined the sheer stupidity it would take to get me to the top. So I laced up my boots before allowing myself a second thought, and slipped out into the morning chill of the streets.

Back beside the laguna, I listened to the bus whine through its gears as it rose over a distant hilltop. A few seconds later, it disappeared off the opposite end. And I was all alone. I surveyed the landscape in front of me. Everything held an ageless breath of loneliness and seclusion.

Down at the lakeshore, I discovered a muddy scar into the pampas, which circled around the far end of the lake, climbed into a high barren valley and kissed the feet of my mountain. But there was something remarkably different about this trail. There were no name-brand shoe logos stamped in the dirt. No ruts left behind by massive expeditions. The only signs of life were the occasional shape of a child’s bare foot, a few sheep tracks, and a cow patty or two. The only ones patrolling this track were the locals.

I followed the trail for several long miles, passing little fishing huts etched into the lakeshore. I had just crested a height of land at the head of the lake, when quite unexpectedly, I noticed a figure on horseback approaching rapidly in the distance. My neck muscles instantly tensed After all, these were strange gringo behaviors I was performing in a stranger’s land. And I wasn’t sure if slogging a purple rucksack around and following my nose in the sake of self-indulgence was something the natives would celebrate.

"We’d chew coca leaves, he offered, and if I wanted to, I could marry his youngest daughter..."

As the horseman approached, bad scenarios began to swirl through my mind like a wildfire. What if he unsheathed a saber and left me headless in his wake? What if the horse was steered in my direction and I got twirled beneath its legs as if tossed in a blender?

By the time the man and his horse had galloped up alongside me, I had dropped my pack and was planted firmly in the Kung Fu fighting position. The man gazed down at me from his high saddle. A look of bewilderment was spanned across his face. He wore a wool poncho, leather gloves and western blue jeans. He had sinewy skin, and bad teeth. He was undoubtedly a highlander.

Highlanders are people who scrape fortresses together from this barren landscape, and then dig-in for a century or two. Their livelihood thrives on the fragile embers of subsistence sheep farming. They spin alpaca-wool for clothes. Entertainment comes from coca leaves. Spirituality comes from the mystery, and the power of the mountaintops.

"Gringo?" the highlander called down, as if trying to confirm that I was one.

I nodded in agreement. He scanned my bulging pack and the ice axes dangling from it. He noticed the plastic mountaineering boots wrapped around my feet. A sense of deep confusion visited his face. So I pointed up at the icy summit-crown in the distance, trying to clarify why I had come. His leather saddle squeaked as he turned to see what I was pointing at.

"Ya ha!" he said as he rotated back to face me. "El puno de Pachamama!" He lifted a hand, balled it down into a tight first and then brought it toward my face for me to inspect. Back home, this type of body language would have caused me to backpedal away from the situation. Since this was a foreign country, and perhaps normal behavior, I maneuvered in for a closer look.

"Say what?" I inquired.

"El puno de Pachamama," the highlander repeated.

I was a bit hazy on the word puno, but as for Pachamama, I knew exactly who she was. Pachamama is the mother-goddess of Peru; the spiritual essence of the Cordillera Blanca. Highlanders have included her in their songs for millennia. Peruvians show their devotion to her by dumping the day’s first sip of fermented maize-liquor onto the ground in her honor. Sheep have been known to be sacrificed on her behalf.

The highlander noticed I was straining to translate his sentence. So he brought the fist in closer for me to inspect, simultaneously motioning over at the mountain in the distance I looked at the fist, then up at the mountain. My eyes widened as it hit me. The Fist of Pachamama.

It must have been the eye-widening that caused the highlander to explode into a fit of spastic laughter. But before I could brace myself, he let out a tremendous roar of hysterics. His mouth dropped open and I could see a row of teeth bouncing around like little wind chimes. I think the pampas began to vibrate. I swear I saw a twinkle of excitement pass through his watery eyes as he entertained the thought of some gringo trying to climb one of his sacred mother-goddess’ fists.

After the highlander had collected himself, a conversation ensued between him and me. We discussed the mountain, the weather, and the fact that I was the only gringo he had seen this far up his valley in years. He was the self-acclaimed owner, manager, and custodial force behind this valley. He drove the cows. He bred the sheep. He produced the little kids who had left footprints behind in the mud.

As the conversation evolved, the highlander suddenly asked if I cared to join him in his hut, as a guest, just up the valley. We’d chew coca leaves, he offered, and if I wanted to, I could marry his youngest daughter.