Across the Andes

We are on a small bus; our knees are anything but straight in front of us, as the bus seats are made for Ecuadorians, who are not known for their great statures. The bus is on a narrow dirt road, twisting its way up and away from the capital city of Quito, toward the small town of Papallacta. We have a book that has a vague description of a trek that leaves from there. This, being the closest trek to the equator that we could find, has become the starting point of our hike. I sit silently, but my brain does not rest. In fact, it will not quit.

What do I feel? Shouldn’t I be excited? Why am I—oh, man! That was an Andean wolf that just darted up the embankment! They certainly have large tails. Why must the windows have old dusty curtains covering them? Who puts curtains like that on a bus? What am I—oooahh ...

“Look,” I whisper.

Oh. My. God. What is—? Is that a mountain?

Crane neck to see out and up. Gregg and I look at each other.

“Antisana.” An 18,871-foot peak is within a day’s walk and has just startled the breath out of both of us. We are not in Colorado. I am certainly not in upstate New York.

What are we getting ourselves into? Fear. I feel fear. Anxiousness. That, too. Do I really even like backpacking that much?

A few houses—a few small mud-brick homes are left in the cloud of dust kicked up by the bald bus tires. We must be nearing the town.

Why can’t the bus ride be longer? Damn, this is actually happening. I’m not ready for this. Are we actually going to hike for the next year straight? Is it too late to back out?

I can’t even begin to know what to expect.

I guess I’m excited, too. I just have so many questions.

The bus squeaks and slows to a stop.

Is this it? Is that collection of small buildings down there Papallacta? Are there stores? I thought we’d be able to get a few last-minute things here, like cooking fuel. I mean, it was in a guidebook; surely backpackers must come here all the time. Surely.

“Papallacta,” the driver calls for our purpose alone. We are the only ones getting off. We un-wedge ourselves from the seats and step off the idling vehicle. The bus assistant/ticket-collector guy has already taken our brand-new, too-heavy packs from the storage compartment, and they are sitting on the side of the road. The bus pulls away and leaves us in a dusty plume overlooking a small valley. We are alone in The Middle of Nowhere, Ecuador. Not necessarily the middle of nowhere, as it’s precisely the middle of the world. Gregg and I meet eyes again. No words are needed.

Uh, now what? is the big, hanging unsaid. We take a minute to look out over the valley toward the south, across all of Ecuador, Peru, the jungles, the Cordillera Blanca in Ancash, Bolivia, Chile, the Atacama desert, Argentina, Aconcagua—the highest peak in the Americas, Torres del Paine and the rest of Patagonia, Tierra del Fuego, and the point where the Atlantic and Pacific meet at the very end of the continent. We have no idea. No idea. We put on our packs, take a picture and start walking...