The sun has now started peeking through the clouds, burning off the lower neblina layers, gifting us even more impressionable views of the surrounding paramo. Unable to believe we have made it up 4,600m, I’m carried away by the beauty of the sun rays as they flicker among the frailejones, the beauty of nature hiding behind it a delicate balance, one that needs to be conserved now more than ever.
I’m being interrupted by my thoughts as we’re starting to make our way back down the mountain.
Our guide in the front and me following at his footsteps, I look back only to realise that suddenly the rest of the group has started to fall behind, with the next girl about 50m behind me. So we start stopping and waiting, picking up speed only to let it go after a few minutes, in our effort to keep our group as concentrated as possible. I’ve been secretly toying with the idea of advancing, going off to explore the mountain and all its beauty, letting myself flow down the mountain, with only the sound of the cascading waterfalls around me and the occasional seemingly-lost bird.
As we come to our next stop, my guide turns around to look at me, his eyes reflecting the same feeling of impatience and eagerness as I’m harbouring inside.
‘Puedes arrancar si quieres’.
I have to really pay attention to understand his Spanish, with the characteristically closed mouth of the people having grown in remote, high mountains, but the idea manages to come through nonetheless. Arancar, the verb I just come to find out that it means to proceed, to move ahead. I guessed it, but his hand gesture pointing down the mountain confirmed my understanding. Thrilled at the prospect of moving up ahead, I didn’t want it to look like I was abandoning the rest of my group, as much as our different levels of mountaineering experiences were coming through.
Our guide assured me, and I could see he wished he could do the same. So in a heartbeat, off I was. I kept hiking down and down, occasionally glancing up behind me to spot the colourful bags and reflecting hiking poles to see how far I’d come. I seemed propelled by an unexplainable energy, a drive that felt like coming from the mountain itself, pulling me ahead, immersing me in the beauty of the paramo. I’m usually a lot slower going down a mountain, paying a lot of attention on every single step, but that time, the earth’s pull on my body was stronger than ever before, smoothly but carefully leading me down the rocky paths and the low-lying bushes, as if the force of gravity had increased just a little bit. I didn’t want to rush down the mountain, but I felt like flying, every step leading to a unique sense of freedom, one that I believe one can only get in the mountains or in the sea. I couldn’t stop thinking about how altered perspective is in mountains.
Up here, I felt so small, among the vastness of rocks, native plants and cascading volumes of water. Peaks that have stood here for longer than any of us can comprehend, standing gravely and proudly, guarding this beautiful place and only letting in the few brave enoughs, those who can muster the agonising altitude and the kilometres across the valleys. Yet, while submerged in this beautiful place, I felt so small. Significant, but small. I felt like a tiny part of the very delicate ecosystem we call home, a part unique and capable of making a small distance. I love mountains because they offer that sense of perspective.
Amidst the twists and turns of the glacier-covered peaks, our issues, concerns and recurring thoughts seem so impermanent, so superfluous, so fleeting. A free-flowing stream of consciousness, a split second of neural connections firing away, altering the continuum of space and time as they occur within our body, their nature more impermanent than anything else, yet one that can deeply shape us, carve grooves deep within our thinking mind and mould our character. My mind drifts away to the word ‘character’. From the verb ‘harazo’ (χαράζω), which literally means to carve. But up here, these carved grooves in our consciousness, our psyche or our personna, whichever word fits best with your way of looking at life, feel a lot more malleable. There is an increased sense of opportunity, a strong energy of possibility, infinite options to shift, mould and experiment with these carved grooves. A unique sense of freedom, which is not only radiated by the breath-taking scenery around me, but is also accessible deep within us, waiting for us to turn to face it head-on, learn from it, and climb a little higher.
I had about 10km to hike down to Hospedaje Esperanza, the guesthouse marking the beginning of our trek. My phone battery had died half-way up, so my only notion of time was the increasing sense of fatigue on my legs, the shining sun and the progressively reducing water in my flask. Lost in the beauty of the paramo yet with a mind full of clarity, I kept aiming for a river which I remembered we had passed on our way up. I still had about a litre of water at that point, so I didn’t want to fill up my second bottle to avoid carrying more weight as we were moving up higher altitudes. Because of that, however, I had to strictly ration my water, ensuring that I always had at least a few sips spare – one of the two strict rules I developed during long-term travelling (in case you are wondering, the second one is always carrying a bit of toilet paper with me! You never know where you’re going to find yourself…).
I kept losing altitude as I was making my way across the valleys, surrounded by half-a-century-year-old frailejones. The path kept tossing and turning, and it split into numerous smaller paths. A few times it had me wondering which one was the correct one, but it turned out that all of them led to the same spot. By that point, I had lost my group completely. I was alone, but I felt as connected as ever. I felt protected by the mountain and the nature around me, engulfed in the unique sense of freedom and possibility it offered. I’ve had some pretty nerve-wracking experiences in the mountains before, but this time, my prevalent feeling was one of freedom. Afterall, I knew that the mountain means no harm. It’s just nature, at its purest form.
I got to the river about an hour or so after descending through the steepest part of the path. Throwing water over my sun-burnt arms and sweating face, I drank thirstily while filling up my flask with the other hand. The water was cold and refreshing, with a rejuvenating feel on my skin. I packed up and pushed on, taking stock of what snacks I had left – only an apple and a savoury croissant at that point.
As I got back on the path and started picking up my pace, I looked back, in search of my long-lost group, only to see an elderly man covered with a beige u’wa, like the ones I kept seeing around El Cocuy. I was surprised to see someone else behind me. The guide had mentioned the presence of another guide down the path, but I was expecting to see him ahead of me, not behind me. Unless he came from a different path?
‘Hola’ I shouted as he was rapidly coming up behind me, seeming equally surprised to see me as I was to see him.
We started chatting, his Spanish visibly easier compared to our guide, and I found out he was one of the rangers of the park. I explained to him – hoping it wasn’t outside the rules and not wanting to expose our guide – why he had let me go ahead. He understood my pain and, after the few usual questions regarding where we are from, what we do in life and the rest, we parted ways as he proceeded with an unusual speed ahead. I don’t think I would have been able to keep up with him, but I also secretly cherished the sense of serenity I kept feeling as I was walking alone in the mountains.
I don’t know how many hours went by, it must have been a couple of them. The ranger and I were overtaking each other in turns, as I was stopping to water my face and him to check instructions on his phone. My memories from earlier in the morning seemed to have completely disappeared, and the path felt almost brand new to me. I struggled to believe we had gone through the same path earlier in the day but, having no way to confirm that and relying on a necessary sense of faith in my subconscious, I kept following the path. As it went up a small hill and across to the right, I suddenly recognised the changing landscapes, where the paramo started giving way to the forest. A bittersweet sense of relief mixed with melancholy at the coming end of the trail, I looked back behind my shoulder one last time. The rock formations of Pulpito were shown clearly as the clouds had by now completely burnt off in the afternoon sun. A sense of gratitude flowing in my heart, I closed my eyes for a moment, cherishing the sense of adventure, curiosity and opportunity that had brought me to this place. I had let the mountain leave its mark on me, and for that, I was as grateful as ever.
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