Terror & Transcendence in the Andes
On getting perilously close to death, but having a mystical experience instead
The following is excerpted from a letter I wrote to my big brother, Britt, to memorialize a transcendent – and at times terrifying – trek along the Vilcabamba Trail in the Peruvian Andes. Today – May 30th, 2022 – is the seven-year anniversary of the most momentous day of a weeklong adventure.
The trip was my 50th birthday present from Britt. He paid, I planned. An avid outdoorsman and lifelong athlete, my brother stipulated we must break a sweat every day.
It’s significant to note that during our teens, my sibling and I were intensely combative, often physically. He was usually the aggressor. It was rough going. But once we got out in the world, he apologized unequivocally. I forgave him. Thus began a growing closeness. The hallmarks of time – spousing, fathering, navigating loss and middle age – have brought us ever closer. Speaking for myself, the trip to Peru deepened our relationship more than anything. I think about it every day.
The Vilcabamba Trail is one of the routes the Inca took to escape the Conquistadors in the 16th century. It leads to hideaways where the indigenous people kept the Spanish at bay for decades. It was the trekking company’s most challenging offering, rarely chosen. After we completed it – encountering several very dicey situations – the company removed it from their site.
This excerpt of the letter to Britt begins on the second day of the trek, ten miles in from the trailhead. We’d been in Peru four days. From Cusco (10,000 feet) to the trailhead in the Urubamba region (13,000 feet), my heart rate and respiration had not slowed, but rather raced nonstop. We’d hiked through scenes that looked like Eden, but we’d also been stopped by a mysterious band of glassy-eyed young men carrying AK-47s. (Our indispensable guide, Arturo, got us out of that.) We’d encountered ancient ruins pre-dating the Inca, but we’d also been sloppily accosted by a knife-wielding drunk from a poverty-stricken cinderblock village.
On day two of the trek, we were camped at a subsistence farm. The scene was idyllic. Prior to falling asleep, I’d heard Quechuan pop music from a tinny transistor radio nearby, and I’d waved to a woman washing her daughter’s hair outside the farmhouse. My encroaching sickness may have been from increasing altitude, but it may also have been from a dodgy ham sandwich I’d ill-advisedly eaten. I will never know.
On Saturday, May 30th, 2015, I awoke in the wee hours – I have no idea what time – with the unmistakable need to hurl. You slumbered beside me. I headed into the dark, barefoot on the loamy, cool ground. All was quiet around me, everyone asleep. I looked up, hoping I’d see the promised carpet of stars, which I did, only slightly obscured by cloud cover. As I’d been told, it rivaled the unpolluted skies of the American southwest, but I was too sick to feel awe (although I do now, retroactively). I stumbled past the mules and vomited into the bushes. I immediately felt better, and wide-awake, blood vessels full. I squatted in the starlight with my back against the barn wall, looked up at the sky for a few minutes, listened to the farm sounds, inhaled the scents. Temps in the upper 30s, Peruvian winter coming on. I crawled back into our tent. Within a few minutes, I was mercifully back asleep.
In the morning I emerged from our tent with a headache and a tight stomach, but I downed some coffee and eggs, which were awaiting us. (I vomited it all later.) Our guide, Arturo, reminded us that this was the hardest and longest day of the trek. We would go the farthest (about 20 miles) and the highest (app 16k feet).
We set out as the sun burned off the morning clouds. We frequently headed upwards, on ancient pathways, some still paved with flat stones. We walked ridges above a gorgeous valley, occasionally perilous terrain. No warning signs. You stood at a cliff edge, spread your arms, and hooted into the air. Arturo had told us we were in the Urubamba Region, near the mighty Urubamba river. You made up a song about that on the spot.
I hoped my increasing illness wouldn’t dampen your obvious joy. Then your obvious joy, I’m sorry to say, began to get on my nerves. Arturo set a pace you had no problem keeping. You created a fantasy wherein we were sure to see a puma (very rare), while Arturo assured us we would not. Whenever a sheep or cow or horse from a subsistence farm came in view you pointed and yelled, “PUMA!”
“That is not puma,” Arturo said. “That is cow.”
“That’s a goddamn puma, Arturo!”
“That is not puma, that is horse.”
“Is not puma, that is sheep.”
This running joke made Arturo smile his beautiful, big smile.
Arturo was not smiling at me, however. As I lagged behind, my heart rate and respiration increased, no matter how slow I trudged. The downward spiraling thoughts began, which further spiked my adrenaline. A good friend, just five years older than me, and healthy, had suffered a major, out-of-the-blue heart attack a few months earlier, flatlining three times. ER docs in Brooklyn had saved his life. And two healthy 50-ish women I knew – one a yoga teacher – had also recently had heart attacks, and they’d died.
I convinced myself all the stress on my heart was going to send me into my very own cardiac arrest. Out-of-the-fucking-blue. In the fucking Andes. This was where I would die. My number is UP.
The whole scenario played out in great detail in my mind, which, sadly, is how it goes with me. My heart stopping, me falling, you trying to resuscitate me, me dying, you beyond devastated, then left with your little brother’s stanky corpse for hours while Arturo runs however many miles to send a message, then a helicopter airlifts me in a body bag back to Cusco, you calling Holly and Jack, screams, wails, lives shattered, Jack fatherless, like me, Holly a widow, you guilt-stricken for life, Mom, upon hearing the news, having her own heart attack and dying, and on and on and on. Mostly, my thoughts circled back to not getting to see Jack grow up.
I began to chant under my breath, “Fuck this shit, fuck this shit. Fuck. This. Shit.” (It pains me to write this stuff. But I will allow it is also a little bit funny. Now.)
Initially, I said nothing. To your and Arturo’s great credit, when I lagged, you waited for me. Y’all did not seem overly put out by my increasing pokiness (at least not that I could discern). A distance of about 50 yards opened between us. On a particularly steep, rocky path, I vomited again. I was careful to keep drinking water, but then I vomited that, with some bile, which I knew was particularly bad. Then I vomited air, painful heaves, involuntary animal sounds from my gut. I sat on a rock, desperate to catch my breath, which I could not do.
You and Arturo came back for me. Arturo said, “I have something to help.” I thought he was going to give me an herbal something, some Quechua hoodoo, but he produced a Sublime chocolate bar, the Peruvian equivalent of a Hershey’s. I put it in my pack. The thought of food made me heave.
Although it was impossible for me to feel “rested,” we started off again, me way behind you two, thinking, “This must be what it’s like to be 100 years old,” and still thinking – but not saying – I was due for a myocardial infarction any second now.
Finally we traveled downwards to Soyroccocha Lagoon, where horseman Florenzio and Co. had set up a midday rest stop. Lunch, etc. I ate nothing. I lay on my back on the ground. You came over and said something to me, but I can’t recall what I said back. My mind was racing. You left me alone and went off by yourself, perhaps to do some deep breathing to help deal with me. Or maybe to look for a puma. I got up and went over to Arturo, who was sitting in the blue tent having some lunch.
“Arturo,” I said. “Anyone ever have a heart attack on these treks?”
“Yes,” he said.
Oddly, that gave me some satisfaction. “What if, hypothetically speaking, I were to fall and break my leg, what would happen, what would you do?”
Arturo took a deep breath. His face was inscrutable. “We put you on the horse and ride back the way we came.”
“What if I don’t want to do this anymore? What if you and Britt just kept going, and I went back with someone?”
“No. We all go back.”
“Then what?”
“You get car back to Cusco.”
“How much is that?”
“About 300, I think.”
A pause while insane thoughts whirred in my head.
“You know this is my 50th birthday present? From Britt?”
“No. I did not know.”
“He paid, I plan. He has more money than me. But I’m better at planning.”
Arturo nodded. I got up and went to find you looking out over the lagoon. I remember your pupils being pinned, from sunlight and I don’t know what else.
“I don’t think I can do this, Britt. I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.”
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“I’m sick. I think I’m gonna have a heart attack. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“You’re not gonna have a heart attack.”
He’s minimizing my distress! He doesn’t give a shit!
I told you about my friends who’d recently had heart attacks.
“Look at me,” you said. “Look at me.”
“I AM looking at you.”
(As is its wont in times of exhaustion, my lazy eye was acting up.)
“You’re not gonna have a heart attack,” you said. “You’re OK. That’s just some crazy shit in your head. You can quit, fine, but if you do, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. But if you keep going, you’ll feel great about yourself.”
“I don’t need to do this to feel great about myself!”
This struck a nerve. You moved away, maybe to take some more deep breaths. To drive the point home, I said: “I feel like I’m going to die. I don’t want to die. I’m afraid. Aren’t you afraid to die?”
Then you smiled and got back in my face. You said, “No. I’m not afraid to die.”
“What about your kids…?”
“I’m not afraid to die. I’m not.”
You put your hand on my shoulder and pressed down. “I know you can do this. No doubt in my mind. I know you can. If you want to quit, that’s OK too, but I know you can do this.”
You moved away and went back to staring at the swampy green. Clouds were moving in.
I sat stewing for a few more minutes. Arturo came over.
“If you want ride Florenzio’s horse, is OK.”
I thought about it. “Maybe,” I said. “Let’s see how it goes.”
Then I stood up. I felt… better. Not over the hump, not strong, but better. The wack inner monologue a little quieter.
“Let’s go,” Arturo said.
For the next leg, rather than go ahead of us, Florenzio and Co. trekked with us. Perhaps Arturo had instructed them to, for my sake. A drizzle began, followed by rain. We put on ponchos and soldiered on. I suddenly had the urge to shit.
“I gotta take a shit,” I said.
“That’s great!” you said. “Your GI system is starting back up. That’s good.”
I went to a secluded spot, did my thing, covered it all with a rock, and returned, feeling better.
“What took you so long?” you said.
“Took a while to find a big enough rock to cover my shit.”
You and Arturo laughed and we headed on. I looked at Florenzio and his horse and realized I was not going to ask for a ride.
We talked at this point. More family stuff. I think you wanted to keep me talking, to distract me from my delusions, which were, in fact, fading.
It rained on, and we headed steadily up Abra Mojon. (I still have a Xerox of our “Vilcabamba to Machu Picchu Trek” map.) Something about the rain was actually pleasant, calming. Maybe the steady, percussive sound on the plastic poncho, Mother Nature’s fingertips, maybe the barometric pressure… I don’t know.
I had to shit again, which brought much mirth to all.
Florenzio and Co. broke away from us, to go make camp in a valley as we headed higher. We did not speak much. The rain stopped, and we walked into clouds. We ascended past the tree line, a stark demarcation below us. We were above the rain. A solitary black cow far below watched us.
“Puma!” you said.
“No. Is cow.”
Finally we reached the top, a peak surrounded by clouds, other peaks around us – Veronica, Salkantay and Hauyna Picchu. A light, cool breeze greeted us, scrubby moss on the ground. Absolutely no sign of humankind. Peace. As high and as far off the grid as I’ve ever been. You too, I imagine. You hugged me and laughed.
“I told you!” You said, panting, grinning wide. “I told you you could do it!”
I shook Arturo’s hand, clasped his shoulder. He was all smiles. Not tired. (Perhaps relieved I was no longer crazy.) He looked out over the peaks and told us a glacier was behind one of the clouds. We could see the edges. Even he seemed moved by the profound peace of the place, which was nothing new to him. I plopped on a rock, my t-shirt drenched, despite the cool and the altitude.
I put my head between my knees. I’d suddenly adjusted.
I was OK. Physically exhausted, but my head was clearing. The vice around my chest loosened. You said, “Hey!”
I looked up and you took my picture. “Happy Birthday, Bay-brah!” you said, using the term Duane Allman used for his baby brother, Gregg.
We took more pictures. Arturo took one of us both, smiling big, arms around each other. It is my favorite photo of us.
I walked off by myself in the direction of the glacier, deeply enjoying the luxury of steady breath. After having been in Peru four days, my respiration was finally slowing. Scientifically and physiologically speaking, this was the place where it should have been hardest to breathe. The opposite was true.
Once by myself, I felt a presence.
I continue to wrestle with this experience. It’s very difficult to put into words, and I never quite get it right.
Something sentient was there. It was indifferent to me, but it knew my presence. I – or at least, my ego – was a guest, not of this place, not of this sentience. While at the same time, part of me – my soul? – felt very much at home there, connected to something expansive, reluctant to leave. My thoughts, memories, experiences, stories, my body, were all apart from whatever element of me was connected to what was there. Even now, as I write, my heart, the pit of my chest, expands. I can only describe this as joy. But it wasn’t dancing-in-the-streets stuff. It was deep, interior.
I did not think to photograph these moments, but even if I had, no camera could have caught what I experienced.
For months after we returned, talk about this episode would make me weep. And every time I tried to explain – even now – I would feel inadequate, like I was trying to put music into words, or trying to make a sculpture of the way something tastes.
Is this presence always there, everywhere, and I just can’t discern it because of the noise of life, and it took me being literally hollowed out, and taken far away from all my stories, far from humankind and technology, to feel it?
Or was it all just physiological? Synapses firing, proteins rushing, a dance of dopamine and serotonin, an inherited unquiet mind? Maybe. But I think not.
Whatever it was, I didn’t want to talk about it. (This is not like me.) I just filed it away and joined you and Arturo for a while. We kept our eyes on the spot where the glacier was, but the clouds never moved. Finally, we said goodbye to the mountaintop and headed downward, to camp.
I said something about how I now understood even deeper how people devote their lives to conservation of Nature, people like Greenpeace, environmental activists. I get it. Arturo nodded and said the glacier behind the clouds had been shrinking for years. As depressing as that was to hear, it did not kill my buzz. For some time, I would be completely in the present.
You asked Arturo if he was Catholic. To our surprise, he said no. He said this was his church, which of course we both nodded and agreed on. I asked him what religions besides Catholicism were common in Peru, and again to my surprise, he said the most popular was Mormonism.
When we arrived a mile or so down the mountain, Florenzio and Co. had set up everything. A meal was waiting. I waved it off and went into the tent, took off my pack. I tried to open it to get something out, but my fingers were tired and wouldn’t respond. The sense of all-over fatigue was overwhelming, but not unpleasant. On the contrary, I laughed. Once again, I crashed while you remained outside, talking to the crew in the dusk.
I slept well into the next morning. I awoke happy. And hungry. In every subsequent photo of our trek, I look like a child.
Beautiful writing.
Awesome writing, Robert!