Well, this isn't exactly a journal, but technically it is a blog entry. This is a story that I was assigned to write for my English class, and I kind of stole some ideas from Daniels surfing trip in Chile, and incorporated some of my own ideas. Don't feel obligated to read this or anything, its kind of long, but I just thought I would put it out there...
Micah Bruce
Dr. Kaye-Skinner
English 151 Sec 065
September 22, 2005
The Andes Mountains
I don’t think that I’ve ever experienced such cold. It’s the kind of cold that takes your breath away and might even crack your teeth if you’re not careful. It has been a week and a day now, here in the Andes, but it seems like forever. I don’t know how I got talked into this excursion, but I guess deep down inside I am enjoying it despite the frigid weather. My older brother, Daniel, is the adventurous type (obviously, since we are in the Andes), and he loves traveling and seeing the world. He thought that it would be a great idea to head to the Andes this winter break to snowboard some un-chartered slopes, but the problem was that he couldn’t go alone. So after quite a debate, I decided to be his ‘boarding buddy.’ He made it sound like such a good idea.
It’s day eight in the mountains and I am literally freezing. The mummy bags that the two of us brought are supposed to keep us warm up to (or down to, I guess) -50 degrees. Apparently not. My toes, fingers, and butt are far past being numb and may as well be non-existent. Every morning we have woken up to the howling chill of the mountain wind, which I’m surprised hasn’t blown us off. And every morning I stay in my thin mummy bag for as long as I can before my exhausted body is lured out by Daniel’s coffee brew. Its wonderful aroma somehow always manages to make its way through the tent and into my nostrils despite the intense wind. When I finally make my way out of our tent, we eat our breakfast, which consists of coffee, some rock-hard peanut butter Powerbars, and a few frozen grapes. I don’t ever have much of an appetite in the morning, but I know that I better eat something.
After our sparse breakfast, it is time for the real fun, snowboarding. Man, is the boarding awesome; we are the only ones out on the mountain, in contrast to the bustle of American resorts. Carving inside and outside of trees, spraying fresh powder behind my wake is an amazing feeling. Feeling the icy mountain scrape against the metal rim of the board and hearing the crackle of rocks as I pass over them is a rare solitude. The chilly wind bites at my naked cheeks and under my goggles, a painful, yet somehow comforting nuance.
Sometimes the incredible view is even better than the boarding… sparkling jagged rocks, and deep green spruce trees frosted with fresh powder framed by magnificent puffy clouds on a blue background. Every once in a while we can hear a mountain lion roar, or an eagle squawk, and perhaps in the distance a gentle thunder of a small avalanche. We try to take our time down the slopes, as to soak in all of the glory of God’s creation. It makes me kind of sad, really, thinking about how beautiful nature everywhere is ruined by modern civilization. All of this magnificent artwork of God destroyed by human advancement.
After we finish our morning session, we toss our boards on our backpacks and head back to a town about a mile away where we catch lunch. Bucalemu is an extremely tiny town of barely one hundred people, but one hundred quality people. The second you step foot on the gravel road through town, you feel right at home. The town consists of a modest row of thatched roof houses, and looks like a small community from a hundred years ago. There’s usually someone outside of their home waiting to greet you. That’s one thing I think that every American realizes as they travel, that other countries and their cultures are so much more friendly and hospitable. It’s kind of depressing to think about how callused our society is, coldhearted people walking the city streets with their heads down. All throughout American grade schools, it is taught to never talk to, open the door for, or ride in a car with a stranger. But in Bucalemu, if you treat a stranger poorly, you are considered to be an outcast. It is such an amazing contrast in cultures and societies throughout the world.
The place we have been eating at the past few days would hardly be called a restaurant. It is a small house owned by a single man, Francesco, who is possibly the kindest man we’ll ever meet. The restaurant is basically his small house kitchen and a few tables in his dining room. It is filled with a warm aura, with much history and tradition that is so common in Bucalemu. The meals we have here reflect the feel and atmosphere of the town, hearty meat, large portions, and of course, great company. Francesco loves company more than anything, so we have to beg him to be able to pay him and even then it’s a bargained price. “In Bucalemu we may have tiny houses, but we have very big hearts,” he says with a proud grin on his face.
During our first day eating there, we talked with Francesco for quite some time, sipping on his famous vanilla bean coffee. We talked about everything, and it was then that we discovered that Francesco owned a snowmobile that he took up to the mountains every now and then. When he mentioned that he had one, he could tell that Daniel and I liked that fact, so he quickly invited us on a ride. He ended up giving us a ride all the way up to the top of the mountain, which was about an hour trip. Upon arriving, Francesco persistently asked us if we would stay at his place during the night. We told him that we like the outdoors and that it was all part of the experience, and he understood. We couldn’t stop thanking him, and of course we paid him for gas and troubles. He reluctantly accepted our payment, and with a grin, he was off. We could hear his tin-can engine all the way down the mountain; the cliffs made a perfect natural amplifier.
We have been repeating our pattern for days now. Wake up, snowboard down the mountain, eat at Francesco’s, ride back up on his snowmobile, and then hike to a new campsite. However, this would be our last ride on Francesco’s mechanical steed. Daniel and I decided to move along to a new area of the mountains, some un-chartered terrain. If the trip ended now I wouldn’t be too disappointed. My experience thus far has been unforgettable, but there is also the curious side of me that wants to know just what is on the other side of the mountain. We’re not really sure what there will be, but we know that we will manage. Francesco was kind enough to pack us some spare rice and meat, so food will not be an issue for a few days at least. Water will also be close at hand, with snow and all.
After discussing what our next move should be, Daniel and I decided to call it quits for the day and to do all of our hiking in the morning. Turning in early was a much-needed break. This also gave us time to marvel at the sun setting in front of us. The rocks that the snow neglected to cover were painted pink and purple, and the snow looked like millions of diamonds strewn about the ground. As the sun gradually faded, peaks of mountains became faint silhouettes against the dark blue sky, and the first evening star bravely shone. Daniel and I sat and wondered for quite a time without saying a word; it was almost a surreal moment in time. The last traces of the mountains ceased, and the sky developed a vast amount of stars and constellations. With the darkness came the cold. It rudely interrupted our ‘moment’ and sent us back into our tent shivering. It’s kind of funny; you can almost smell the cold.
The sun rose above the mountains, and morning arrived. We awoke almost simultaneously, to begin packing up our things. There isn’t much. We each have our own backpacks, and we had a pretty good system going where Daniel carries the tent on his bag and I carry the cooking stuff on mine. The hard part about it is keeping snow out of everything, especially with our clumsy mittens on. It takes us about fifteen minutes to pack up, and after that we have our breakfast. Same old, same old, except there is no coffee this morning because we are in more of a hurry.
We journey for a good three hours, trudging in the deep snow that our wimpy American snowshoes fail to keep us above. Luckily, the wind isn’t as bad as it had been, especially since we are going through the pass. The winds up there can get pretty fierce. We walk as long as we can, but then we have to stop to rest and have lunch.
We open up the care package that Francesco had given us, and our spirits are instantly lifted. He had packed us his wonderful beef stew and famous chocolate crème delight. For just a moment as we eat, the thought of turning back to the other side of the mountain began to creep into our heads. But as quickly as the thought came, it was extinguished by the adventurous void in our hearts. Francesco was great, but the other side of the mountain held adventures anew.
After our thirty minutes of bliss, we start back on our trail. The crest of the hill we are working on is nearing, and we are getting quite antsy. We look at each other, we know what the other is thinking. We pick up our pace so that we can reach the peak and finally see the other view of the mountain.
At last we reach the top and set down our packs. My goggles are a bit foggy, so I remove them to get a better view. The wind was churning up the powdery snow, but it soon ceased. As the blanket of snow settled, it revealed quite a sight. It revealed a sight not of more mountains, or of a lake or river, but rather a sight of man’s civilization at its finest. Modern buildings and skyscrapers were creeping up the side of the mountains, and power lines were doing a dot-to-dot across the land and into the mountains. Smoke billowed out of large refineries and power plants, filling the crisp mountain air with thick black sludge. Our hearts dropped. How could anyone ruin such a place?
We stood there in silence for quite a while, still stunned by the city. The silence was eventually broken by Daniel saying, “Let’s go back.” It is such a simple, but comforting suggestion. So, with heavy packs, even heavier hearts, we head back down. The good news was that it was a downhill journey back to our old spot, so we strap on our boards and coast ‘home.’
I have almost a warm feeling as we turn the final corner to our campground. The same spot that we spent restless nights shivering in the chilly Andean air was now in a way our home. We unpack our familiar tent and sleeping bags and go right to bed. We aren’t disappointed with our findings today, but rather thankful for things being put into a real perspective. Not until we had experienced something different, but we were also able to fully appreciate Bucalemu and all it had to offer. Bucalemu, and all the people in it, really is a unique town. It is a town that somehow managed to keep its culture, even through all of these changing times. Sometimes it may take a mountain to stop the corruption of civilization, but there will still be these few special villages. I am deeply grieved that most people will not experience such love and kindness from their community.
Thanks for reading,
-Micah-
