Another sunset from 37,000 ft.
Being in a good place in your head is the first step towards having a fulfilling experience in any place on earth.
I wasn't in a good place when I went to Peru last summer. I was working what was supposed to be a good job as a mudlogger -- a field geologist on an oil rig -- in the Powder River Basin of eastern Wyoming. On the
surface, it seemed like a great way to start a career -- it was well-paying,
offered a flexible schedule with blocks of time off rather than the standard
8-to-5 routine, and kept me reasonably close to the mountains. In reality, it
was a never-ending saga of being trapped for weeks on end in a cramped trailer
with at least five OSHA violations in the immediate vicinity, working 12-hour
shifts with no predictable time off, and slowly accepting the reality that the
optimistic promise of a 2 weeks on/2 weeks off schedule was never going to
happen. I was going to be stuck out there as long as I held that job.
Pretty sure storing flammable liquids and flammable compressed
gasses right next to each other is a really bad idea.
This was the first time in my adult life that I truly felt like I had no freedom. Every other job that I've had that I didn't like had an end in sight -- I would graduate from my MS program, and fire season would end with the first big rainstorm. I could have walked away at any time, but I kept telling myself that if I stuck it out just a little bit longer, I'd leave with that much more money. The country was in an oil boom and making $300/day without having to pay rent was a hard situation to walk away from.
I booked a plane ticket for a two-week trip to Peru in mid-July with the hopes of climbing some of the easier summits -- Pisco, Yanapaccha, Tocllaraju -- of the Cordillera Blanca. But my attempts were failed before they started. The complete and utter lack of freedom that had plagued me for the past six months left me in a state of anxiety, of feeling internal pressure to do everything right on this trip because I knew it would be a while before I had that kind of freedom again. And I ended up doing most things wrong.
A glacial river flowing out from the Ishinca Valley
Feeling trapped for so long heightened my sense of awareness to situations where other people were taking the lead on trip decisions. When the climber who I'd met up with via summitpost kept trying to make choices about what we'd climb and when we'd climb it, I took it far too personally, and from there it was a downward spiral. We were still a poorly matched team, but this made everything worse.
I wanted -- needed -- to do things my way. After my partner and I split up in the Quebrada Ishinca, I might not get the mountain I wanted, but at least I could do the trip how I wanted. I befriended some Canadian climbers and my two summit attempts on lower, safer peaks went well.
Tocllaraju from the slopes of Ishinca
When I went back to Huaraz, I wasn't sure what I should be doing. For one, I had a minor cold, and my lips were terribly sunburned, so I needed a couple days to recover. I stayed in the hostel for a couple days, rested, and explored Huaraz. I befriended a few other travelers, explored some ruins, and did a day hike to Laguna 69 below the rocky, glaciated slopes of Pisco. In the end, I spent so much time trying to figure out what I should do with the rest of my time in Peru that I never did anything overly interesting.
The brilliant turquoise waters of Laguna 69
And the whole time, I was dreading going back to the confines of that cold, dingy trailer on a grimy well pad in eastern Wyoming and long, lonely nights spent reading articles on Matador Network and dreaming about the day when I could finally be done forever but with no end in sight.
I took an overnight bus to Lima, intending to spend a few days exploring the tourist attractions there. I visited the catacombs at the Church of San Francisco, went to the ChocoMuseo, bought some gifts for people back home at the Indian markets, and did a really amazing (and delicious) food tour of the city. In a way, I suppose a part of me felt so removed and disconnected from whatever it means to be a normal human that I wanted to do things that normal humans do when they travel. Go to museums and restaurants. Walk out to the beach.
A church in the Barranco district of Lima
Peru wasn't the best travel experience I've ever had. It's a beautiful country, and I'll go back someday. And when I do, I'll be in the right place, for the right reasons.
