Expedition: Pt. Three - The Last Lost Love of the Laguna

I woke up in a start, as the deep recesses of my mind vibrated in alarm. There was a rustling outside the tent, a slight and subtle sound of leaf and leaf, and though Jeff and Alex couldn't hear it deep in their slumber, I knew something was wrong with the sound. Could be robbers - but at 14,000 feet? Cougars, panthers, or jaguars? Rock slide? I remember moving my eyes from left to right and back again in vaudevillian excess, conveying fright as distinctly as possible for no apparent reason. A shadow appeared in the dawn light covering the tent and then - a tongue. And licking. And snorting.

I carefully unzipped the tent door to see a shaggy brown cow tear a twig off the nearest bush. We sat there, staring at each other as I munched breakfast.

The plan was nothing but ambitious: hike up and back to Lake 69, pack up camp, walk down the mountain, find a ride an hour back to Huaraz, catch a night bus to Lima, and be at work Monday morning - all in 18 hours. What could go wrong?

The trail out of the valley was steep and intimidating, creeping along a sheer rock face a thousand feet high. Miles of scrub, damp needles, and granite gave way to barren white rock jumbled by endless slides. And then, at first a reflection, the blue sliver of success. The path flattened, narrowed, then burst forth on top of a boulder. There it was: Lake 69, at ten in the morning.
Nothing seemed of much importance after that.

On the night bus back to Lima, sitting at the front with the low cinderblock homes of Huaraz fading into another dark cold trip south, I wondered what is the point of camping if not to be uncomfortable and unsure, even for just a minute.