Running up and slipping down

This past Sunday afternoon in the Eye of the Water began quickly, with a plate of fried bread and a cup of sweet coffee at 6am. At around 6:20 I was hiking up a mountain that overlooks my pueblo on my way to a farm to harvest beans. I all but ran up the steep slope of the mountain as I was eager to catch a long glimpse of my pueblo from the summit. The family I was with walks slowly, as they know that after the summit there is an arduous 3 mile walk to the farm, which requires as much energy as the climbing of the mountain. I finally make it to the summit after 20 minutes, where I can rest my bones against the white concrete cross placed there by catholic missionaries many decades ago. After catching my breath, I lose my breath taking in the tremendous view. At this vantage point, my pueblo looks inferior to the immense natural landscape engulfing my vision. I see razor sharp mountain peaks, 500 foot stone monoliths etched out of large mountains by millenia of eroding wind and water, two rivers 15 to 30 meters wide winding their way from some unknown natural spring to the blue horizon, dense primary jungles, and the sky whose bluish hues stand in stark contrast to the lush tropical greens at the jagged ridgline. I can see the pacific ocean between the peaks in the distance. The town looks small, and it is, a scattering of tin roofs or palm leaf thatch roofs (penca) dot the mountain side. The school is by far the most imposing structure with its painted blue roof and acre of cleared land. I can see the white cross of the church and the mud/gravel road that winds past it. Some people are milling about, probably on their way to the farm. After about 10 minutes of solitude, my family winds the last turn on the trail and waves me onward.

We cross over the ridge and begin our descent to their farm. The trail is good at first, wide and lined with trees. To my left and to my right are beautiful farms of corn, rice, and yucca. We descend into a valley following a stream bed. The vegitation begins to suffocate the stream as the incline steepens and the water speeds up. At this point, I am walking slowly in my army hiking boots. Margret and Cancha, shoeless, are skipping and hopping ahead with ease and while talking. The rocks are indeed slippery and as I fall a riotus laughter erupts from the two women in front of me. Well, they end up laughing all the way to their farm, as I fall about every 4 to 5 steps into a creek bed. No injuries to my body, just to my ego. I think next time I will go shoeless.

We picked beans for about two hours then headed back town on the much wider and more traveled path.