A Whisper in the Clouds

The rock is small, the size of a coin, simple, and aesthetically insignificant. Brown and grey with occasional specks of auburn, it is easy to dismiss, easy to forget.

But this is not just any rock. This is my offering to the great Earth goddess, Pachamama, and so far, it has traveled an impressive 21 km from its point of origin, Piscacucho, to where I now stand, Abra de Runcuracay, the second mountain pass along the Inca Trail in Peru.

I look out from my perch atop a grassy knoll so high above sea level that it counts the clouds as companions, and I clutch my offering a little tighter. The Andean mist is mesmerizing as it floods valleys and hugs hills, softening edges and muffling hues, occasionally cloaking entire mountains with mysterious, magical ease.

Two days earlier, I had carefully chosen a compact rock at my portly guide Rodolfo’s instruction, yet not once since embarking on the trail have I noticed the extra weight. While passing verdant rolling hills and ancient forests, climbing up and over awe-inspiring snowcapped peaks, and snaking in and out of mystical stone ruins, I have been consumed with only the majestic tranquility of the land. In fact, if not for the pesky periodic reminders of being a mere mortal—aching limbs, angry toes, intermittent gasps for oxygen in the thin air of the Andes – I might’ve forgotten myself completely in the presence of such beauty and wonder.

I nearly fall under the spell again, but then I spy the stacks of rocks surrounding me and remember the task at hand. I place my offering on top of a tiny tower of carefully arranged tributes with a striking view of two mirror-like mountain lakes. I close my eyes. “Sulpayki, Pachamama,” I whisper. Thank you, Mother Earth, for this day, for this journey, for the chance to walk in the clouds and touch a part of Heaven.

With a deep breath, I open my eyes and return to the path, finding solace in the knowledge that, though the rock will stay behind, its memory will soldier on.