A Walk on the Wild Side

The locals called the alien plants around us amigos. At night, when the frailejónes swayed in the breeze, hikers mistook them for friendly strangers. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them all around us, stubby or tall, with thick, furry trunks and flowering succulent leaves. They were resilient plants to thrive in the harsh environment of the páramo, where the high altitude brought unpredictable weather, bouts of dry sun and stinging cold.

To me, though, the amigos looked more like bitter enemies. I hated them and the tall, dry clumps of grass we stomped through, which prickled like needles and lodged spores in my leggings. Visitors came to the Páramo of Ocetá to see the extraordinary ecosystem, but I went on the hike on a whim--a whim I deeply, deeply regretted. We were 3600 meters up and I was not used to long jaunts in nature. I'd only ever worn my sneakers inside a New York City gym, and the soles were still white. Now, I had to contend with jagged rocks and scrambling over boulders with hands and feet. I took shallow breaths and climbed slowly. The wilderness was overwhelming, a sea of frailejónes fading into the foggy ridges of distant mountains.

When I wasn't berating myself for coming, I asked Luis, my guide, my limited set of get-to-know-you questions in Spanish. Luis fascinated me. He had long hair and a dreamy gaze, and painted complex, abstract portraits inspired by the lines in flowers and leaves. Once, he spotted a deer in the distance (apparently rare in Colombia), and gave chase with his camera, leaping over ridges of rocks with the ease of a deer himself. Another time he discovered that he lost the eagle feather he tucked in his hat brim, and for a long while after he walked with an endearing, droopy melancholy.

We started back when the sunset grazed the horizon. We took the dusty road back to small town Mongui, where the houses were low with rust colored roofs and forlorn donkeys flicked their ears at the sound of footsteps. We ate empanadas and clinked cervezas in a tiny shop. I felt my body, bruised and aching. I swore that I'd never go on another hike again.

(Months later, tired of suffocating small towns in Peru, I'd find salvation during a five-day trek through snowy cordilleras, and at the sight of a majestic peak and a lake that shone like glass, I'd understand divinity.)