Four days and three nights in the heart of Peru’s mountains during the rainy season were nothing short of a trial by nature:
Trudging along paths slick with feces,
Enduring rain that drenched us for over 60% of the journey,
Leaving the cuffs of my pants and hiking boots perpetually caked in filth, never dry.
At altitudes above 4,000 meters, the rainy nights were bone-chillingly cold,
Waking me from sleep five times each night while camping under the stars.
The downhill trails, nothing but loose gravel, shredded both my ankles—raw, swollen, and nearly disabled by pain.
With every step of the final 5 kilometers, it felt as though needles pierced my very soul.
This grueling trail is known as Santa Cruz.
Stretching 57 kilometers through the Andes on Peru’s side, it averages an altitude of 4,000 meters, peaking at 4,750 meters.
Despite its proximity to the equator, snow-capped peaks crown the landscape,
And glaciers, alpine lakes, waterfalls, jungles, grasslands, and deserts paint a tapestry of breathtaking contrasts.
On the day I descended from the mountains,
Tears streamed down my face as “We Are the World” played softly in my ears.
In the vastness of nature, I realized how powerless I truly was.
I couldn’t conquer anything here; all I could do was whisper “thank you” when eagles soared overhead, glaciers glistened before me, or even humble cows and donkeys crossed my path.
I had nothing meaningful to offer this majestic world.
I wasn’t ready to give back, as the song so poignantly urged.
Instead, I took far too much—memories etched deeply into my being.
When I called my mother afterward,
I told her these struggles are just part of outdoor life, no big deal.
“I’ll be back,” I promised.
“Next time, I’ll tackle Huayhuash—it’s even more challenging.”
Reflecting on my penchant for seeking pain in travel,
I see a fierce battle raging within myself.
These moments of hardship ignite an intense sense of being alive.
Each time I emerge victorious, I feel reborn, stronger than before.
