The whole wide world is out there.. Just waiting

Paracas Peru

Paracas Peru 

Lima Peru 

Hucachina Peru 

Black on Black HIghtop converse

I sat in the portal of my tent, my home, and began putting my shoes on. As i did so i tried to remember all the things that these shoes have come to know. These shoes have gone halfway across a continent; and they have watched some spectacular things.

These shoes have sat on many buses, looking out at the breathtaking beauty that is the Andes. They have slid along rocks in a crystal clear river in the jungle. They have gotten lost in the canopy; they have watched monkeys fly through the trees. These sneakers, they have known the western coastline at sunset and the fall of night in the desert. They have climbed to see glaciers and crawled under electric fences. They have felt the earth breath underneath them and they have met the spirit of wachuma. They have danced salsa with beautiful Peruvian men in a crowd full of people in celebration. They have watched fireworks explode over a sacred place and conversed about communism in a foreign language. They have touched disgusting floor, and been drenched in the hot rain of the tropics. They have seen the sun set on mountains of sand and listened as every noise in the dark echoed larger than life against the dunes. They have seen both good luck and bad. They have crossed mountains and picked coffee. They have hung inches from the floor as they rode across a beautiful wasteland on a tiny motorcycle. They have stayed on my feet through freezing cold and smoldering heat. My shoes have stories that they could tell you, they have many things to say. They have gotten lost, and found themselves in a place where the locals did not expect them. They have received gifts from strangers, simply to welcome them to Peru. My shoes, they have seen a woman without a home cry in thanks for less than four dollars. They have seen cows take over roads and horses escape from their stables. They have watched mist rise as the sun came up above Machu Picchu.  They have walked across a dirt floor, scattered with hundreds of guinea pigs and listened to a woman laugh and discuss her life and culture. They have watched the world turn as they conversed with Willie Nelson’s nephew. They have shaken with fear as a truck drove along the very edge of a mountain. 

My shoes have gotten dirty. They have been worn away in certain places, they have grown tired of walking and left blisters on my feet, but oh could they tell you a story. 

The Andes, they'll leave you breathless

"Whereas the beautiful is limited the sublime is limitless, so that the mind in the presence of the sublime, attempting to imagine what it cannot, has pain in the failure but pleasure in contemplating the immensity of the attempt" -Kant 

High above the world somewhere, headed towards the heavens

Things I try and remember

Quilatoa

It was cold. It was really fucking cold. I was wearing two long sleeve shirts, a wool sweater, two pairs of thermal long underwear and Jean overalls. I was wrapped in a sleeping bag equipped to deal with below zero weather. The earth beneath the tarp that created a floor in the makeshift shelter had become almost icy since the sun kissed it goodnight. The frozen dirt sent a shiver down my spine. I began to move to generate heat within my bag; the closest thing to a consistent bed that I own. It was around 4:30 A.M. And all I wanted was the sun to come up over the mountains and bring me some warmth.
Chilled to the bone and unable to sleep, an hour passed as I waited for the warmth I knew was nearby. Finally, the darkness beyond the walls of the tent began to soften and light started to sink into the shelter. I sat up, and pulled my arms out of the protection of my sleeping bag and reached all around me for my bag. My fingers found the wrappings of the tea and the clink of our small portable stove. I unzipped the tent and scrambled outside into the silent cold mountain air. In every visible direction I saw only green and brown peaks, cascading downward into a crater filled with dark aquamarine water. Mist grabbed at the peaks and cracks in the mountains and the sun began to rise and burn off the clouds far above the crater. The earth was still and the atmosphere was completely hushed, save for the small sound of a flame heating water. I closed my eyes and crossed my legs, sitting up straight and focusing on only my breath. I cleared my mind and enjoyed the cold freshness of that frigid and spectacular morning. The water boiled and I drank the hot tea quickly, finally bringing some relief to my frozen skeleton. The light from beyond the mountains grew stronger and the air began to grow warmer. I crawled back into the tent and finally found rest.
I awoke to a dog barking, somewhere nearby, and I felt the sensation one gets when they are trapped in a small and warm space. A feeling of both comfort and panic. The sun shone through the tent, heating the air within it, and I sat up and started removing layers of clothing that never seem to maintain the proper temperature. After a breakfast of ramen noodles and bitter black tea we headed down to the bank of the lake. We stepped into a kayak and paddled our way into the center of the lake. At the center we stopped and drank in the tranquil scenery around us. Our hands froze to ice as we sat upon the ancient crater enjoying the beauty of our worlds nature. Mist grew thick in the distance over the peaks to our left and the green landscape was reflected both in the stillness and in the color of the cold water.
Later, I sat upon a small horse, my paint covered overalls, green llama sweater and orange hippie headband screaming to all the locals that I am in fact a giant gringo. If that had not been enough, my large backpack was on my shoulders and my skin had turned red from the exaggerated Rays of the sun. we climbed and I looked around me as the altitude increased and the crater became the background as opposed to the main attraction. I felt cold, but it was the kind of cold that simply bites at your skin butt never really penetrates into your system. The world around me seemed spectacular, the sound of hooves on dirt and Kitchwah infused Spanish followed me as I rode along the winding incline, up to the small village of Quilatoa. We climbed into the mist, the temperature dropped and the water grew greener to my eyes. The fog was thick around me and the strides of the horse mandated my view. I was riding from the center of an ancient eruption into the heavens. The air was thin and the world seemed stained with bright white clouds. I rode up into the sky, headed toward god, and although I had not died, I had found peace.

The swing at the end of the world