Being tired after a hard days walk.

Views of distant peaks - their summits crowded with ice and snow.

Wind that cuts through fabric and finds its way down collars, sleeves, and under hats.

Yak bells singing with random musicality punctuated by calls from wranglers keeping them on course.

The cries of crows sometimes unseen in trees announcing our arrival sounding as if they are laughing at our struggle up steep hillsides.

Trees their branches bare of leaves revealing fractal patterns against blue skies and chocolate gray slopes.

Chotens strung with rainbows of prayer flags and draped with white and gold Kata hung like scarves to guard against the cold - offerings of flowers and fruit wilted in the hot sun.

The milk blue rivers far below rushing around boulders in rapids and pools edged with ice and snow, higher above streams escape in trickles beneath frozen waterfalls.

Lakes partially or wholly covered with ice – creating white swirling patterns that spin and drift guided by wind and sun.

Yaks grazing in golden fields their morning breath condensing into puffs of steam.

Rhododendron leaves curled down around their stems and bowed as if in prayer before the chilled air and the high peaks.

Vermilion leaves on thorny bushes stretching like little thirsty tongues for moisture - one last drink before the finality of winter's dormancy.

The sound of ice covered lakes like the cries of humpback whales or the sustained creaking of ceiling joists loosened by thermal expansion each succeeding sound proceeding in a wave around the lake’s circumference, echoing off the rocky slopes in a crescendo of ricochets almost as if inviting an answer to verify it has been heard.

Walking in the Shadow of the Shaman

Walking in the shadow of the shaman, Gitano, father of Milton, owner of the Tinqui hostel, and cowboy, riding the great Andean puna in Southern Peru.

Short and barrel-chested, wearing running shoes, gray pants, long sleeved shirt, a bright orange sweater wrapped around his shoulders, a tan wide-brimmed hat above a beaming face and constant Dahli Lama smile.

He leads a small horse behind me heading west up the slopes of Mount Ausangate. His shadow falls near my feet as I walk the rocky trail.

Last night in camp, he requested instructions from the mountain after pouring beer on the ground, an offering to the Pancha Mama, the earth mother.

Returning to the tent he placed coca leaves, corn, rocks, alpaca wool, and other assorted objects on a special cloth, an offering to the mountain in return for protection from harm and good weather.

We watched in the cool night and believed. Then following Gitano outside into the darkness where the offering was buried nearby in a hole dug where a large stone had been removed. And when the stone was replaced we each in turn hugged everyone in the group and the mountain looked down on us silhouetted against the Milky Way.

I did not know Gitano last night. He was only the shaman managing the interface between the earth, the mountain, and us. Dressed in a white robe and many-colored beaded hat. I imagined I was living a thousand years ago.

Now, today on the trail I realize Gitano is the shaman and where I walk in his shadow I am an Inca.

The strongest shape, the cylinder, hollow, rusted in the middle, the edges freshly scratched revealing the silver metal beneath. Between, the birth of the universe in the chaos of molecular oxygenation and physical trauma. Layer upon layer transparent to each other, contrasting and complimentary atomic forces unified into a tarnish scab.

I’d forgotten that I had requested it so when it arrived in the mail it surprised me. It looked like a jury summons until I opened the envelop and saw the huge capitalized words that read “NOTICE OF PERMANENT EXCUSE”. Then in the fine print below “This is confirmation of Permanent Excuse for reason of health or Permanent Removal of the decedent’s name from further contact by this office.” My father had died on 10 February 2005 and I received the notice sometime in December 2005 while I was traveling in Nepal. It was part of the pile of mail Leona had left on my desk. The title of this document struck me as both funny and startling. Typically people don’t like excuses but this was official; it was so nice that the Superior Court of Los Angeles was granting this excuse. I wondered what would happen if they hadn’t. The official notice also reminded me of how transitory life is and how important it was to live every moment to its fullest.

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My sister Debby is the center of attention today. It’s her birthday and she is three years old. My cousin Melissa is helping her open the presents as her little friends meandered around looking bored and distracted. Several have already filled their mouths with finger scoops of cake icing, stolen when my mom wasn't looking.
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Inside the box of my childhood in the corners where the shadows fall, I see the glowing ash and blue smoke of Granddaddy’s cigar and smell the heavy scent so strong it almost feels like something solid stuck inside my nose.
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The morning rain had scented the air with eucalyptus. The tall trees rose over the western end of the yard like giant green monsters. I understood these trees, and their special smell reminded me of Mentholatum Mom rubbed on my chest whenever I caught cold. A smell so sharp and strong I tasted it in the back of my throat. These trees were my friends. I had learned to climb them early and spent many hours in the embrace of their branches, swaying softly on limbs floating in the wind as leaves rustled or fell slowly to the ground.
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An ordinary day anyone would have guessed from looking. I sat beneath the large blue umbrella towering over the round yellow table near the pool. The solid mass of canvas shielded me from the burning white sunlight pouring down from the turquoise sky. The turquoise water sparkled with tiny diamonds on waves set bouncing by my two children splashing in the cool water. I read a large illustrated volume of War and Peace and looked up now and then to make sure everything was okay.