Laguna de Iguaque

Above the lagoon it is difficult to hold the pen and write. You would be able to see in my journal the illegible writing if you were with me. I have climbed to a ridge at 3800m above the sacred center of creation for the Muisca Peoples – Laguna de Iguaque.  Now that I am here, the clouds are closing in and dispersing their water into the lake in great billows below me. I am alone and a headache is beginning to punch in my skull as an effect of the altitude. Aside from this minor discomfort, the presence of mind I feel here is enlightening.

After a three hour climb from an elevation of 2300m, one reaches the paramo. Above the lush cloud forest, this zone is home to flora that are hardy to the altitude. A bizarre array of plants and many beautiful flowers dominate, but their height seldom exceeds a meter or so.   Up here, it is completely silent, save for the unique calls of the Colombian birds which accompany the solo hiker.   I pause every so often to stare at the staggeringly beautiful paisaje, the panorama before me is breathtaking, and I feel a spiritual soundness as I ascend methodically in this fashion.

A bird calls and I try to pinpoint its location in the vegetation.  Suddenly a blue and red bird flies across the paramo. One I have not seen before. I will have to pick up a copy of  Birds of Colombia to identify it back in town. This place has a special energy and has been revered for millenia by the indigenous people as the cradle of humanity. The meaning of Iguaque is – you are never alone.  I feel the spirit of the place as I walk in the footsteps of the Muisca.  To travel alone in this way to the heights, a man can feel a peace within and recharge his body. That is certain.

Descending from the rim above the lagoon, rain fell hard and briefly. Once back down within the cloud forest I paused with fatigue, broken by the eight hour trek I had just made. As I hung my head, I heard a buzzing ahead of me. Looking up, a hummingbird hovered at 400 wing beats per second, beside a flower. Eyes shining, I got up and continued downwards.

El Placer

Dusk is falling as I settle in to my lodgings. Once again a fair hand is shepherding me. Tomorrow I will push for higher heights.

Below, a thousand phantoms fill the land. They appear as lights which twinkle in dense and sparse clusters in the landscape below.

I asked the family how high we were. They shrugged and said the Termales are 2300m. By my reckoning, having climbed for over two hours beyond the termales we must be at some 2700m. But I couldn’t say for sure.

 

El Placer

 

Up here cloud fills the air and vegetation is plentiful yet concentrated in the ravines where it is dense and clings to the steep walls. Here is pastureland for the most part.  As the road winds up above the cloudline to an elevation of some 3000m the feeling of remoteness enters me and I shake off any fears before they enter my mind. The trail passed down through a gorge where a stream thundered down from the mountains hidden from view by the dense foliage. Something primal and spiritual stirred me and for a minute I shuddered. Something was near by. I reminded myself to have no fear and pressed on.  Reassuring myself that men are capable or more cold violence than nature. If one passes respectfully through wild places, then they are welcomed.

Just around the bend a homestead appeared. Tethered to posts, several brown and white calves fed from the lush grass. A beautiful wooden construction with wide glass windows overlooked the sea of clouds banded across the distant mountains. Pink sky in the west. Sundown.

Walking up to the farm two large alsatian dogs sprung up snarling. Calmly I approached them and they sniffed at me  guardedly. The moisture from the plants I had brushed against on the trail seemed to appease them and I walked over to the farmer who was sealing a leaky pipe by the washing station with a strip of cut rubber.

“Buneas Tardes Senor.  Soy de Ingeterre. mucho Gusto” “Es possible dormir aqui?”   I beckoned in broken Spanish.

Softly the farmer greeted me, but shook his head with a smile at my request. It seems that passing pilgrims at the Nevados had only earlier asked the same question and he was obliged to say no to all, for want of freeing his land.

A young woman came to the door of his lodging  and a young scamp too. A true mountain boy with cheeks as red as rubies. The littleun ran back into the house in his longjohns and wellies.

I respectfully bid them farewell and walk back up the track past the tethered cows, then the farmer shouts to me. He has changed his mind. I am in luck as night is closing in fast.   I walk down the track and he flings open the doors to a beautifully crafted wooden outpost. Above the door a sign says ‘EL PLACER’   -  The Place.

 

 

Indigenous Wounaan, Pacific Coast

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