I floated down the mountains from Huaráz to the desert for a few nights in Lima before flying 1013 km (630 mi) northeast to Iquitos.  My buddy Rigel had married a girl from there, and they were returning to visit family for Thanksgiving.  I would be flying, as there are no roads to the largest Peruvian outpost on the Amazon River.

    I remember The Yellow Rose, a very gringo restaurant serving very gringo food, which this gringo appreciated.  We buzzed around town on mototaxis (3-wheeled vehicle/taxi), which seemed like mad street mosquitos.  The Amazon River looked like a huge lake, and I couldn’t reconcile it moving.  We attended the quinceañera (coming-of-age party for 15-year-old girls) of Rigel’s sister-in-law.

    Then it was back to Lima to check out the historic district, Basilica y Convento de San Francisco, the Parque de Exposiciones, and the Parque Reserva.  I met a buddy from Billings for lunch in Barranco, a hip little part of town.  Max was from there, grew up in Montana, then returned for a bit.  He confirmed a place for me to wild camp a few hours south, near some parasurfing place in Paracas, which offered a nature reserve south of town that was barren, dramatic, and gorgeous - filled with sand, scrub, rocky cliffs, turquoise water and waves.  Desert dissolving into ocean is something to behold.

    I continued through the desert to Huacachina, a proper oasis, where I took an insane dunebuggy tour and fell in love.  The light poured in, filled fissures, caressed contours.  It was honestly almost too much – some of the most sensual surroundings I had ever seen.  My heart beat so fast.  We only had so much time.  Tick tock.  Tick tock.  I felt at home, as if I could spend the rest of my days taking pictures of her – always naked.  She was constantly changing – the shapes, the shadows, the light. We would dance.  I would never die of thirst.  My camera froze her writhing.

    I booked a flight and viewed the Nazca Lines.  The figures were one thing, but the straight lines extending for kilometers atop a flattened mountain – surrounded by the otherwise rocky hills rising off the desert floor – was quite another.

    I spent five nights in Cusco, a city as lovely at night as it is impressive during the day.  I hopped a train to the last of my 16 ruins.  I will never understand how they built such a place in such a place.

    I took a local tour guide’s advice regarding a 12-colored mountain a few hours south, taking the turn off after Checacupe around 4pm, knowing full well I wouldn’t make it to the park/entrance gate any time before closing.  Such a strange sensation  to simply press on and know I'd land somewhere safe.

    5-10 km further down, a guy says it's 15 km more.  Gorgeous fading light filled the hills, valleys, nooks, and crannies, begged for pictures, slowing me down even more.  Green grass and red dirt and rock bathed in the last golden gasp of the day.

    I stopped a fella about 10-15 km down the road. It was Daniel, who turned out to be the president of the district. We chatted for 5-10 minutes. I told him my quest and he wrote me a note that read, “We have a visitor.  He needs to find a decent place to camp.  Tomorrow he’ll continue on his journey.”  It was meant for Demetrio, who I found 10-15 minutes down the road.  He was the 25-year-old President of Tourism of the area.  He offered me parking next to their house, so I backed up and across the pasture, nestling the van near one of their rock walls.

    His father, Fausto, invited me into their house – small, dark, and made of clay – and I sat on one of their beds.  We drank mate (in the Peruvian highlands - a thick, sweet, corn tea) and chatted.

    Demetrio was the only one of the family to continue school, graduating from college in nearby Sicuani.

    It was a dark, hazy, sublime experience, my second strong embrace by its people, after the fellas in Huaráz for the World Cup qualifier.
    
    I awoke the next morning in a sea of green surrounded by dark red clay and rock and alpaca. The morning light was cold and blue and rich.  I woke up in Peruvian Andes heaven.
    
    Demetrio invited me to the kitchen/dining house, where his father and mother, Inocencia joined us.  It was small and simple and warm.  The men sat on stools, while Inocencia squatted on the ground.

    We ate choclos (large-kernel corn from the Andes).  They were warm and plain and dry and delicious.  I ate handfuls of them, thinking that was it, with a high elevation hike in the near future.  To my delight, there was more – some sort of soup with meat and potatoes.

    Inocencia knew no Castellano (“Spanish” in the U.S.), so ours was mostly hand gestures, smiles, nodding, and laughing.  We understood each other without understanding anything.  I reckon good intentions, free spirit, kindness, and acceptance need no translation.

    Demetrio and I piled into the van and headed out around 6:30am, continuing the slow ascent of the bumpy red clay road.  We were the only car in the parking lot when we arrived.

    We spent the next three hours climbing, looking, and resting around 5000 m (16,000 ft).  Demetrio was patient with me as I stopped for shot after shot. I would be sharing these images with him in exchange for his time and guiding.

    It was an absolutely gorgeous spot, this Bosque de Piedras, Montaña de 12 Colores.  Rock formations erupted from the ground, colors painted hillsides, and landscapes stretched forever.  And, yet again, the destination was no better than the journey.

    I dropped Demetrio off back at home.  He immediately went to work on the road near the entrance gate, and I reset the van for travel and headed back down the mountain.  As slowly as I could.