We huff and puff, growing stronger and more present the thinner the air becomes. We continue until the burning of my lungs weakens the rest of my body. I take a break, leveling my heart rate, and calming my flaring lungs. I feel a channel of energy flowing from the tough mountain earth through the soles of my hiking boots and into the valves of my heart, giving me a boost to continue. The wind, however, continues to whip, it slaps across my face and tugs my pant legs back, flaring them out on one side and bringing them flush with my legs on the other. My cheeks are pink, ever so slightly burnt from the unfamiliar southern hemisphere sun rays, and the harsh chill that comes from altitude. 

It was June of 2023, I was on the other side of the equator, nearly 4,000 miles away from my home in Maine.  5,000 feet higher than I had ever been, I was in the Peruvian Andes in the Urubamba mountain range. The environment was drastically different from anything I had experienced. I loved it. Instead of the frequent plump bushy trees found in Maine and the East Coast, the area was barren. The trees that stood were sporadic, tall, and thin, with only a smattering of leaves at the top. The air too was thin, leaving me gasping for just a little more oxygen with each breath. Each step I climbed required a conscious effort to step up, up, up. 

East Coast hiking was the extent of my experience. By age 11, I had fallen in love with hiking. I was drawn to the mountains because of their vastness and ability to make me feel small, like a speck of dust attempting to control its path of movement. In the mountains, one is utterly helpless to the elements. That notion was once scary but is now exhilarating to me. The mindset required on the mountain allows me to reset. The crisp air above the treeline has a way of flowing through me. With each sharp breath out I am able to release a burden. The altitude has a way of freeing me. 

Along with the difference in mountain landscape, the culture in Peru surrounding the mountains was drastically different. While on the East Coast, many love the mountains, in Peru, people show deliberate gratitude for them. The respect, spirituality, and awe for the mountains reflected by the native people opened my eyes to a whole different level of beauty. I was captivated. Everything from the winding roads leading down to the town square, stark against the mountainside, to the icy depths of the mountain lakes, enthralled me.

In a small courtyard where we were staying, I learned of a tradition that included the sacred coca leaf, and a lemon candy. I gently pinched the leaf between my pointer finger, middle finger, and thumb. I brought it two inches from my lips and softly blew four times, rotating my body towards North, East, South, and West. One exhalation per direction. The leaf and candy were then buried within the earth and laid to rest pointing towards the mountains. This was an ancient and sacred ritual meant to bless and pay your gratitude to the mountains. 

Several days later, high on a mountain pass, we repeated this ritual, only this time at nearly 16,000 ft. We paid our respects and demonstrated our awe of the mountain by giving an offering of sweet sugar. The mountain provided us with safety and some of the most stunning views I had ever experienced. 

Our trek had begun before the sun had risen. The towering glacier was only visible through the beacon of moonlight and the piercing twinkle of the stars. The covered peaks stretched into the sky, reaching for the glaring stars within the Milky Way, unburdened by light pollution. Their landscape held more secrets than I could imagine. The ground was hard underfoot and the air held a crispness that shot up my nostrils. As the sun began its path upward, the snow-topped glacier that loomed in front of us became illuminated by a soft yellow haze. I felt as though my head was on a loose swivel, attempting to take in everything my eye could capture. 

The higher we climbed, the smaller I felt, until I was no more than like a lone leaf attempting to drift with the wind. I loved that feeling of being so small and unimportant, I was utterly at the mercy of the mountain. I have always had this feeling around the mountains of the East Coast, however here it was amplified. Amplified in a peaceful way, I was not scared, instead, I felt tranquil.

Despite the high altitude, and the discomfort of exerting myself in such a way, I was truly happy. My legs ached with the continuous motion of up. My backpack straps dug into my shoulders and compressed my chest, making it difficult to get in a full breath. But I didn’t care. I felt my heart beat within my chest, thumping in my ears, through my fingers. I was living.   

Once I returned to the East Coast, I felt happy and refreshed. I noticed beauty in places I had never seen before. The mountains were so different here, less strikingly grand, yet I held a new appreciation for them, for their uniqueness and power. I loved the greenness of them, the density of the trees, and the complete change in perspective once above the treeline. I realized their power creates perspective. With each landscape discovered comes a new way to see the world. Whether the peak holds deep cultural bonds that begin deep in the sacred roots of the base, and reach up to the highest rock balanced on the summit, or the peak simply provides a safety net for both animals and people, they each carry a story. I have found the beauty and love that comes with the mountain landscape.