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The
views
are
spectacular:
a
chain
of
immense
peaks,
the
riverbed
twisting
between
hills
and
rocky
banks.
"What
more
could
one
ask
for?"
I
think.
"Hmm,
maybe
a
condor
hunting
for
food?"
And
when
I
lift
my
head
I
see
the
planet's
largest
carrion
bird
gliding
above.
Coincidence?
Ah,
a
little
luck
along
the
way.
The
condor
disappears
after
giving
us
a
phenomenal
show.
Our
moment
of
contemplation
is
over,
and
we
begin
walking
once
again.
A
group
of
hikers
passes
me,
and
among
them
are
three
climbers
armed
with
ropes
and
harnesses,
ready
to
take
on
the
violent
waterfall,
Sipia.
I
catch
up
with
the
climbers.
The
are
talking,
joking
and
laughing
as
they
remember
the
joker
that
told
them-quietly,
"so
that
no
one
else
would
find
out"-that
he
descended
at
night,
with
no
help,
with
no
light,
with
no
special
ropes
or
harness,
all
the
way
to
the
bottom
of
the
waterfall.
"He
should
have
been
our
instructor,
"
they
kid
as
they
double
back,
anxious
as
they
confront
the
walls
that
form
the
canyon
flanking
the
riverbed.
Ups,
downs,
rocky
paths.
Changing
trails,
mischievous,
unused.
The
sun
needles
us
with
its
hot
rays.
There
are
no
trees
to
offer
shade.
A
brief
rest.
I
dry
the
beads
of
sweat
accumulating
on
my
forehead
and
lower
my
gaze
to
the
ground;
then,
I
discover
the
thin
mark
of
a
bicycle
tire.
A
couple
of
questions
cross
my
mind:
Where
are
the
cyclists?
Are
they
here
already?
I
follow
the
trembling
trail
in
the
canyon's
dry
dirt.
My
questions
are
answered
when
I
find
them
a
few
minutes
later
relaxing
next
to
the
waterfall.
They
converse
while
enjoying
the
cool
spray
escaping
from
the
bellowing
waterfall.
Sipia
is
impressive.
The
drop
is
impetuous:
487
feet
of
natural,
raucous
fury.
Soon,
ropes
are
released.
The
roaring
waterfall
does
not
intimidate
the
climbers.
They
descend.
The
rock
walls
are
slippery
and
treacherous.
Movements
in
slow
motion,
controlled
risk.
Indescribable
experience.
We're
back
on
the
trail,
crossing
back
over
the
suspension
bridge
serving
as
the
boundary
between
the
unpaved
road
and
the
trail
proper.
We
recover
our
strength…where
shall
we
go?…Luicho's
baths?…hot
springs?
Warm
caresses
for
tired
muscles.
Relaxation
and
relief
after
more
than
two
hours
of
intense
hiking
(there
and
back).
New
plans
begin
to
develop:
someone
is
going
to
paraglide
off
Huyñao
peak,
and
in
the
afternoon
the
Cotahuasi
River
will
be
taken
with
paddles
and
inflatable
rafts.
One
hour
from
the
House
of
Depth
on
the
cusp
of
Huyñao
peak,
I
write
again
in
my
notebook,
to
record
thoughts,
mould
feelings,
taking
advantage
of
a
free
moment
while
waiting
for
the
glider
eagerly
searching
for
the
right
wind.
I
write:
Cotahuasi:
a
deep
cut
in
the
skin
of
the
planet,
a
wound
that
will
not
scar
due
to
a
millennium
of
stubborn
waters.
Cavity,
serpentine
riverbed,
bare
peaks
or
only
speckled
with
vegetation.
Land
of
adventure,
excitement
and
frightening
forces,
like
what
happened
to
the
poor
guy
that
fell
out
of
the
sky
just
like
a
bird
wounded
by
a
slingshot.
"What
a
hit
he
took,"
reminisces
a
field
worker
who
had
abandoned
his
farm
to
see
what
was
going
on
at
the
top
of
Huyñao
peak,
on
a
morning
of
scant
and
shaky
wind
on
which
someone
hoped
to
fly.
"The
wind
was
blowing
hard,
and
inflated
the
sail,
raised
it
up,"
said
the
farmer.
"But
then
it
stopped
whistling
just
as
the
guy
took
his
last
step
toward
the
abyss.
He
was
really
lucky
that
his
sail
got
caught
in
the
bushes."
With
his
skill
the
glider
Julio
Zuñiga
from
Arequipe
buries
any
doubts
about
the
hazardous
take
off
and
turns
them
into
mere
anecdotes
with
picturesque
details
ideal
for
reporters
to
color
their
writing.
His
maneuvers
are
clean
and
accurate,
and
they
confirm
the
opinion
of
Ismael
Ortiz
de
Zevallos,
an
experienced
son
of
the
Limeño
winds,
who
predicts
a
sky
full
of
para-gliders
and
hang
gliders
in
the
canyon
in
the
future.
Ortiz,
a
veteran
of
a
thousand
flights
and
perhaps
the
eldest
hang
glider
in
Peru
(more
than
60
years
old),
said
the
House
of
Depth
possesses
ideal
conditions
to
become
a
powerful
magnet
for
free-flight
enthusiasts
from
every
continent
due
to
its
spectacular
scenery
and
wonderful
thermals.
Abandoning
the
wings,
we
head
into
Alca
to
enjoy
some
rafting.
At
8,938
feet
above
sea
level,
this
small
town
with
ancient
houses
is
about
an
hour
outside
of
Cotahuasi.
According
to
its
inhabitants,
its
name
comes
from
the
Quechua
term
challca,
meaning
something
like
"primitive
men
who
do
not
allow
admission
to
strangers".
Continued
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