Don't judge me

This isn't an actual blog post. I wish it was, but it isn't.

Instead, it is a pathetic "Dear Mom"-style play by play of our weekend. I'm hoping the pretty pictures will distract you from the painfully uninspired writing, but even I'm not convinced of it.

It's not that I have nothing to say, it's just that all of the interesting things I want to share are still jumbled up in my head, not ready yet to come out. The problem is that this past week has been the most enlightening and thought-provoking yet, and as a result, I have too much to share. Since I prefer to communicate in coherent sentences (most of the time), I want to get my thoughts together before I try to put them on paper (and by paper, I mean my computer, which has nothing to do with paper. See? This post is worthless.).

In the meantime, here's a little something for you to look at while you are procrastinating at work until I have collected my thoughts and created an actual post worthy of its name.

This past weekend (we are back to thinking in weeks and weekends after three months of not knowing what day it is. Bizarre.), V and I packed our backpacks with clothes, snacks and borrowed sleeping bags and went up into the mountains for a two-day overnight hike.

Seeing as neither of us are so hardcore that we would just take our packs and camp in the woods, we picked a trail that sloped up through a canyon to an isolated mountain refuge where we could have a meal and a bed. The hike was beautiful, leading us through dense forest that opened up to spectacular views of mountain peaks, Andean glaciers and the turquoise water of the river far below.
Behold, a whole bunch of pictures of me (see if you can figure out who is the photographer in our couple...):

At several points in the trail were these crazy swinging bridges, made from dilapidated wooden planks, many of which were broken completely, and suspended in the air by rusted cables. It was terrifying and hilarious, and we were both humming the Indiana Jones theme song under our breaths has we inched across.

Duh duhduh duuuh!

Duh duh duuuh!

The real highlight, though, was the refuge, run by Atilio, a semi-hermit who had lived up there- a three hour hike from the nearest road- all his life. The building is a small, fully independent log cabin, heated by a wood-burning stove and dimly lit by a generator. It defines simplicity and sustainability, yet remains cozy and comfortable.

As we approached the refuge, which is surrounded by forest and flanked by mountains on both sides, we were greeted by horses, roaming freely on the grounds, as well as cats and sheep. Behind this impressive gang of four-legged things was the little cottage, with a welcoming plume of smoking drifting up from the chimney.

Arg! I don't even like animals!

That evening, we feasted on homemade beer, sausage and bread, followed by the house pizza, which went perfectly with the bottle of Malbec that Vincent had lugged up the mountain in his pack. Between the beer and the wine, I barely even noticed later that night in the common sleeping loft when Vincent and the Argentine cowboy on the mattress next to me started what could only be described as a snoring contest.

The next morning, we awoke at the crack of 9:30 and after a hot breakfast, got back on the trail. We walked up a bit further to the beginning of the canyon before heading back down- six hours in all- to go home.

And the fact that I called it "home" begs another blog post, a real one this time, don't you think?

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