Qhapaq Ñan

I left before sunrise because everyone told me the next section of road would take longer than it looked. They were right. From across the valley I had seen a thin line running along the mountain and thought I understood where I was going. Once I was standing on it, the road climbed, turned, disappeared behind rock, descended toward water, and climbed again. Whoever built this path had understood this mountain far better than I did.

A traveler passed me later in the morning with two loaded llamas. He walked steadily without wasting energy, and for a while I followed at a distance. Eventually we reached a bridge stretched across a gorge. I stopped. He didn't. He adjusted one of the loads, stepped onto the bridge and continued toward the buildings on the other side. Watching him made the problem embarrassingly simple. The road continued. I was either going to walk it or remain where I was.

By afternoon my legs were tired and the place I had started was far behind me. Yet I kept noticing evidence that other people had solved this journey before I arrived: stones laid beneath my feet, stairs where the mountain became too steep, retaining walls, bridges, places to stop. The road did not make the mountains easy. It made movement through them possible.

Tonight I can see another section of road disappearing around the ridge. I don't know exactly what is beyond it. For once, I don't think I need to. I simply need to put one foot in front of the other and walk.