In “The Valley of the Moon” outside San Pedro de Atacama in northern Chile not far from the Bolivian border, we gawk like strangers in a strange land, which we are, and have been since we left Vermont a month ago, marveling at as inhospitable an earthbound landscape as we’ve ever seen, coming alive with color as the sun makes its way toward the horizon. It’s one more “We’ve never seen anything like this” moment in a month-long odyssey that’s covered so much geographical area we’ve literally spent days in the air, on boats, buses and vans just getting to the far-flung places that make this part of the world so rich in wonder but short on easy access.
As we hike up a long, sandy incline under a blistering sun, we round a curve and encounter everyone else doing the same thing in an Instagram bottleneck that impedes progress while mostly millennials, tongues lolling out and fingers twisted arthritically, record for posterity each step they take on the road to a kind of stardom, which I don’t fully comprehend. Research finds 40% of their generation without religious affiliation, terming them “nones,” so it appears their tech-enhanced search for meaning can comfortably begin and end with them.
Having accepted fame as a version of their personal savior, I begin wondering whether they’re just like us or some alien species, having missed their mom’s lecture about exaggerating your own importance. It’s more likely me though. Growing up, my idols were famous for something other than being famous, and I’ve not transitioned so easily into the world where a selfie stick is a ticket to perceived immortality.
But the trail is too narrow in many places to pass without risking a tumble. My eyes are filling with wind-driven sand and burning sweat as several steps ahead, a young couple appears to be taking a series of wedding photographs. Helene accurately reads where I’m headed and shakes her head, quietly mouthing the word “no,” like I’m a bad dog. I heel. We eventually move on peacefully.
With the air temperature only in the 70s, I wonder why it feels as if my skin is about to blister and slide off, like the cheese on a perfectly done slice of pizza. The first thing I learn is, I may have been better off not knowing. It seems the Atacama Desert gets more sun than anywhere else on the planet, absorbing as much solar radiation as Venus, which, at 28% closer to the sun, has a surface temperature of 867°F.
The oldest desert on Earth spans some 40,000 square miles, mainly in northern Chile but encompassing areas of Peru, Bolivia and Argentina as well. It is also the driest, with an annual rainfall of 0.76 millimeters — about the height of a flea egg. With an average elevation of 13,000 feet and frequently cloudless skies, the Atacama atmosphere contains very little ozone and, coupled with proximity to the Tropic of Capricorn and other meteorological phenomena, has the highest levels of UV radiation on Earth, with a hefty reading of 11 or 12, considered extreme. Vermont is on the other end of the UV spectrum with average November numbers around 2.
A day later, as we walk the 2-mile round trip to a series of Altiplano lakes, the outbound leg is imperceptibly downhill, a perfect setup to fully appreciate the impact 14,000 feet can have on a body thoroughly acclimated to the cushy embrace of the Green Mountain foothills. At first, it’s almost silly, gasping for breath as though surfacing from an underwater swim. But it doesn’t stop and after 100 yards, you’re nothing but sensation, acutely aware of your burning lungs, pounding heartbeat, cramping legs and the bewildering revelation that the implacable sun and bitter wind can freakishly deliver too hot and too cold simultaneously.
Back in San Pedro — which at 10,300 feet is not exactly a coastal plain — I’m trying to decide whether I’m experiencing heat exhaustion or altitude sickness, which is confusing since they share a constellation of interchangeable symptoms — maybe a little of each? Hard to tell, the air is still thin, the sun incendiary, the wind relentless and the fine powder that is the Atacama itself, everywhere. Sleep comes hard with dreams of being exactly where I am but eerily more vivid and realistic than actually being here, which is surreal. I also think I’ll never want to eat again, which is fine. Water is enough, lots and lots of water.
Finally packing for home, the variety of clothing going into the bag serves a far better chronicle of where we’ve been and what we’ve done than either of our overloaded memories, which are having a difficult enough time distinguishing the here and now from things we’ve read or movies we’ve seen. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid supposedly roamed some of the same southern Argentina territory before sufficiently pissing off the Federales enough to seal their fate. Judging from the 1969 movie, they also had way nicer weather than we did.
Layers, gloves, rain gear and wool hats? It’s a stretch at first to recall ever having needed these things from this broiling perspective, but there were icebergs and glaciers before volcanoes and monolithic sand dunes; being pelted with sleet and snow weeks before being pelted by sand and grit; and being almost constantly surrounded by so, so vast an area of beautiful isolation, which isn’t necessarily everyone’s cup of tea, presenting ample opportunity to solve logistical problems in real time.
For example, we were notified by a local airline that our flight the next day would depart several hours earlier than scheduled. No problem other than the email didn’t mention they’d consolidated two flights and added a stop when none was on the original itinerary. We got off at the wrong airport, only realizing the error when the cab driver said our hotel was over six hours away. We managed to flip the switch quickly enough to get back on board to puzzled looks from the other passengers who evidently got the memo.
Yeah. We did that. It was a great trip.
Walt Amses lives in North Calais.
