Peru: The Ruin of Me

Traveled largely by mule-and-donkey caravans carrying firewood, potatoes and other crops, the route at first led past cattle pastures and low fields. Soon, though, it entered a steep canyon bordered by rock walls exploding with trees, vines and bromeliads.

As we climbed, the canyon grew more rugged and more beautiful. The river crashed over boulders in the narrow parts, and the wide sections gave way to soggy emerald fields. At one such point, where sheer limestone cliffs bounded a pasture that looked like a misplaced slice of Ireland, I stopped, stared and said to no one in particular, "I can't believe this place exists."

But it did, and the scenery was impressive enough to distract me from my leg cramps and the miserable condition of the trail, a brownish-green bog that seemed as if it might disappear entirely if someone doused it with antibiotics.

After plodding through such muck for seven hours, we climbed a rise above the river and crested onto a small mesa housing two rock-and-mud farmhouses, as well as a squealing pig.

This was Tajopampa.

That evening we cooked dinner on a tiny wood-burning stove and sat on the farmhouse's porch, listening to the frogs croaking in the mountains. The light was fading, the fog was drifting around us and a rain shower drummed on the tin roof. I told Sinecio that this was beautiful.

That was what all foreigners thought, he replied, that this was a wonderful place to think, to reflect on life. "Si," he added quietly. "A tremendous peace."

Sinecio's machete clanged against the brush somewhere ahead of me. It was my second morning on the trail, my legs felt like concrete blocks, and I'd already lost Sinecio in the vegetation.

I found him in a grassy clearing moments later, pointing across a gully to a 1,500-foot limestone cliff. These, he said, were the ruins of La Petaca. I followed his finger to the cliff and squinted.

About two-thirds of the way to the top, the cliff's ledges and crevices were festooned with stone mausoleums, each molded precisely into the contours of its niche. The cliff also had paintings, the most obvious being two large figures painted in red.

According to "Warriors of the Clouds," Keith Muscutt's classic account of his exploration of the region, the paintings depict trophy head-hunting. More specifically, the rays emanating from one of the figures represent blood spurting from a severed neck; the mass dangling from the other figure's arm is a human head.

After ogling this gruesome artwork, we tied our horse and climbed farther into the high grasslands, eventually cresting a hill and plunging back toward the river. Again, Sinecio pointed at the rock wall across the water, this time informing us that we'd arrived at Diablo Huasi -- the House of the Devil.