The trail starts eight kilometers from town so my friend and I tried to rent motorcycles to get there. We were told we needed motorcycle licenses.
No, we said, you don’t understand. There’s only one driver’s license in the U.S., this is it.
They weren’t convinced.
We did the next best thing, rented two bikes, and set off around lunch. Getting there was one long, extended climb. The seat on my bike was broken, but the road was too steep to sit down and pedal anyways. The altitude left my friend dizzy and disoriented, and after a series of increasingly long breaks he decided to cut his losses and turn back. I grabbed my book and a bottle of water from his backpack and he went off. I was on my own.
The rest of the climb was long and hard and the day was hot. The lack of oxygen didn't help. Several people on motorcycles passed me. They seemed like they were enjoying the hill-- smug bastards. Eventually I got to the river. I hid my bike in some reeds on the far shore and headed off on what seemed to be the path. It wound past some shanties and as I came around a corner I startled a donkey that was lying in the sun. He struggled to his feet when he saw me and neighed. I asked him if I was on the right path but he just swatted at a fly with his tail. I went on but I had to cross back and forth over the river often and the going was slow.
I found four tiny goats on my path and realized it was much easier following them—- they chose better routes than I ever could-- but then they decided they didn’t like being followed and started to run. I jogged after them for a long time and made good progress but alas, I am no goat and eventually they lost me. An hour or so later I came across a guide with two serious looking German tourists. He said that yes, I was on the right path but I shouldn’t go much further because there was more climbing and the rocks were slippery and dangerous. As I went around a boulder and passed them he just shrugged his shoulders.
The river wound up into a canyon and there was a series of successive pools and cascades. If you climbed a cascade you got to the next pool. The rocks were wet and high but it was fun and exciting. For the most part, I was able to shimmy and climb along the edges of the pools or the cliffs around them but the second to last pool was huge and its smooth walls went straight up on all sides: there was nothing to do but swim. I took off my clothes and shoes and put a foot in the water. It was absolutely freezing-- there is not much sunlight that far back into the canyon. I stood on the shore for a while debating what to do. I told myself that I had to do it. I told myself I didn't want to do it. Then I jumped in and under.
The cold hit my nervous system like an electric shock. I couldn’t control my limbs and jerked my way to the far shore with a spastic sort of doggy paddle. It took me a long time to pull myself out of the water and onto a large flat rock-- I couldn't get my arms to do what I what wanted them to. I also couldn’t breathe. My chest strained for air and I lay back on the cool stone, unable to do anything but wheeze. Soon my gasps became breaths and from where I lay I looked upside down at the sixty foot waterfall crashing down beside me. The mist from it filled the air. I felt cold and very alive; it seemed like I must have been the only person to have ever been there before.
After a long time I swam back, dressed, and left.
Going down was horrible. The wet rocks were slick and you couldn’t see where you had to step. Skirting around the edge of one of the shallower pools my book fell out of my pocket and tumbled down the side of the rocks towards the water. For a moment it seemed like it would stop on a precipice right before the pool-- then it fell in. In the name of literature, and overpriced English books in this country, I jumped in after it and banged my knee on a rock that was hidden under the water. The book floated out of my reach and I had to wade downstream after it. So much for staying dry; Philip Roth, you owe me.
Book in hand, I took off my soaked shirt and wrapped it around my head. I went on a while more and came to a mud slick I didn’t remember from the way up. There was no other way down. I went slowly and tried to tiptoe through it carefully but my feet came out from under me and I landed on my back. I tried to stand up but only managed to twist over and flop onto my stomach. I slid down the rest of the way on my ass, got up, and went on. The mud dried and caked against my body. It felt awful. I was busy pitying myself when I stepped on a chunk of cactus and a spine went through my shoe and into my foot. I bent down to get it out and saw that my leg was covered in blood from where I had hit my knee in the water.
I missed my surefooted goat friends. I was also thirsty and out of water.
I went on as far as I could before I needed to rest. I got far enough out of the canyon to find sunlight and took off my shoes and lay down on a boulder. The water from my shirt ran down the hot rock onto my shoulders and felt good. I fell asleep quickly.
I woke to laughter. I put on my shoes, adjusted my turban, and walked another hundred feet downstream where I found two tall blond girls in their underwear splashing around in one of the pools. How long had I been asleep? Where were their clothes? Did they realize how good I looked covered in mud? I tried to speak to them but they had their backs turned and didn’t hear me over the cascade. I spoke louder and they startled. They covered their chests with crossed arms. I spoke again and waited for a response. I tried Spanish and English but they just stared at me. I realized that even though I was as close as I had even been to the grotto fantasy I hadn't even known I had, it just wasn't in the cards for the day. Dejected, I gave them a goodbye wave and walked the rest of the trail without event. I found my bike and pedaled home.
In retrospect, it's pretty clear they were mermaids.
Or French.
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