Standing at the Feet of Giants

Standing at the Feet of Giants


An avid adventurer, I have explored four continents, scuba dived, sky dived, and reached 154 mph on a motorcycle. I've done many things, but the coolest would have to be standing at the foot of a Pacama Monk to experience high altitude physics at the mercy of the elements. Although it still feels as though I did this on some other planet, I have the GPS coordinates to prove otherwise.

I arrived at the Pacama Monks -- towering South American monoliths -- only after convincing my husband and my sixty-year old parents that they would have the times of their lives on a 17-day, 23,000 mile sprint across Chile, Argentina, and Peru -- the equivalent of crossing the United States eight times in just over two weeks. We took five flights in thirty hours, landing in Calama, Chile, where we rented a truck at the airport -- an old, red, four-door, four-wheel drive Chevy pickup with the wrong tire iron and a missing gas cap.

Apprehensively, we set off into the nothingness of the Atacama Desert in the early afternoon. Driving through this, the highest desert in the world, I was easily convinced that parts of it had never seen rain, as the guidebooks claimed. Two hours later, we arrived in San Pedro, a simple tourist town comprised of streets of dirt lined with houses of clay separated by walls of mud -- broken bottles had been embedded in the tops of some walls for added security. Running water was provided by holding tanks on the rooftops, the water pumped up by electricity, which was also in short supply. Fortunately, they had saved enough energy to power the internet cafes along the main strip and it was there that I had gone online to verify my Spanish II grade. I went to bed that first night reassured that I was adequately prepared for the adventures that lay ahead, even under such strange and unfamiliar constellations.

The next morning, we watched the sunrise at the local cemetery, ate traditional chocolate cake for breakfast, and set off to see the Monks. We ascended Licanbur, the inactive, volcanic backdrop of San Pedro, and I compared lines across four separate maps before confidently stating that we were on the right road. I had seen these monolithic giants on the internet -- some traveler's Chilean vacation pictures -- and had scrutinized their authenticity. Time and again, I had squinted at my monitor, contemplating the sheer scale of the pillars against the overly-blue sky, always suspecting that they must have been altered. Only Salvador Dali, I thought, could have constructed such distorted formations and, even then, only in a painting.

We drove past bouncing llamas and herders on horseback and I looked down on the valley, recognizing the tiny green speck of San Pedro and the white patches of the Salar de Atacama to the south. We came within six miles of Bolivia, climbing from 7,500 feet to 16,000 feet in a little over an hour. Our destination, though close, remained a mystery, obscured by high hills beyond the tundra and natural springs.

The nature of the land and sky -- even the physical properties, it seemed -- were different here. We stopped at a marsh where guanacos and ducks huddled by icy streams and I got out of the truck. Harshly greeted by 40 mph winds, I pushed forward, defiantly putting my foot down onto what looked like hard, rough salt. I was taken completely by surprise when it collapsed, squishy and foamy, like soft moss. We drove onward and encountered the most bizarre ice formations -- white spikes lined the shoulders of the road like thousands upon thousands of jutting lances clustered together, all identically-aligned and angled to the sky, which itself had become the deepest blue -- almost indigo -- and free of all moisture.

As we rounded the final curve, I looked down on our destination in awe. The Pacama Monks stood below us like ant hills, random lumps on an otherwise flat expanse. I had officially arrived in one of Salvador Dali's paintings! Perhaps it was passion, perhaps lack of oxygen, but I gasped for air and felt light-headed. I caught my breath as we descended into the valley a few hundred feet below and drove down faint dirt tracks between the towering pillars.

Searching the landscape, I looked from one twisted spire to the next until I found what I was looking for -- the very Monk that I had seen on that traveler's website. We approached and met it, head on, our truck now a Tonka by comparison. I stepped out of the cab and into surreal heaven, my face stretched, my hair parallel to the horizon in 60 mph winds. I clenched my hat as I walked, yelling words of disbelief in broken sentences that fell apart in the thin, dry, racing air.

Giving up on verbal communication, I followed my husband to the base of the Monk. We trod through the shifting sand, our skin painfully blasted. Though in excellent health, we both struggled to climb to the cove above us. We stopped to rest and I continued to watch my hair, still suspended sideways, with fascination.

The four of us took turns climbing the Monks, protectively squinting and posing for pictures. When we returned to the truck, exhausted, my mother immediately asked why, on Earth, we would have gone through so much trouble to get to this place where nothing could survive. We all laughed, knowing that this experience needed no explanation. We went on to visit salt flats and flamingos and, days later, glaciers, penguins, and Machu Picchu. Still, after reflecting on all my experiences, I believe that nothing can compare to standing at the feet of those Monks at the mercy of the unbelievable forces of nature. All hail the persistence of memory!