I turned to my left, and walked around the short, curving ice cliff toward the mysterious roar. As I rounded the cliff, I found myself standing at the base of an ice wall some fifteen feet high. A thick jet of water, fed by tons of melting snow, was spouting from the wall, through a large crevice about five feet from the ground. The water splashed at my feet, then flowed swiftly across the ice and gravel and down into the valley ahead. To the human eye, the slope of the land here seemed gentle, but it was steep enough to give the water great momentum, and I could see a point, just a few hundred yards in the distance, where the cascading snowmelt rapidly broadened into a forceful stream.
“This is the birth of a river,” I said to Roberto, when he’d reached me. “It will lead us out of here.” We hiked ahead, following the river, certain that it would lead us down through the highlands and eventually to some civilized place. Snow, rocks, and grimy chunks of ice passed beneath my feet as I lumbered along, then suddenly the snowline ended as abruptly as the edge of a carpet, and at last we found ourselves trekking on dry ground. But our walk was no easier here than it was in the snowfields, because the floodplain on either side of the stream was littered with huge boulders, many taller than our heads, and we had to weave our way through these big rocks, or scale them, and hop from the top of one wobbly rock to another. It took us hours to cross the boulder fields, but eventually the terrain settled down and we were walking again on a more manageable landscape of loose rocks and rubble. The river beside us grew broader and stronger with every mile, until its roar drowned out all other sounds. I walked, as always, in a trance state, living from one labored step until the next, and as the miles crept by, the only fact of my existence, of my universe, was the small patch of difficult ground that would provide a base for my next footfall.
We walked until sunset that day, and when we rested, Roberto showed me a rock he’d picked up along the way.
“I’m keeping this as a souvenir for Laura,” he said. Laura Surraco was Roberto’s fiancée.
“She must be worried about you,” I said.
“She is a wonderful girl. I miss her very much.”
“I envy you, Roberto,” I said. “I have never had a serious girlfriend. I’ve never been in love.”
“Really?” he laughed. “All those girls you chased with Panchito? None of them ever stole your heart?”
“I guess I never gave any of them the chance,” I said. “I have been thinking, somewhere out there is the girl I would marry. She’s walking around, living her life. Maybe sometimes she wonders about the man she might marry, where he is, what he’s doing right now. Would she ever guess he is in the mountains, trying to cross the Andes to get to her? If we don’t make it, I’ll never meet her. She’ll never know me. She’ll marry someone else, never guessing I ever existed.”
“Don’t worry,” said Roberto, “we’ll make it home and you will find someone. You’ll make someone happy.”
I smiled at Roberto’s kindness, but found no comfort in his words. I knew that somewhere in the ordinary world, the woman I would have married was living her life, moving toward the point in time when we might have met and my future would have begun. Now I knew that when she reached that point, I would not be there. She would never know me. Our children would never be born. We would never make a home, or grow old together. The mountains had stolen these things from me; that was reality and I had begun to accept it. But still, still, I longed for the very things I knew I would never have—the love of a wife, a family of my own, a reunion with my grandmother and older sister, and always the embrace of my father. My ordeal had simplified my mind and whittled me down very close to the essence of what I was, and now I saw that this longing, this love and affection for the very idea of my life, was a deeper part of me than hopelessness or fear or pain or hunger. It seemed to live on beyond all reason. I wondered how durable it was. How much longer would it survive? And if it finally faded, would that be the moment my body failed? Or would it persist to my last conscious moment? Would I die longing for the life I couldn’t have?
DECEMBER 19 WAS another fine day, the eighth perfect day in a row. We had hiked for several hours in the morning, and now, as I waited for Roberto to catch up with me, I examined the sole of my boot. It had torn out so many stitches that it flapped as I walked. I looked at the jagged rocks that littered the floor of the valley. I wonder, I thought, will my shoe fail first, or will I? We had left so many dangers behind us; we were no longer at risk of freezing to death, or of dying in a fall. It was a matter of simple endurance now, and of luck and time. We were walking ourselves to death, and hoping that we would stumble upon help before we used up all the life left in us.
Later that morning we spotted trees far ahead in the valley, and Roberto thought he saw something more.
“There,” he said, squinting at the horizon. “I think I see cows.”
My nearsightedness prevented me from seeing anything so far away, but I worried that Roberto, in his exhausted state, might be hallucinating. “It could be deer,” I said. “Let’s keep going.”
A few hours later, Roberto bent over and picked something off the ground. When he showed it to me, I saw it was a rusted soup can.
“People have been here,” he said.
I refused to let my hopes rise. “That could have been here for years,” I said. “Or maybe it fell from a plane.”
Roberto scowled and tossed the can away. “You stupid bastard,” he said, “airplane windows don’t open.” Later we found a horseshoe, and then some piles of dung that Roberto insisted had come from a cow.
“Do you want to explain how cow shit might have fallen from a plane?” he asked.
“Keep walking,” I said. “When we find a farmer, then I’ll get excited.”
As we trekked farther, we found more signs of human habitation: more cow droppings, horse dung, and tree stumps that still showed the marks of an ax. And finally, as we rounded a bend of the valley, we saw, a few hundred yards away, the small herd of cows Roberto had spotted that morning.
“I told you I saw cows,” Roberto said. “There must be a farmhouse or something very close.”
“But couldn’t these cows be left here to graze on their own?” I said. “It is so high and desolate here. It’s hard to believe anyone lives in a place like this.”
“The proof is in front of your eyes,” said Roberto. “We are saved. Tomorrow we will find the farmer who owns these cows.”
When we camped that evening, Roberto’s spirits were high, but I knew he could not stand many more hours in the mountains.
“My legs hurt so badly,” he said, “and I feel so weak. Sometimes it takes all my strength to lift my foot and place it in front of me.”
“Get some rest,” I told him. “Maybe tomorrow we will find help.”
THE NEXT MORNING was December 20, the ninth day of our trek. We started out early and found a good path beside the river. It had been worn smooth by cows or other grazing animals, and it was the first good footing we had felt on our journey. Roberto expected to find a peasant’s hut at any moment, but as hours passed and we saw no more signs of life, he tired quickly and I had to wait more often than usual for him to rest. Still, we made good progress along the path until, in late morning, we reached a point where a boulder as large as a two-story house had tumbled into the stream. The massive rock blocked our path completely.
“We have to climb this,” I said.
Roberto studied the rock, and saw a narrow ledge winding around the rock above the rushing waters of the river.
“I’ll go that way,” he said.
“It’s too dangerous,” I said. “One slip and you’re in the river. We have to go over the top.”
“I’m too weak to climb,” he said. “I’ll take my chances on the ledge.” He eased his way onto the ledge and around the rock until I lost sight of him, then I started climbing. When I came down the far side of the rock, there was no sign of Roberto, even though the route he’d chosen was much shorter th
an mine. I waited, impatiently at first, and then with concern. When he finally appeared, he was staggering, doubled over, and clutching his stomach. All the color was drained from his face, and his eyes were narrowed in pain.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“My gut is exploding,” he grumbled. “It’s diarrhea. Very bad. It hit while I was on the ledge”
“Can you walk?” I asked. “The path seems clear now.”
Roberto shook his head. “I can’t,” he muttered. “It hurts too much.”
He sank to the ground in misery. I was afraid that his sickness would drain the last of his energy, and I didn’t want to leave him here.
“Come on,” I said, “just a little farther—”
“No, please,” he begged, “let me rest.”
I looked to the horizon. A broad plateau rose in the distance. If we could scramble to the top of it, we would have a good vantage point to spot any huts or farms. “I’ll carry your pack,” I said, “but we have to keep moving. Let’s make it to the top of that plateau, then we’ll rest.”
Before Roberto could answer, I took his pack and set off on the path, giving him no choice but to follow. He fell behind quickly, but I kept my eye on him. He was hunched over, limping, in great discomfort and suffering with every step. “Don’t give up, Muscles,” I whispered to myself, and I knew that he wouldn’t. He was forcing himself forward now through stubbornness and the sheer power of his will. As I watched him, I knew I had been right in choosing him as my traveling companion.
We reached the base of the plateau by late afternoon, and helped each other up a steep path to the top, where we found ourselves looking down across a meadow of thick grass. There were trees and wildflowers and, to our left, the low stone walls of some mountain farmer’s corral. We were high above the gorge of the river now, and the land fell away steeply down to the banks of the stream. Another steep slope rose on the far side of the river, which was about thirty-five yards wide at this point and flowing with torrential force. Roberto could barely walk anymore, so I helped him across the meadow to a small cluster of trees where we decided to camp.
“You rest,” I said. “I’m going to explore a little. Maybe there’s a farmhouse somewhere near.”
Roberto nodded. He was very weak, and as he settled heavily on the soft turf, I knew he wouldn’t be going any farther with me. I didn’t want to think about what would happen if I had to leave him.
The afternoon was fading now, as I followed the winding path of the river gorge to see what lay ahead. I saw some cows grazing on the grassy slopes, and this raised my hopes, but after walking about three hundred yards, I saw exactly what I feared: another broad, swift river was flowing in from the left to join the river we had followed. We were cut off by the confluence of these two big streams. It didn’t seem possible that we could cross either one. Barring a miracle, we had come to the end of our trail.
When I returned to Roberto, I told him about the river, and about the animals I’d seen. We were both very hungry. What little meat we had was going bad in the warm temperatures, and for a while we considered trying to kill and butcher one of the cows, but Roberto pointed out that this would probably not incline the cow’s owner to help us. In any case, it was doubtful that we had the strength between us to catch and subdue such a large animal, and we quickly abandoned the idea. Darkness was beginning to fall now, and a chill was rising.
“I’m going to find some firewood,” I said, but when I had walked only a few yards across the meadow, I heard Roberto shout.
“Nando, I see a man!”
“What? What did you say?”
“There! Look! A man on a horse!”
Roberto was pointing at the slope on the far side of the river gorge. I squinted into the evening shadows.
“I can’t see anything.”
“Go! Run!” Roberto shouted. “Go down to the river!”
Blindly, I stumbled down the slope toward the stream with Roberto correcting my course as I ran—“Go right, no, I said right! No, too far! Go left!”
I zigzagged down the slope, following Roberto’s directions, but I saw no sign of a man on horseback. I turned to see Roberto staggering down the slope behind me.
“I swear I saw something,” he said.
“It’s dark over there,” I replied. “Maybe it was the shadow of a rock.” I took Roberto’s arm and helped him back up the hill to the campsite, when we heard, above the roar of the river, the unmistakable sound of a human voice. We whirled around, and this time I saw him, too, a rider on horseback. He was shouting to us, but the noise of the river drowned out most of what he said. Then he turned his horse and disappeared into the shadows.
“Did you hear him?” shouted Roberto. “What did he say?”
“I only heard one word,” I answered. “I heard him say mañana.”
“We are saved,” Roberto said.
I helped Roberto back up the slope to the campsite, then I built a fire and we lay down to sleep. For the first time since the crash, I felt real hope. I would live. I would see my father again, I was sure of it. Then my concern shifted to the ones we’d left behind. Obsessed with my own survival, I had barely thought of them since leaving the crash site nine days ago.
“I’m worried about the guys,” I told Roberto. “Roy and Coche were so weak. I hope there’s still time.”
“Don’t worry,” said Roberto. “When the man comes back tomorrow, we’ll make him understand there’s not a second to lose.”
The next morning, December 21, the tenth day of our journey, Roberto and I woke before dawn, and glanced across the river. Three men were sitting in the glow of a fire. I ran down the slope to the very lip of the gorge, then climbed down to the bank of the river. On the other side, one of the men, dressed in the work clothes of a hill-country peasant, did the same. I tried to shout, but the roar of the river drowned my words. I pointed to the sky, then I made gestures with my hand to indicate an airplane falling. The peasant just stared. I began running up and down the banks of the river, with my arms spread out like wings. The man turned away from me and shouted something to his friends. For a moment I panicked, thinking they would dismiss me as a lunatic and leave without helping. Instead, he took some paper from his pocket, scribbled on it, then tied the paper around a rock with some string and tossed it across the river. I retrieved it quickly, and when I unfolded the paper I saw this message:
There is a man coming later that I told him to go. Tell me what you want.
I searched my pockets for something to write with, but all I could find was the lipstick I’d found in my mother’s luggage. I knew I couldn’t write a legible note with that, so I gestured to him, making writing motions with my hands and shaking my head. He nodded, tied his pencil to another rock, and threw it to me. I took the pencil and began to write on the back of the peasant’s note. I knew I had to choose the words precisely, to make him understand the urgency of our situation, and that we needed help without delay. My hands were shaking, but as the pencil touched the paper, I already knew what to say:
Vengo de un avión que cayó en los montanas …
… I come from a plane that fell into the mountains. I am Uruguayan. We have been walking for ten days. I have a friend up there who is injured. In the plane there are still fourteen injured people. We have to get out of here quickly and we don’t know how. We don’t have any food. We are weak. When are you going to come and fetch us? Please. We can’t even walk. Where are we?
When I finished I turned the paper over, and I used the lipstick to scrawl, in bold red letters, CUANDO VIENE? (“When will you come?”). Wanting to save every precious second, I didn’t take the time to sign my name. I wrapped the note around the rock just as the peasant had done and drew back my arm to throw the package across the river. But as I gauged the distance, and how much force would be required, I suddenly realized the extent of my physical weakness. I was not sure I had the strength in my arm to throw the rock so far. What if it fell short, into
the water? Would the peasant lose patience with me and leave? Would he take the time to throw more paper? I summoned all my strength and hurled the rock with all the force I had. It bounced at the water’s edge and rolled onto the bank. When the peasant read the message, he nodded and raised his open palms in a gesture that said, Wait here. I understand. Before leaving, he threw some bread to me. I took it to Roberto and we devoured it, then we waited for help to arrive.
Around 9:00 a.m., another man came, riding a mule, this time on the side of the river where we waited. He introduced himself as Armando Serda. He took some cheese from his pocket and gave it to us, then asked us to wait while he tended his sheep in the high pastures. A few hours later he returned. When he saw that Roberto could not walk, he helped him onto the mule, then he led us to a gentle stretch of the river where the stream could be forded. After thirty minutes or so on wooded mountain trails, we came into a clearing. I saw two crude wooden huts near the banks of the river. “Where are we?” I asked him, as we traveled.
“Los Maitenes,” said Armando, referring to a mountainous region of the Chilean province of Colchagua, near the Azufre River. “We use these huts when we tend the flocks in the high pastures.”
“We have friends still in the mountains,” I said. “They are dying and we need to get help to them as soon as possible.”
“Sergio has gone for help,” Armando answered. Sergio Catalan, he explained, was the man on horseback who’d first spotted us the night before.
“How far is help?” I asked.
“The nearest police outpost is at Puente Negro,” he answered. “About ten hours on horseback.”
A second peasant came out of the larger hut, and Armando introduced him as Enrique Gonzales. He led us to a campfire near the larger hut, where we sat on some stumps. Enrique brought us cheese and milk. Armando started cooking in a big pot on the campfire, and in moments he served us hot food—plates of beans, macaroni, bread. We ate everything he brought us, and he laughed as he refilled our plates again and again. After eating our fill, we were led to a second hut, where two beds were waiting. There were no mattresses, just some soft fleeces spread over the springs, but Roberto and I thanked Armando profusely, and in moments we were both sound asleep.
Miracle in the Andes Page 21
