Blaming the Carpenter

Eric Feldman; Poet, Warrior, Dumb-ass

Before heading out for Sri Lanka a few weeks back, I took a trip with Moms to my local outdoor adventure gear store in order to stock up on supplies for the tough road ahead.  Although I was never a boy scout, my rugged, mountain-man of a brother was, and he's been preaching the importance of "being prepared" to me for probably as long as he's been able to climb the refrigerator.  He encouraged me to get cool new boots and hiking clothes a few years back before my trip down Peru way, but did I listen to him? Of course not.  But I'm listening now.  Cause like anyone who has ever hiked up the Andes in shredded Old Navy khakis and six year old New Balance cross-trainers with only a half-length Banana Republic windbreaker to protect you knows, having the right gear makes all the difference in the world.

What kind of half-witted dullard with zero sense of survival skills and an unwarranted nonchalance towards nature would be stupid enough to do something like that, you ask?  This half-witted dullard.

Let's back up a half-step just so I can hopefully save a little bit of face here.  At the time that I embarked on my Andean trek up the glacial mountain Apu Salkantay towards the ancient Inca stronghold of Machu Picchu, I was living in Lima, Peru and working as an intern at a law firm in the posh neighborhood of San Isidro.  My morning routine consisted of taking a nice hot shower, grabbing a delicious breakfast of toast and coca tea and then hopping in a cab to the office.  Around late July, my traveling companion and erstwhile partner-in-crime Kate got super geared up to take a four-day trek to Machu Picchu and get jiggy with the Peruvian outdoor scene.  Being somewhat the dandy that I am, I of course made her double check with the tour guide that we'd have actual sleeping cabins and real ass bathrooms and showers along the way.  "Of course," lied the tour guide, "you'll have all that stuff."

Figuring that I would slumber each night in a comfortable mountain chalet with the chance to kick off my sneaks and relax each evening, I didn't have much worry in donning my shlubby day to day outerwear and heading up the 14,000 foot precipice.  Aside from a bit of sunburn and some mosquito bites, Day One was clipping along nicely and I felt pretty awesome about the whole adventure...that is until we got to our first "camp site."  My friends, when I say to you that we were sleeping in a cow field surrounded by oxen and wild horses, I want you to understand that I'm in no way using any degree of hyperbole.  We literally set up tents in a field full of oxen and wild horses and were told to get some rest.  "So no cabins, then," I inquired of the guide who snickered and went back to his sancocho.  "Ok, well, where's the toilet?"  His small, tanned hand took a break from ladling soup to us poor misled gringos and pointed off to the woods in the distance.  "So no toilets, then?"  He failed to smile at my witty retort.

Day Two proved to hold in store for us more of the same - sub-freezing temperatures in the morning and then blazing heat by early afternoon.  Luckily I dressed in preppy layers, so I was able to ditch my windbreaker and just stomp around in worn-through khakis.  I began to wonder if perhaps my performance fleece wasn't really designed for this kind of performance at all, but was too exhausted to write the requisite angry letter to the manufacturer so I just went to bed instead.

You're gonna die on that mountain, Eric. Oh, I mean "woof!"

Little did I know that up to this point, Mother Nature was just toying with me.  As night turned to dawn on Day Three, she launched a full-frontal assault.  I awoke to find that my ever-happy and faithful companion Kate had been stricken down by illness.  Unfit to walk and in need of medical assistance, the decreasingly trustworthy guide tossed her on the back of a donkey and sent her into the wilderness with an 8-year old boy to lead the way to the nearest "hospital."  When she fell off said donkey moments later, they strapped her down onto its back with twine and assured me everything would be ok.  Now convinced that Kate was already dead and I was next on the archangel's list, I descended carefully into the valley below, 100% certain I marched headlong towards doom.  Ankles wrapped in duct tape and feet now bleeding due to the fact that New Balance cross-trainers aren't really designed for extended mountain hiking, I plodded forward through the thousand degree heat, unable to remove my outer layers because of the swarms of mosquitoes awaiting my delicious Semitic blood should I give them the opportunity to strike.

My limits were tested by steep declines that would trip up even the most nimble of billy goats.  I was forced to wade through a river of crystal clear mountain water that managed not to refresh me but to fill my sneakers with enough mud and grime to completely destroy any protection the duct tape provided my fresh wounds.  And when I in my lonely procession reached a mountain pass that veered off in two equally viable directions, with no guide present to help me choose, I took a 50/50 gamble that the path to the left would be my path to salvation.

It was a lucky guess.

On Day Four, I rose to the piercing cawing of roosters, one of which found its way into my tent somehow, and was equally as surprised to find Kate returned to me no worse for the wear.  Our trek was coming to a close, and we could finally get ourselves a shower and some real rest.  As we hopped on board the train bound for Aguas Calientes and Machu Picchu, I cursed the trip as an unmitigated disaster and prayed God to spare me from further anguish.  My shoes were destroyed.  My khakis, in bad shape.  My spirit - broken. 

Perhaps you're familiar with the proverb "a bad carpenter always blames his tools."  Well I've never claimed to be a good carpenter, so I saw screw my tools.  I lay fault entirely on my outerwear and absolve myself of any hint of sin in failing to recognize that an outfit that can barely help you survive a winter in upstate New York would certainly be unfit to help me survive an Andean mountain trek.  From the torture I suffered at the hands of Gap, Inc.'s various branches, I did however learn the valuable lesson that the right gear can make or break your trip.  This time I'm well stocked up on adventure gear, specifically designed to handle heat, cold, rain, wind, bugs, sun, L.A. riots...anything you can throw at it.

So, with a well deserved bow of respect, I tip my cap to my brother for being right at least this one time.  See buddy? All it took was me nearly dying from exposure on a South American mountain for me to listen to you.  Don't get used to the recognition though - there's no proverb about a carpenter being gracious.