Why Travel Makes Me a Better Educator (and the tale of a baby novice hiker amongst badass hiking ladies)

Tell me what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
- Mary Oliver
“The Summer Day”

Travel is my professional development. Travel, and in this case, hiking made me a vulnerable learner, and I learned from my mistakes. I realized once again the important things in life aren’t things. It's about relationships with others, being kind, being kind to yourself, and knowing others who are different from yourself. Being vulnerable. Asking for directions. Attempting to order lunch in a different language.

When the bus dropped me off for a stopover in Mexico City, I felt the initial culture shock of unfamiliar sounds and smells. I kept quiet at first. I pretended I didn’t know any Spanish and attempted to communicate in English first. Spanish words got caught in my mouth, and tumbled out, clunky at first. I ate empanadas and a taco al pastor. I soaked in the culture of the city center Zócalo. This time my usual travel buddy was out of pocket. I was flying solo for the first part of my trek, for the first time. And I happily ate helado in some foreign flavor as I strolled back to the airport bus, which I didn't catch because I forgot to buy a roundtrip tarjeta. Sigh. 

We ate a traditional Peruvian meal in the Sacred Valley

I vaguely remember Mrs. Takens, my 8th grade teacher droning on about the ancient Incas, but I was so far removed that it was difficult to draw from any background knowledge to make connections. I can see it with my students, too.

Especially in Chicago Public and with ESL students, explaining the backstory of the material is necessary to make connections with a culture, person, or place they have never experienced. Even wealthier students who travel with their families may be sheltered from real interaction with locals, only stay at fancy hotels, and have first world experiences in other countries. However, my dream for them is to someday experience the world in such a way that they realize people live differently, and without gadgets. People can be poor or middle class, they can work hard, and have beautiful countries. I want them to feel the growth I feel when travel humbles me and puts me in a place of learning, of being the minority, and rediscovering my inner strength.

Rainbow Mountain, pre-sickness

Of course I studied Peru before I left. Reading versus experiencing culture is 100 percent different. I felt the woolly alpaca and fed him grassy hay from my hand. I admired the rosy, wind chapped cheeks of the stout Quechua women and children, dressed in colorful, warm ponchos. I saw the majesty of Peru’s mountains, felt the running spring water beneath my feet and touched the rough rocks that the ancient people moved to build cities. I ate fresh avocados and peeled a passion fruit and slurped its delicious seeds. The Incas were in tune with the earth, and guided by the sun, and stars. They predicted floods and famine, and relocated high into the Andes after a tsunami. I relearned how the Incas were a civilization in South America, and the Spanish conquered them in 1500s and that’s why the Spanish influence and why most speak Spanish and not Quechua. Peru earned their independence in 1821. And I can remember this all now because I have real, experiential connections to this culture.

But it wasn’t all wooly alpaca and sipping Peruvian coca tea whilst enjoying beautiful mountain views. Babies, can I please give you the angst behind the Insta?

As some of you know, I have been dealing with a stress fractured heel since December. I was wearing an orthopedic boot up until the day I left for Peru. I made the decision to leave the boot at home. This could have been a silly decision, but it worked. The more I walked and used my foot, the more I got back my range of motion and strength.

My first day in Cusco I rested and acclimated. I decided to book a Rainbow Mountain tour. It was beautiful but overrun with tourists. It is at an extremely high altitude of 17,000 feet. The next day I woke up with a sore throat and cold that would persist throughout my trek for the next nine days, even with medicine from the pharmacy and later, antibiotics from a Peruvian clinic. Thankfully, we had a lot of hot tea and drinks that made breathing in the cold mountain air manageable. I also bought a buff to put over my nose and mouth to avoid breathing in dust and the cold night air while snuggled into a mummy sleeping bag. 

This alpaca goes back up to the mountains
after earning his tips in town.

Gentle Babies, I lost my hiking virginity in a big way. This was not an Austin Greenbelt flat Sunday walk type of hike. Mama kind of accidentally signed up for a HIKE hike. Of course I'd read up on the Quarry Trail Trek. We'd hike 5-7 miles per day for three days and reach an altitude of 14,500 feet, blah, blah. Supposedly one of the easiest treks to Machu Picchu. I can tell you with my hand on my Teachers College Units of Study book (my bible), that this was physically harder than running three marathons. It was mentally more challenging than being homesick and immersed in Indian culture for three months. This was the most difficult thing I have done in my sheltered life. It was real, tent sleeping, no showering, dusty hiking boots and wearing the same trekking pants day after day. I had told myself we were just going for a walk. One Badass Hiking Lady (BHL) asked how much hiking experience I had. "None," I said as she looked at me in horror. 

BHLs in Cusco's Plaza de Armas, Cusco

I was the last one in the group, always. My pace was slow even when I felt like I was walking briskly. I could feel the pressure of the altitude on my chest. Every few steps uphill I was gasping for breath. I looked at the nakedness of the landscape. Raw, snow capped mountains. I knew if I came out of this, I would never be the same. I would be better. That’s the thing about hiking, or performing a difficult task. You can only think about the immediate pain. You are one within yourself, present and in the moment. It’s just you and that mountain, baby, a forced conversation with yourself in the mirror. Who am I? My hair is matted and dirty and I’m wearing hiking boots. My god, I’m in Peru and these views are stunning! I’m with people but alone. 

This summer I devoured nonfiction, and I had started Wild by Cheryl Strayed just before my hike. She said, “As I ascended, I realized I didn’t understand what a mountain was...they’d seemed to be nothing more than really big hills. But they were not that. They were, I now realized, layered and complex, inexplicable and analogous to nothing….there was still more up to go…”

Summit, right before the excruciating descent

There was no place for regular stresses, like starting school, decorating my classroom, and menial tasks like laundry and grocery shopping. Between gasping for air, feeling lonely in the hike, and in the middle of the mountains, I started to panic and cry. I was experiencing consequences of a 15,000 foot elevation gain. I would not have made it without our lead guide, Hugo’s encouragement and other guide, Katy’s steadfast calmness. Hugo said “You are safe with Hugo. I will go with you. You are strong; you will make the summit." I didn’t really believe him, but I slowed my hiccuping cries and nodded to push forward. I dug my hiking poles into the dusty earth and pushed on. The air was thin, as was my confidence. Katy told me to close my eyes and grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the summit. When I opened my eyes, tears of joy and exhaustion streamed (along with snot running from my nose) as my weak legs wobbled in front of a panoramic view of the snow capped Veronica Mountain, the highest peak in Peru. Joy, accomplishment, headache, exhaustion, purpose. 

I have this fear of going downhill. It turned out that day two was half excruciating uphill and the rocky downhill half was worse. Any wrong move and I would tumble down the rocks and break an ankle, re-injure my foot. It was the slowest, most painful, repetitive activity. I dug my poles ahead of me into the rocks, like crutches. Sometimes they would slip and I would have to replant them. Then I would pull myself down to the next set of rocks to test out. I would slip but not fall. "Despacito," I could hear our main guide, Hugo saying. "Slowly, please." But it was wearing on my joints and I was mentally and physically exhausted. The day was too long, my blisters were too painful, the course was too steep, too unsafe, and I wasn’t even a hiker. “If I slip on these rocks and fall, the pain would be over, and I would die beneath a beautiful view," I thought. I also had a fleeting thought of stabbing myself with my trekking pole. Too messy. 

Those gnarly teeth, though!

I hiked for 11 hours on the second day and had more than 30,000 steps. I’m not bragging, I’m telling you that half of those steps were in extreme pain. I would later find several blisters on my toes that were as big as my toes. I sat cross legged in my tent that night like a cave girl, sawing off moleskin patches with a knife I borrowed from one of the BHLs. Somehow, hours later, we arrived at the camp. Later, a BHL would tell me the only comparable pain to that descent was childbirth. 

It was the last day of our hike and I could see the river flowing next to the town of Ollantaytambo. I was feeling sore, but hopeful and my pace was steady. It was the first time I was in the middle of the group, not dead last. I walked on alone, knowing there were two guides in front of me and people behind me. I could hear friends ahead, but they walked faster and their voices faded into the foliage, now changing from tan, rocky dirt to lush green at the edge of the Peruvian jungle. My path stopped and came to a stone ruin. I continued a wider path down to the river, as our guide said we’d be following it into town. The path stopped suddenly at the river, into a thick of leafy trees. I felt a pit in my stomach. I remembered all the survival advice I’d read about-stay in one place, don’t panic, but all I felt was the hot sun beating down on me-how long would it take the group to notice I was gone? Their radios hadn’t worked for an earlier emergency situation with another BHL, so I panicked. Do I have enough water? Where the f*ck is the trail? I was truly alone, in a foreign country, on a mountain and I had no idea how to get down to the town. I could hear the railroad. It wasn’t far. I started sobbing. My voice was so hoarse from being sick. I tried to scream for help. "¡Benjamin, Katy, Ayúdame!" But all that came out was a bit more than a whisper. I was sweating and crying and walking aimlessly from the river to the ruin. I kept thinking about a time six-year-old me was lost in Meijer. It felt like the end of the world, but I was likely relatively safe. It would be okay, and someone would soon find me. This gave me the strength in my exhausted muscles to push on, and to have a clear thought. I have no recollection of how long I was lost, but the BHLs said it could have been 30-40 minutes. 

2nd World Wonder!

I retraced my steps. I came back to the ruin for what seemed like the tenth time and saw a tiny path, so small I had to turn sideways. This was it. I sobbed on, hating hiking and hating myself for not doing enough research before this trek, hating my actually wonderful guides for abandoning me. I saw Katy’s purple backpack in the distance. “You left me! You were supposed to be behind me! Benjamin didn’t give me directions for the path!” I screamed at her with my scratchy voice until my damaged throat hushed to a whisper. And six-year-old-me sobbed into her shoulder while she told me I was safe, it was okay, and my friends were waiting for me. When I returned to my adult self, I apologized to Katy. During the trek, she was my clutch, and reminded of how much people need each other to get through tough times. This moment was also a test of flying solo, not knowing anyone before I decided to torture myself with the three-day trek. One lady practically held my hand through town as to not to lose me. It felt good to be known and to be missed, even by strangers turned new friends. We may lose our way, but the path can give us strength, growth, and learning if we let it.

Post-hike, I had never related more to these words Cheryl Strayed quotes of Charles Long, an author of a book on the Pacific Crest Trail: “How can a book describe the psychological factors a person must prepare for...the despair, the alienation, the anxiety and especially the pain, both physical and mental, which slices to the very heart of the hiker’s volition, which are the real things that must be planned for? No words can transmit those factors…”

On a different and EXCITING note, I am returning to Trinity as a 6th grade lead English teacher, a position that has taken time, patience, experience, a move, and hustling to land. It has taken five years to find a setting in the type of school that is sustainable, with a loving community that feels like family. A position where I can truly make a difference and feel passionate about the content and method of delivery.

Trendy Fallen Angel Restaurant in Cusco

This summer, I also read Michelle Obama’s Becoming. It again reminded me that I am still becoming Teacher Rachel. I am becoming with my teaching practice, becoming okay with flying solo, and still becoming aware of this planet’s wonder and adventure.

There is something a bit warm fuzzy-Insta-agenda-ish about the word "wanderlust". But for some of us, it is an actual psychological thing that cannot be tamed. Travel feeds my soul in way that routine does not. South America was my 5th continent and Machu Picchu, my 2nd world wonder. But who’s counting? I just want to see as much of this planet as I can. Staying out of my comfort zone grounds me, oddly. It's part of my becoming.