L.A. Mountains Call

 

L.A. Mountain’s Call

By Armando Ortiz

I walk the adobe road, this old mountain frozen,

sagebrush and baking dust engulf me at the turn.

L.A.’s mountainous slopes like weathered lemon peels,

fade into the afternoon haze.

I disappear into clay and chaparral

A figure in an impressionist landscape.

The portrait dissolves; the fireroad opens.

Deer forage, a yucca thirsts beneath oak shade— 

this is where I eternally wander.

Butterfly shadows circle—signs warn of rattlesnakes.

Nature bustles to its own pulse.

Slithering shadows of heat

shimmer across the coastal desert.

At a junction city scents join the trail, 

leading to barren heights and spectacular views,

where past and present landmarks remain.

At the summit, a hummingbird pauses, reminding me it too belongs.

Coyotes, forever jokesters, play hide-and-seek with the past.

As I begin my descent, a school of wild quail suddenly breaks the silence.

The male perches atop a branch, wearing a black top hat.

Strange characters live up here—a diorama of memories and life.

Everything alive before my eyes,

sweaty and accomplished, I reach my car.

Tomorrow the hike will fade, my legs will ache,

but already the mountains call me back.

Inca Trail Part Three: In the Wake of the River

Inca Trail - Part Three: In the Wake of the River

Tracing the flow of memory, myth, and history along the Urubamba.

By Armando Ortiz, walking the line between wonder and reckoning.

The Urubamba River, which we followed for much of the trail, winds through the Sacred Valley and eventually merges into the Amazon. I found myself thinking of that often. The water we watched from stone terraces or crossed via small bridges would one day become part of the world’s largest river system-–a path into another chapter of history entirely.

That convergence stayed with me, especially as I thought about Werner Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo. The film centers on the rubber boom in the Amazon. Fitzcarraldo, a slightly unhinged European, dreams of building an opera house in the jungle and needs a rubber fortune to finance it. To do so, he must transport a steamship over a mountain—with the help of indigenous people who believe he’s some kind of white savior. When the task is done they release the boat into the rapids. The film ends on an almost triumphant note, but history tells a darker story.

In real life, the man who inspired Fitzcarraldo controlled vast tracts of land and enslaved native communities to extract rubber. He used weapons and violence to force submission-–often turning one tribe against another, only to later enslave them as well. Learning this unsettled me. It’s easy to imagine slavery as something distant, but this was the 20th century. These acts took place not far from where I was hiking.

This history returned to me again when I remembered Embrace of the Serpent, a Colombian film I had seen years earlier. It follows a young shaman along two journeys down the Amazon–first as a guide to a dying German scientist seeking a rare medicinal plant, and later as an older man helping an American botanist hunting for a certain species of rubber tree. The story blurs time, showing how Western science, greed, and curiosity intersect in the jungle.

In one disturbing scene, the younger shaman and the German reach a rubber collection site. There, they encounter a disfigured man trying to stop the scientist’s assistant from spilling latex bowls. At first, the scene feels surreal–then the meaning sinks in. He is trying to prevent the loss of a day’s quota. Any shortfall would mean brutal punishment. The film doesn’t dramatize this–it presents it plainly, as something tragically routine.

After the trip, I dug deeper and discovered something even more disturbing: a municipality in Peru still bears Fitzcarraldo’s name. In the 1980s, a researcher interviewed the grandson of one of Fitzcarraldo’s associates. He spoke proudly of his family’s role in the town, claiming many residents were descended from his grandfather’s forced laborers. He even described how townspeople were “rounded up” for work as if recalling a minor detail.

By the time we reached Machu Picchu, I was filled with awe—and with conflict. On one hand, I was deeply moved by the achievements of the Inca: their engineering, their crops, and their cosmology. I was amazed by the system of mita, a kind of community labor that sustained roads and farms. But I was also disturbed by how this system was later twisted into a tool of oppression—first by the Spanish, then by others who saw indigenous labor as something to exploit.

In the final scene of Embrace of the Serpent, the aging shaman realizes his role: to pass down the last of his knowledge to someone willing to learn. He understands that knowledge—like land, or labor—should not be hoarded, but shared. The film ends on a quiet, reflective note, much like my own journey. 

Walking alongside the Urubamba, I began to see it not just as a river, but as a current flowing through time—carrying memory, history, and pain. It connected the world of the Inca with the depths of the Amazon and everything in between. My trek showed me the best of what humans can create. But the river reminded me: even in the most beautiful landscapes, shadows remain.

Dragonflies: Reflections in Prose

Dragonflies

By Armando Ortiz

Live by bodies of water, 

natural ponds, manmade lakes,

hovering over the surface,

dancing by the water’s edge.

Their transparent wings, 

like cellulose propellers, 

glide and shimmer 

above marble fountains.

Free to roam as they please, 

they float effortlessly, 

perpetually in flight, 

delicate veins threading 

through gossamer wings.

Nature’s fabric clothes them 

in colors of their territory– 

metallic green turning violet chrome, 

pastel lavender fading to gray, 

bright yellow tails igniting 

into red tiger stripes.

Where there is one, 

there are others, 

flitting near water, 

a beauty to behold, 

a life to ponder.

Japan, shaped like a dragonfly, 

calls them tombo— 

keepers of the sky, 

decorations of flight.

Peru Chronicles: Inca Trail Hike - Exploring the Path to Machu Picchu

Peru Chronicles: Inca Trail Hike - Exploring the Path to Machu Picchu

By Armando Ortiz

Starting the Inca Trail at KM 104:

The Inca Trail, rich in history and stunning landscapes, offers an unforgettable journey to Machu Picchu. Our adventure began at 4 a.m. with a pick up near Plaza San Blas in Cusco, nestled within granite walls that once housed the Inca elite. After gathering our group, we headed to Ollantaytambo, where we took the train to the KM 104 stop. 

At the trailhead, we crossed the Urubamba River bridge, stretched, and warmed up for the trek ahead. After a short debrief, we started our hike. Our guide, Ruben, stopped every 20-30 minutes to share stories about the archaeological sites or unique fauna along the trail.

Our first stop was a set of ruins, once a rest area for Inca runners traveling the vast empire. Only the walls and remnants of baths remained, but they offered a glimpse into the intricate network that once connected this civilization.

Magical Waterfalls Along the Inca Trail:

Before lunch, we rested at a small hut offering much-needed shade from the intense high-altitude sun. Some of us snacked on provisions, while others gazed at the distant archeological sites that resembled weathered staircases carved into the mountain.

Further along, we came to a waterfall that felt almost magical. Butterflies flitted along the water’s edge, and trekkers paused to snap photos. Yeny waded into the shallow pool, while I removed my boots and dipped my feet into the icy water. 

For a moment, the rushing falls drowned out every other sound. The chatter of hikers faded, and I found myself lost in the serenity of the moment. My feet tingled, almost numb from the cold, as I marveled at the serenity of the trail’s hidden gem. 

Contemplating Nature along the Terraces:

Rejuvenated, we continued our journey and reached a site where medicinal herbs were once cultivated. The terraces, with their steep stairways, seemed surreal, as if carved directly into the mountainside.

Andean swallows darted overhead, soaring gracefully into the green canyons before streaking back past us like shadows. Watching them, I imagined exploring the mountains as freely as those birds, discovering every hidden corner. 

As I paused to rest, the endless layers of terraces filled me with awe. I marveled at the ancient knowledge required to build such an enduring legacy– an understanding of rocks, water flow, wind patterns, and the best placements for crops. These reflections swirled in my mind leaving me in awe of the ingenuity of the Inca people. 

Having Lunch at Winay Huayna:

At the midway point, we reached Winay Huayna, or ‘Forever Young’ in Quecha, a stunning archeological site with agricultural terraces and water channels. Lunch awaited us, prepared by porters who had raced ahead.

We entered a makeshift tent with a long table and enough chairs for our group. The meal, fit for royalty and Incan runners, began with a warm soup, followed by a feast of fried trout, cheese, avocado, lomo saltado, potatoes, and fresh salad. Drinks included water, chicha and tea, with filtered water available to refill bottles. We ate to our heart’s content and felt completely satisfied.

The meal brought a sense of camaraderie as we chatted about the hike and our preparations. Seated across from us, a couple from Texas introduced themselves- Taylor, an internal medicine doctor, and Tyler, a biology instructor. They asked our thoughts on the train performance, which led me to recall Werner Herzog’s film Aguirre, the Wrath of God.

Referencing a film about conquistadors may have seemed obscure, but the train performance’s exaggerated dubbing mirrored the surreal energy of Aguirre. The traditional Inca costumes and theatrical gestures reminded me of the film's eccentric protagonist and his chaotic journey through the Andean jungle.

Looking Ahead:

As we packed up to continue, the surreal blend of history, nature, and personal moments lingered in my mind. The Inca Trail had already etched itself into my memory, and the promise of Machu Picchu ahead filled us with anticipation.

Peru Chronicles: Mountains, Mysteries, and Herzog’s Aguirre

Peru Chronicles: Mountains, Mysteries, and Herzog’s Aguirre

By Armando Ortiz

Inca Trail - Part One: Reflections on a Film:

My first glimpse of the Inca Trail came through Werner Herzog’s film Aguirre, the Wrath of God. Back then, as a regular at the local video rental store, I often noticed the film’s striking cover: Klaus Kinski’s crazed expression as the titular character, Aguirre. Eventually, I rented the movie, drawn by its exotic imagery. At the time, I saw it as a surreal fable, a tale of conquistadors in helmets juxtaposed with indigenous people in vibrant beanies. Kinski played the crazed soldier gone mad, seeming out of place in the lush green environment, his demeanor almost alien. The setting- a humid, swampy jungle– didn’t quite align with the costumes, and I struggled to make sense of it.

As I grew older, the film’s premise became clearer: the pursuit of gold and glory for the Spanish Crown. Yet, as someone whose education revolved around North American, U.S., and Meso-American history, I hadn’t connected the story to the Inca civilization or life under Spanish rule. My understanding of geography and human environment interaction was limited. One of my university classmates once mentioned that the rapper Tupac was named after Tupac Amaru, a Peruvian leader, but even then, Peru’s history felt distant and unfamiliar.

Before leaving for Peru, I revisited the film, watching the first 15 minutes. This time, the mist-shrouded green mountains and narrow trails carved on to sheer cliffs captivated me. The imagery was haunting yet magical- a line of soldiers and enslaved men snaking precariously along the trail, their journey echoing the danger of the llama that slipped and fell into the abyss below. As the train carried us to the trailhead, the eerie resemblance between Herzog’s landscapes and the unfolding reality stayed with me.

The train ride itself evoked an odd deja vu. Herzog’s original German dialogue was poorly synced with the English dub, resulting in voices that didn’t match the actors. A performance by the crew in our train car echoed the film’s mismatched dubbing: English voices floated from hidden speakers, out of sync with the actors’ lips. It was as if Aguirre himself were speaking in an unsettling, borrowed voice.

Later, I learned that Herzog had filmed parts of Aguirre at Machu Picchu, on the Huayna Picchu trail, and along the Peruvian Amazon. His main character, based on the historical Lope de Aguirre, led an expedition to conquer Peru via Panama. Defying orders, Aguirre sought to rewrite history in his favor. But his rebellion ended in 1561 when he was captured, dismembered, and executed. Herzog also drew inspiration from Gaspar de Carvajal, a Dominican friar who chronicled a similar journey along the Amazon two decades earlier.

The film, released in December 1972, immortalized these landscapes and themes of ambition, madness and conquest. Revisiting it before my journey added a surreal layer to my anticipation. As I prepared to walk those trails, the film’s haunting imagery lingered, merging history and myth with the undeniable pull of the Andes. For the first time, the Inca Trail felt less like a distant fable and more like a real, living connection to the past I was about to experience.

L.A. Mountain's Call: Prose

L.A. Mountain’s Call

By Armando Ortiz

My mind, 

a nomad’s wooden chest-

untouched mementos

gather dust, long forgotten.

A hiker on the trail,

this old mountain seems frozen,

I walk the long adobe road-

smells of wild weeds

and a cloud of baking dust

engulf my body as I near the turn;

a familiar, forgotten present.

L.A.’s mountainous backdrop, 

their slopes like weathered lemon peels,

fade into the city’s afternoon haze.

I disappear into the clay ground and chaparral

a figure in a timeless portrait.

Along the fireroad

deer forage the slopes.

Sunbathed cactus thirst for water

at the border of evergreen oak’s shade-

this is where I eternally wander.

Butterfly shadows

circle around me.

Signs warn of rattlesnakes,

but nature has its own bustle,

lost in its own pulse.

Only the slithering 

shadows of heat

radiating from the ground

are seen on this ascent, 

enduring coastal desert.

A diamondback lies still,

as silent as a dead branch-

danger at arm's length.

Calm and relaxed, it waits

Startled, I continue.

At the intersection, scents

join the trail to the barren mountain top,

treating me to spectacular views L.A.,

where the landmarks of the past are seen.

Standing at the summit,

a hummingbird zooms past,

reminding me it too is there.

Coyotes, the forever jokesters, play-

hide and go seek, even with the past.

As I turn back and descend

a school of wild quail,

is suddenly heard.

The male stands

on the top of an branch-

wearing a black top hat

and a zebra skin suit.

Strange characters live up here-

a diorama of memories,

Earth's procession of life.

Everything alive before my eyes,

sweaty and accomplished, I reach my car,

tomorrow, the hike will fade; 

my legs will ache,

but already, I hear the mountains call.

A Quiet Retreat: Free-verse Reflections

 

A Quiet Retreat: Free-Verse Reflections

By Armando Ortiz

I sit here along the coast after a thirty minute drive on Pacific Coast Highway, lying on the sand, watching the waves roll in, each one bringing solace.

The crashing waves blend with memories of hiking the Sierras, where a cool breeze touched my skin as I prepared myself to enter the alpine lake. In the deepest silence, as the waters pulled back, a tiny mosquito pierced my skin with its sharp bite. 

Lost in thought, the crashing waves transform into a gentle rustle of aspen, pulling me back in time. The memory intersects with the present, where the sounds of water and breeze become a delight. 

No need for kegger parties or psychedelic nights; just nature’s embrace heightens the senses, offering deep insights. This mid-July heat wave intertwines with every other summer breeze and every tiny insect that takes flight. 

A single mosquito stands as a buzzing reminder, its bite added to my life's itchy welts. Palm trees and cottonwoods wave gently at the endless stream of people, serene spectators to the flow of life.

If only my tent could transform into a permanent retreat, a place to watch sea lions surfing the dawn’s first light. Or a home nestled among oaks and pines, their gentle shade shielding me from the afternoon’s oppressive heat.

High on a hill, where no buzzing mosquito will dare to exist, a refuge of tranquility. Back at the coast, the sand scorches beneath my feet, but the ocean’s blue embrace offers a cooling reprieve. 

Who needs a retreat when nature’s wonder is just a few minutes away?