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.

Seeing the Unseen: My Journey with Dragonflies

 Seeing the Unseen: My Journey with Dragonflies

By Armando Ortiz

Life presents us with patterns of interconnectedness, whether we choose to see them or not. Some feel random, but in hindsight, they form a web of meaning. As humans, we weave significance into the things around us, creating symbolism from what appears to be chance. It can be playful or overwhelming. Ultimately, we decide how to process it.

In the early 2000’s I spent time studying in South Korea and China. After completing my graduate studies, and no longer able to continue studying Mandarin, I moved on to other ventures. I spent some time teaching English in South Korea before using my savings to start a business back in Los Angeles. My idea was simple: people in the U.S. would buy East Asian art books.

From 2007 to 2011, I traveled frequently between the U.S. and China, also visiting South Korea and Japan in search of books. At the peak of my business, I traveled to China at least once or twice a year. I drove to many parts of the Western and Midwest regions of the U.S., met many artists, and saw many different places. I was fortunate.

Most of my books came from Tianjin. I chose the city simply by browsing a Beijing bookstore and gravitating toward a particular book. The publisher that resonated with me was based there– about 70 miles from the capital, roughly the same distance as a drive from Los Angeles to Ventura. I remember my first trip: all I had was an address and a printed map. The beginning of my business was more of an adventure.

This reflection is less about my business and more about the randomness of interconnected moments - the meanings we attach to things, in this case, dragonflies. 

While in Tianjin, on my way to the bank with a publishing company secretary, I spotted a dead dragonfly on the sidewalk. I picked it up and examined it. Its body shimmered metallic green and blue, catching the sunlight. Its transparent wings had disintegrated, leaving only delicate filaments– traces of its former flight.

A few days later, in Beijing, I checked into my room and rested. Suddenly, a dragonfly landed on the outer edge of the air conditioner. It lingered there and died. The heat that day was intense. I opened the window and saw its iridescent body up close. I left it where it was but felt oddly lucky to have noticed it.

Two weeks after returning to Los Angeles, I encountered another dead dragonfly on Wilshire Boulevard, near a palm tree. As before, I picked it up, examined it, then returned it to where I’d found it. This one wasn’t metallic like the ones in China– it had muted shades of purple and gray, with hints of sage. There was no hesitation in picking it up; it felt natural, as if I was meant to find them.

Curious, I looked up dragonflies but didn’t research deeply. I learned they mostly live near water and that thousands of species exist. 

Months later, after summer had passed, I found myself in Tucson, Arizona. Taking a break from selling books, I visited a weekend arts festival. There, I came across an artist named Magdalena Nowacka. Her paper cutout artwork, inspired by Native American religions, was intricate and thoughtful. As I browsed through her collection, I found an affordable piece– a card with a dragonfly at its center. It immediately brought back memories of my recent encounters.

The design was inspired by Japanese motifs. That evening, I researched Japanese symbolism and learned that many believe Japan, when viewed on a map, resembles a dragonfly. The insect is also called the victory insect because of its agility, vibrant colors, and appetite for mosquitoes. I jotted these findings down in my notebook, along with my growing list of connections.

Later, my niece asked if I had ever written a poem about dragonflies. She told me that she had a toy dragonfly and wanted to read something I had written on the subject. Her question caught me off guard– I had never considered writing about them before.

Then, as if the universe had nudged me again, a friend invited me to a birthday party at a venue called The Dragonfly. Inside, a massive dragonfly sculpture loomed over the stage. I took it as a sign. I needed to gather these experiences and make something of them.

In time, I learned about damselflies, their smaller and more delicate relatives. I also discovered that my home state has 77 recorded species– 47 dragonflies and 29 damselflies. The most common? The Flame Skimmer.

The connections continue. On a weekend hike, I spotted dragon flies hovering at the top of a ridge, far from any water. Had the wind carried them from Burbank to this pass, where mosquitos might have gathered? I couldn’t say. But I had already begun the process of stringing these moments together, and I was enjoying it. 

That’s the beauty of story telling– how one thing can lead to another, creating patterns where none seemed to exist. The key is to draw the reader into your world; your way of seeing.

The more I noticed dragonflies, the more they seemed to notice me. Maybe it’s time I finally write that poem.

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

 

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

By Armando Ortiz

Into the Lush Andes:

As we continued, the path became greener, a sign that we were approaching the lusher side of the Andes. We were seven miles in, yet each turn revealed something new. Our guide stopped and pointed to the river we had been following–the Urubamba. It winds through the Sacred Valley before merging into the Amazon. In a way, we were seeing the Amazon itself. I gazed at the river, imagining its vast journey and the communities it sustained.

A Film Scene Come to Life:

I was then taken back to the first ten minutes of Herzog's film. I imagined being a soldier in that army of land pirates on my way to a lost city. “This must have been where they filmed it,” I thought. “I’ve seen this before.” The film had captured the mountains, clouds, and winding trail well- but now, I was inside that very scene. 

I watched trekkers descending the same stretch I had hiked two kilometers earlier, while my own group ascended behind me. For a moment, it felt like I had wandered into Herzog’s film, retracing the steps of his lost conquistadors.

We weren’t drifting down the river like Aguirre nor renouncing our homelands in search of gold. I discovered something beautiful to bring back: the memory of these mountain ranges and the river. As many Peruvians had told us prior to this hike, Machu Picchu has a lot of positive energy. It leaves you in awe. There’s something undeniably special about this place.

As we hiked, I told Yeny about another Herzog film, where a madman hauls a boat over a mountain to build a theater. The same actor starred in Aguirre, but this time, he played Fritzcarraldo. It was during the filming of that movie that the native extras offered to kill him for the director.” She just smiled and nodded. I, on the other hand, couldn’t shake these films from my mind.

The Final Climb to Machu Picchu:

We were down to three more kilometers before arriving in Machu Picchu, but before that we’d have to go through subtropical terrain where ancient plants like ferns and orchids grow wild. Just before Inti Punku, the Sun Gate, the final eighty to ninety feet would be the steepest climb. But the reward was worth it- from here, Machu Picchu came into view, and the trail finally descended.

The trail continued down and opened up into Machu Picchu. After seeing countless images of Machu Picchu- tourists posing before its vast ruins, many remarking on its unexpected scale- I was finally here. The sheer scale of the site struck me- its magnitude, its importance to humanity. I walked the same ground the Inca once did. It was a magical moment. 

Standing Among History:

Some terraces remained covered in overgrowth, hinting at how much of the city lay hidden beneath time– just as the ruins we had passed along the trail hinted at a forgotten past.

I also imagined runners in their early 20s taking these long treks, and having a place to rest where food was available. A place to bathe and relax, while farmers transported supplies to these sites with caravans of llamas. 

This hike deepened my curiosity about the Inca, the trail, and Peru’s geography.

The Inca Trail- A Journey Through Time:

In total, we hiked about nine miles from the trailhead to the bus that took us to Aguas Calientes. The hike took most of the day with about 9 hours of hiking, which included pausing for our guide’s historical explanations, to ask questions, and to take breaks for snacks. 

We were a group of 13, moving together as one. For future hikers: the group moves as a unit, which may affect pacing. Total elevation gain was 2,744 feet, which means that about five and a half to six miles of the trail will include stairs and ascents. 

With each step, I felt the weight of history beneath my feet. The Inca Trail was more than a hike–it was a journey through time, one step into the past with each ascent.

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.

Anza-Borrego State Park: Road trip and Camping

Anza-Borrego State Park: Road trip and Camping

By Armando Ortiz

Introduction to Area and Road Trip

Anza-Borrego State Park lies in Southern California’s central interior, bordered by Ocotillo to the south near the Mexican border, Julian and Ramona to the west, the Salton Sea to the east, and the Palomar Mountains to the north. Once submerged under water, this region holds evidence of human presence dating back thousands of years.

The best time to visit is in Spring or Fall, though Winter can also be pleasant. Summers, however, bring intense heat. From downtown Los Angeles the drive takes about four hours, including potentially heavy traffic on I-15 South. My preferred route from Temecula winds through diverse landscapes, from chaparral to desert vistas, offering a peaceful escape from the busier highways.

Background of Anza Borrego

For centuries, Indigenous groups lived in this region, leaving behind mortar sites used to process seeds like juniper berries, and agave. The Kumeyaay are the group most closely associated with the area, though others, such as the Cahuilla, traveled here seasonally. The park takes its name from Juan de Anza, who traveled and explored the area in the 1700s, as he was heading northwest into California’s interior. Today, the desert landscape attracts permanent residents and visitors alike from across Southern California, drawn by its stark beauty and natural wonders. 

Activities in Anza-Borrego

Hiking is popular in and around the park, best enjoyed during the cooler months of winter and spring. Summers can be dangerous due to the extreme heat. Trails vary in difficulty; some are accessible by sedan, while others require high-clearance, four wheel drive vehicles. Off-roading is another common pastime- you’ll often see caravans of Jeeps, Tacomas and 4Runners, as well as campers being hauled by full size trucks.

Ancient Native American sites can be reached by combining hiking and off-roading. An all-wheel drive vehicle can shorten hikes, but most sites are accessible via trails of up to two miles. The park is also known for its unique iron sculptures, scattered across the desert landscape around the town of Borrego Springs. These artworks emerge on the horizon, though reaching some may require navigating unmarked trails to reach. The night turns magical as you observe the Milky Way stretching across the sky. 

Ending and review

Anza Borrego feels less desolate as other California desert parks, thanks to its nearby eateries and hotels. To fully enjoy its unique offerings, plan an overnight stay- either camping or at a local hotel. The landscape features agave, ocotillos, barrel cacti, and desert palm give it a distinct charm. Spring, especially after a wet season, is another excellent time to visit.

On our way home, we often stop in Julian, CA, a charming mountain town known for its apple pies, really good burgers, and rustic ambiance. Located at higher elevation, Julian offers a cool, green contrast to the desert’s stark beauty, with pine and oak forests. 

Drive along Highway 78 to Julian, the scenery transforms from barren, rocky mountains dotted with cactus to chaparral, then to lush woodlands. The sudden transition highlights the unique microclimates of the area, making Julian feel like a cool retreat after the desert’s intensity.