Between Extremes

by Brian Keenan

  The feeling of limitless well-being is shaken slightly when we break into a canter to reach the camp. I find myself bouncing chronically near the point of no return on Charlatán’s back. Grabbing hold of the pommel, I feel a stinging sensation as its metal rim cuts a finger before the horse slows and I regain my balance. Mellie is not so lucky. She comes unstuck. Looking remarkably graceful in a wide-brimmed huaso’s hat and jodhpurs, she somersaults perfectly off her mount. Nigel and Lian are there immediately. Amazingly, without any hesitation, she gets back into the saddle. As we ride on, more slowly now, we talk:

  ‘When Lian spoke to me about coming on this trek, I realized I’d better have a couple of lessons. Seems mad now – I was taught by a woman who was a stickler for the niceties of riding. There I was riding around learning dressage in Hyde Park! Not very useful up here, but the hat was a good investment, I think.’

  ‘Certainly was, this sun is intense. I’m impressed that you just got straight back on like that.’

  ‘Well, I’m not too worried about the physical injuries, but I can get depression at high altitude.’

  ‘Blimey, we’re not going to have to tie you over a mule, are we?’

  ‘No, the depression seems to focus my mind on survival, makes me a bit selfish.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I sometimes steal other people’s food.’

  I have not quite got the measure of Mellie yet. Working in the City she has to deal with a heavily male environment and is clearly well used to banter. I cannot quite decide whether she is winding me up but realize that I do not mind if she is.

  I am sitting in one of the most perfectly empty spaces I have ever seen. A flat-bottomed valley, so wide it is almost a plain. A mile away to the west, rocky outcrops jut from a swathe of brown scree, suggesting human faces. This natural carving, far more eloquent than any Mount Rushmore, could be recalling the wisdom of something profoundly ancient. The valley is called El Museo, the Museum, so perhaps the shepherds and travellers in older times felt the same sense of antiquity that I am now experiencing. To the south the valley curves away upwards, losing its grassy cover and becoming a barren blur with the snow-capped tips of mountains in the very far distance. Sometimes a cloud moves over the valley casting its shadow, almost like the thought of a god. The air is cool in the breeze, though the sun is fierce.

  There are horses grazing in all directions but beyond our party there is no sign whatsoever of humans. Brian lies a little way from me on dark green grass beside a narrow, very deep, clear and fast-running stream. Apart from the sounds of the huasos making camp, brought to me on the gentle breeze that occasionally sets my hat strings singing in my ears, the babbling and gurgling of this brook is the only sound.

  The Museum was almost circular like a bowl and I thought I had arrived in our Elysian Fields. I watched several swallows skim along the surface of the deep narrow stream. They were feeding off tiny surface insects and their precision aviation was incredible. The river had its source not far from our encampment. The term ‘water from the rock’ was never more true as I took in the towering fortress of stone that enclosed us.

  Reaching places like this makes the trauma of five or six hours in the saddle bearable. It is energy-sapping being on the edge of panic all the time and not knowing what hazards wait round the next bend. We climbed higher by the hour, along ridges so narrow you could measure them with a school ruler. Sometimes it felt as if the horses’ hooves were treading across chasms of air! During the morning we crossed a terrifying pass. The thought of having to go back over ‘Certain Death Ridge’ frightened me. I comforted myself by remembering my equine friend from San Pedro. But the silence and sunlight were wonderfully calming. I lay back on the warm river bank and felt like I was sinking into the folds of a great soft eiderdown. I imagined I could smell my wife’s perfume. My contentment in the valley was gnawed at by the desire for familiar things.

  I wrote a note in my diary:

  I had found so many things in so little,

  in my own twilight discoveries,

  in the sighs of love, in roots,

  that I was the displaced one, the wanderer

  the poor proprietor of my own skeleton.

  I reread the quote and underneath it, almost tearing the page with the weight of my words, added: ‘WHAT THE FRIGG ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVE?!’

  Some of us take an afternoon ride to see the valley of the Azufre, the Sulphur River. We pass through high pastures where they bring cattle and horses to calve and foal then drop down to a raging river which, after much kicking, Charlatán condescends to cross. Bizarrely the Azufre is a spectacular gorge of bare red rock, looking as if it has just been ripped out by a flood. All around are different angles and colours of strata and above everything sits a glacier.

  Riding back I am happy and tired, pleased to have made the effort of the extra ride even though my legs feel only partially under control. The longer I sit on the horse the more natural it feels. Charlatán is tired too and keeps stumbling. Though we are spread out and rarely speaking, there is a peaceful camaraderie in the line of riders. The warmth of the evening sun as it lights the dust around the horses’ hooves and constantly rearranges the mountainscapes as it goes down, reaches deep inside me. Cantering back across the valley to our igloo tents that look like a nomad encampment, I feel so lucky.

  Beside the camp fire Manuel recites his poems by moonlight. Nigel translates for us gringos: verses on a lover, a drunkard and a journalist. Later we look at the craters of the moon through my telescope. Although the brightness of the moon blanks out many of the stars we learn to identify the Southern Cross.

  The moonshine is reflected in the stream running through the camp. Its deep water, icy cold even at the height of noon, and its green grassy banks speak of a real life force. It springs from the base of the barren, 500-foot scree just near the camp. There are strange plants growing in the water, long, bushy and thick. The effect is not sombre but caring, a widow’s weeds perhaps.

  I enjoyed the poetry reading Manuel entertained us with. The poems were romantic and wistful but Manuel, at least, took his poetry seriously and made me feel less guilty about my own obsession with Neruda.

  I wasn’t much company for anyone. My cough seemed to get worse in the evenings and now sounded like a piece of heavy-duty broadloom being torn apart. I thought maybe I could give some camp-fire recitals from Neruda, but then I suspected they would think me a weirdo rather than just an invalid.

  Darkness fell very quickly, almost like a light going out. The cold came with it. I deeply regretted having sent home my warm jacket and woollen sweaters. Sometimes I curse the place I am in and cannot leave.

  Frustration and fear seem to be the two constant emotions of this trek. Sometimes if the ride is particularly difficult or dangerous, I ignore them or accept the challenge of them with a torrent of abuse aimed at no-one other than myself. I am sure the others think I am demented, and no doubt McCarthy encourages them in this belief.

  But lately I have been trying to use these emotions. I am treading in the footsteps of my invisible companions, Neruda and O’Higgins. They too had to make this Andes journey. Outlawed and outcast, the liberators fled through these forbidding mountains on horseback: the Poet, liberator of the soul, and the General, liberator of the people, had both suffered from the most heinous of crimes, betrayal. O’Higgins had had to escape with a few followers over these mountains to Argentina after a defeat by the imperial forces at Rancagua in 1814. Similarly Neruda, after helping Gabriel Gonsález Videla win the 1946 presidential election, fell out with the new head of state and had to flee. The physical scale of the deserts in the north, of the ice and glaciers to the south and the ocean to the west, all such vital parts of Chile’s identity, must enforce the sense of cruel finality for the exile.

  Over the last few days I had been thinking about this: exile, the experience of betrayal, taking refuge in these mountains. Overcoming that experience in life and in art is what binds
these Chilean heroes in my imagination. I could envisage their confrontation with constant fear and frustration in these hills. I had scribbled a note describing how the jagged edges of the mountains set against the evening crimson sky gave the impression of stone carnations, and beside it I had added: ‘Red carnations, Neruda’s symbol for betrayal of the nation – Bernardo’s first bloody defeat, betrayed by comrades!’

  My constant dipping into the Canto General as a kind of hymn sheet when I was feeling depressed, lonely or bored had given me the sense that the foundation of this mammoth work was one of betrayal. It sets the mood and the tempo of the text which is one of passionate outrage and the belief in promise and restoration.

  But the betrayal of those men was not original sin. It was an evil act committed by men against their friends, comrades and ultimately the nation. And this act of betrayal enables a second beginning for both the politician and the poet.

  Betrayal had engendered a fault-line in Chilean history and also in the value of words, the shared language of the nation and the promises that words had enshrined. Rupture and restoration necessarily became fundamental political and poetic acts. The re-commitment by word and deed is a reconstitution of the bond of faith with the nation and possibly with the souls of men.

  I had been developing this thesis on the more tedious rides or in the cold of the night to distract myself from coughing, snoring and generally making it impossible for John to sleep. In a way, it helped me focus on the journey itself as well as on my invisible companions and it also helped me displace the worry about my worsening health as we moved further into the mountains. I was anxious in case the combination of my chest infection and the altitude sickness brought me to a point where I could not carry on, and would have to turn back with one of the huasos.

  But my contemplation on the poet and the politician and their journey in these hills had decided it for me. I had no choice. To turn back would be an act of betrayal. It would mean breaking the promise of friendship with McCarthy. It would be a surrendering of communication and understanding with Pablo and Bernardo and finally it would mean an irreparable break with my own instincts.

  The following morning was cold but bright. We stood about the campsite with blankets wrapped round us and hoods covering our ears. We looked like ancient druids. John poured me a cup of Lapsang Souchong tea for my cough. I remember it had all the aroma and flavour of Sobranie cigarettes.

  Meanwhile the huasos had gone looking for our horses, mainly successfully, although one small black mule refused absolutely to be caught and had our muleteers chasing him for hours. I had some empathy for the irascible black beast.

  When we finally decamped and began our climb, I noticed that the trail was littered with the bodies of cattle which had died from eating poisonous grass. Seeing the way the dry air and the sun had stretched the flesh of their heads, giving their faces a horrific appearance, as if they had died screaming, I felt my new-found resolve slipping.

  I sleep well, possibly thanks to a brew from a sprig of a cactus-like plant (an ancient antidote to altitude sickness) that Nigel picked on our ride up the Azufre. Brian too is having a peaceful night – I have noticed that he is at his most polite when asleep. I nudge him when he snores: ‘So sorry,’ he grunts softly.

  I wake at two o’clock and hear an animal stamping across the rocks and fear for a moment that it will stampede into camp. From the odd gait I realize it is probably Mauricio’s hobbled horse. It wheezes horribly. The stars are wonderful now, filling the whole sky.

  Up early, I go for a wash in the mystic river. I meet all three huasos, Mauricio, Manuel and Cristián, on their way back from bathing before rounding up the horses. We nod our good mornings and Manuel indicates he jumped right into a whirlpool caused by the stream’s fast current and a series of bends: ‘Jacuzzi!’ He laughs.

  I am not so sure. The pool looks ominous, the deep water black and swirling powerfully. Also, I realize, it will be very, very cold.

  While I am pondering how best to get clean I hear their voices again and look to where they are now pointing. Far across the valley is a flash of white – a large bird on the move. I cannot make out what they are shouting.

  After watching the bird disappear into the distance, I opt for straddling a narrower bit of stream and having a splash bath. There is a terrific sense of freedom in standing naked in this vast bowl of a valley and cleansing oneself. Washing my hair though makes my head numb and then, because the water is so cold, beyond numb into blinding pain. After vigorous towelling, however, I feel better for it.

  As the warm morning sun creeps across the valley, I wander down the stream’s course and discover that it suddenly cuts away deeply to a gorge at the centre of the wide El Museo valley.

  Back at the camp, I leaf through Marcus’s bird book and say to Brian, ‘Ah! Here it is, Chloëphaga melanoptera – it’s commonly called the Andean goose but in fact it’s a duck. Goose sounds better in this big country.’

  ‘Goose, duck, nonsense!’ laughs Bri. ‘Take my word for it, it was an albatross!’

  I stood watching its solitary flight through John’s telescope. Goose, duck or even Chloëphaga melanoptera meant nothing to me. The great white bird moving effortlessly across the sky was Neruda’s own great albatross. It was an omen confirming my resolve as the right one and that I was still on the route that had been somehow laid out for us. This was destiny’s bird of promise. The others could call it what they wanted.

  After checking our belongings and, for the Wendies among us, bandaging our bruised calves, we set off. The business of riding, of checking stirrups and girths, is more routine now and conducted almost in silence. If Mellie is anxious after her fall she does not show it.

  A gentle breeze wafts over our picnic ground, cool but welcomely so. Everyone is dozing after fat sandwiches of cheese, turkey and avocado, washed down with pisco sours. The horses graze around us. We are at 12,400 feet (3,800 metres) in a little meadow area surrounded by the most spectacular mountains. There are so many contours, types of hillside, and so many colours, it is staggering. Ahead of me are craggy bluffs, with a wide sweep of white and grey glacier on one side and on the other a bizarre patch of yellow and red scree. The meadow has little flowers: tiny, purple gentians; little, rubbery-leaved plants that hug the ground; and low bushes with delicate yellow flowers. There are no trees but a mix of soft and sharp grasses. There are birds too, plovers and Chilean swallows. We are very lucky to be in this place. The area is still controlled by the military and few people, especially gringos, are ever allowed here.

  We had a magnificent ride up. Often there would be no sound save the clip, clop and clack of hooves crossing rock or their hollow thud on dried marsh. We went up and up in gentle stages, sometimes crossing screes; at others going through rich green pastures where wild horses and foals lazed about.

  Much of the morning I was content to be a quiet part of our caravan listening to the squeak of saddles and catching the odd snip of conversation somewhere up the line – raucous laughter usually indicating Tom’s involvement. It is easy to lose yourself in the images conjured by the ever-changing landscape: strange outcrops that look like massive anthills or ancient sphinx-like sculptures; smooth screes rising hundreds of feet with the odd swirl of white or green colour as if some massive brush has daubed a mighty canvas. The shades of rock and the shadows are confusing; what appears massive may well be shadow only. The combination of darkness and light denies a sensible perspective.

  I stopped Charlatán for a moment to gaze across a wide valley. I found it hard to judge the distance to the other side of the ravine and remembered having the same difficulty after coming home from Lebanon. I spent some time at a friend’s cottage in Wales which overlooked a big valley. At first I could only perceive it as a one-dimensional painting, unable to understand that the buildings, trees and grazing animals were at different heights and distances from me. I was unnerved by this, fearing that so much time in tiny cells had permanently damage
d my sight. Gradually the sense came back.

  After lunch, the party stirs, especially Tom who begins taking many photographs in this wonderful place. Inevitably he takes many of Brian and me.

  ‘Oh go away, Tom!’

  ‘Now, now, poppet, don’t be a Wendy. It’s just part of the day’s work!’

  ‘He loves it really,’ says Mellie, her dark eyes flashing.

  She often says things that are quite sharp, though now we know each other I appreciate there is no barb there, just teasing observation.

  Mauricio, looking perplexed, has a brief, muttered conversation with Nigel who appears to be reassuring him about something. Mauricio does not look entirely convinced and they talk a little more before Nigel turns to us all to say, ‘Come on, it’s another two and a half hours back to camp.’

  The afternoon ride is a very hard grind down a different valley of endless rock screes. We make a couple of alarming descents and ascents early on, then jolt over endless shale, the horses’ hooves making a sound like cracking pottery.

  The main problem is that the shale is so large there is no obvious track so, once Mauricio and Cristián move out of sight ahead of us slowcoaches, one has to make the best line one can downhill. The scenery closes in and for the first time is unutterably dull, just shale screes everywhere. I am very uncomfortable in the saddle and can never see far enough ahead to get a sense of how long this torture must last. I am anxious too; it seems inevitable that a horse will lose its footing on the unstable ground and take its rider sliding to the bottom of the ravine.

  Charlatán seems slower than ever and unresponsive to my kickings and on one steep hillside, stones slipping from his feet, he decides to take a different route from those ahead. I try to turn him downhill but he turns directly uphill instead. Very frightened, I hang on trying to regain my equilibrium but, because of the steepness, I am almost lying with my head beside the horse’s neck. He seems as confused now as I am and I realize that we could be frozen here until something spooks him. It is a mighty relief when Nigel catches up and quietly tells me to turn the horse downhill again. This time he responds and on we go. Now I direct him constantly, watching his head and the path all the time. Brian points out a fox on the other side of the valley. It runs effortlessly down one side and up the other in minutes, but it is taking us hours.