The first night I camped in a little cave, sheltered from the wind and
snug enough in my fleece-lined sleeping-bag. There were no insects at
this height. It was impossible to make a fire for there was no wood. I
worried a bit about the burro freezing in the night.
But he survived, and I repacked him the next morning with rather
absurd cheerfulness. The fog was thick, yes, but not impenetrable.
There were tracks in the snow where the wind had not covered them. A
girl had left the village the day before my arrival, which made my
task all the easier. So I went up into that vast, desolate silence,
the fog closing in steadily, getting thicker and thicker, the trail
getting narrower until at last it was a mere track.
And then I was moving blind. I had to feel my way, step by step,
leading the burro. Occasional tracks showed through the mist, showed
that the native girl had walked swiftly--had run in places--so I
assumed that the fog was less dense when she had come by this way. As
it happened, I was quite wrong about that....
We were on a narrow path above a gorge when I lost the burro. I heard
a scrambling and clashing of hoofs on rock behind me. The rope jerked
out of my hand and the animal cried out almost articulately as it went
over. I stood frozen, pressing against the stone, listening to the
sound of the burro's fall. Finally the distant noise died in a faint
trickling of snow and gravel that faded into utter silence. So thick
was the fog that I had seen nothing.
I felt my way back to where the path had crumbled and rotten rock had
given way under the burro's weight. It was possible for me to retrace
my steps, but I did not. I was sure that my destination could not be
much further. A lightly clad native girl could not have gone so far as
Huascan itself. No, probably that day I would reach my goal.
So I went on, feeling my way through the thick silent fog. I was able
to see only a few inches ahead of me for hours. Then, abruptly the
trail grew clearer. Until, at last I was moving in the shadowless,
unearthly mist over hard-packed snow, following the clearly marked
footprints of a girl's sandals.
Then they vanished without warning, those prints, and I stood
hesitant, staring around. I could see nothing, but a brighter glow in
the misty canopy overhead marked the sun's position.
I knelt and brushed away the snow with my hands, hoping to undo the
wind's concealing work. But I found no more footprints. Finally I took
my bearings as well as I could and ploughed ahead in the general
direction the girl had been traveling.
My compass told me I was heading due north.
The fog was a living, sentient thing now, secretive, shrouding the
secret that lay beyond its gray wall.
Suddenly I was conscious of a change. An electric tingle coursed
through my body. Abruptly the fog-wall brightened. Dimly, as through a
translucent pane, I could make out vague images ahead of me.