This is a piece of writing from around 7 years ago after our family trip to Argentina and I fell in love with the mountains that we trekked in for a couple of days.
Sweat clouds my vision as the sun dazzles the parched ground. The green canopy is alive with festoons of squawking, gibbering birds and animals. Watchful hawks circle in the blistering heat, looking for mice or insects hiding in sable bushes. The trees roll from side to side in a thoughtful breeze. The mountains of old whispers tales of the ancient country.
A river runs by humming to itself like a hornet. Far ahead, the mountain glitters emerald with the trees, as a heat wave drives across the luscious, fertile land. Endless trekking, never ceasing. Phlegmatic birds coalesce on an antediluvian, rotting branch, watching our progress through this fertile land. Clouds float lazily in the deep blue sky, as horseflies buzz around us.
In a wood now. Commodious pines as high as a church steeple. More shade so we have a rest, nursing swollen ankles. Soil damp beneath my feet as we move on, now rapidly going up hill. Right, then left, the confused path leading this way and that. I’m starting to cool down as it gets colder in the vacant jungle. Soon a rickety bridge over a cascading waterfall appears tied by gnarled trunks of old wood. Cross and back in the uninhabited, shady coppice, getting rockier with every step.
Suddenly a clearing and… a lagoon. Shimmering in the dim light from the twilight sunset. Clear, cold water, and to the side, a puff of smoke, a roof, we have arrived