My Everest
By Evi Goossens — travel storyteller & creative freelancer
Cusco, Peru, May 2024
Reading time: 8/10 minutes
5,200 meters. Almost the same altitude as Everest Base Camp in Nepal. Growing increasingly sad, I fall behind the group, slowly trailing at the very back. I look up at what still lies ahead. I glance at Manon from Quebec and shout, “I just want a horse!”
Half-asleep, half-awake, I wake repeatedly as people enter my room. At 2:20 a.m., my alarm goes off. Ready to get up? Not really. Ready to climb a mountain? Absolutely not. Many people I spoke to about the hike to Rainbow Mountain said it was manageable. Yet I feel nervous. I brush my teeth and arrive at the reception right on time. Our guide for the day, Darwin, collects several people, and together we walk to the minivan where we meet the rest of the group. Speaking a bit of Dutch with my seatmate eases my nerves slightly.
We stop for a quick breakfast before the bus hits the steep mountain trails. Rainbow Mountain is the only place in the world where you can reach such an altitude on a day trip. To reach the same height at Everest Base Camp, for example, you’d have to trek through the Nepalese mountains for five days. We’re doing it in a single morning.
At 4,600 meters, the bus stops. “Everyone ready?” Darwin asks. My excitement is high—though maybe that’s just nerves in disguise. We walk a few meters to the horses. If you already find it hard, you can ride a horse to the top. Proudly, I say I don’t mind walking—but secretly, I’m completely out of breath. The backpackers around me cheer me on: “We’ll just go slowly, you can do this.” Do they assume I’m athletic because I’m wearing a sports legging? Or are they mostly saying it to reassure themselves? Hesitantly, I glance at the horses again. “No, I’m not giving in.”
We begin the ascent. In a small group, we chat with fellow backpackers—until I can no longer talk because I need to catch my breath. I decide to slow down. Gradually, I’m overtaken: by two Turkish travelers, our guide, a Peruvian woman… and eventually by the rest of the group. Watching the people ahead, I start to worry and feel increasingly sad. I still have a long way to go and don’t know if I can make it alone. Doom thoughts creep into my mind. Normally, I’m extremely positive, but now my negative thoughts are taking over.
A bright blue jacket approaches. A woman walking slowly, taking in the scenery. Manon from Quebec reassures me. She says everyone should move at their own pace and enjoy the journey upward. Why can’t I? For me, the goal is always the destination. I want to sprint to the top, and it frustrates me that my body won’t let me. How can I enjoy the view, I think, knowing there’s still a brutal climb ahead? Manon sets small goals: first to the stairs, then to the next bend.
Horses with tourists slowly pass me by. I watch enviously. Why am I making it so hard for myself? Why do I need to prove something?
I don’t understand why people do this for fun. At 50% oxygen, I must stop almost every few meters to avoid hyperventilating. Dizzy, I take small steps forward. I give up. I can’t anymore. This is my breaking point. I look at a man with a horse and ask if I can ride up. Hoping for a “sure,” I get a shaking “no.” My courage sinks. There’s no choice but to keep walking. Turning back is not an option.
What felt like hours of climbing, gasping, dizziness, and nausea ends at the final ten steps. My guide speaks to me immediately—not with “Well done, you made it.” No: “You have 30 minutes here before we move on to the next spot because you were slower.” I nod, climb the last few meters, collapse onto a rock… and burst into tears. Everyone around me is snapping Instagram-worthy photos. And me? I just think: why do I always make it so hard for myself? Looking at Rainbow Mountain, I think of my old art teacher.
Thirteen-year-old Evi waits her turn to get approval for a painting assignment. Everyone had to bring a photo of a landscape to recreate. Proudly, I show my printed mountain. I had deliberately chosen a unique, extraordinary, less-known landscape.
“This will be a great artwork,” I think. Slowly, it’s my turn. Excited, I show my Rainbow Mountain photo to my teacher.
She smiles. “Ah, she likes it too,” I think. But then her expression changes. “Evi, I asked for a real landscape. This isn’t real at all.” Surprised and disappointed, I try to convince her. No luck. I’m sent to the computer lab to find another image.
I think of that moment while looking at the colors of the mountain before me. A place too beautiful to seem real. Manon looks at me, comforts me, and I wipe my tears away. “You did it, Evi. You should be proud.”
So much more than a few hundred meters of climbing at 50% oxygen. What an experience. I start laughing slowly and take a few photos.
Darwin calls us to descend if we want to see Red Valley. Luckily, now it’s all downhill. The hardest part is behind us.
Red Valley lives up to its name: a red valley full of mountains streaked with green and blue. Like a fairytale. I understand why my teacher didn’t believe me back then. This looks like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Where are the Oompa Loompas?
I run to the backpacker group and am welcomed with open arms. We pause at a viewpoint to take it all in before heading back to the entrance. Sadness has lifted, and I can laugh again.
Darwin explains the valley to us. At the bottom, there’s a small house. The valley is maintained by a family. “Would you want to live here?” I wonder. Tim from the Netherlands asks me the same. “Even with money, no,” I reply. Apparently, people here live very long lives—90+ years—thanks to the altitude and constant climbing.
After the last photos, it’s time to descend. “Not via the normal path,” Darwin laughs. He points to a steep drop. “Here.” This has to be a joke.
One by one, we go down. The hard ground turns to sand, reminding me of the dunes of Huacachina. At the bottom, we walk through marshy terrain, rocks, and mountains back to the bus. Before getting on, I look around one last time.
“Goodbye Rainbow Mountain… until we meet again.”
So many impressions today—highs and lows. One thing is certain: I don’t need to go to Everest Base Camp. And if I ever do… I’ll take a horse.
