I’m back. Hot off the redeye from Lima and straight to shul. I was gone only two weeks but it feels like there is so much we should try to catch up on. There is the program we had here the night before I left, a program that was very challenging and that remains, for me at least, largely undigested. Then there is the new thing going on between Israel and Iran, that is unsettling and not totally surprising. Of course there was also the glorious solar eclipse which I missed entirely, being in the wrong hemisphere. Oh, and there is Pesach coming next week which makes this a special Shabbat called Shabbat HaGadol, “the big shabbos.” Any of those things would be ripe for some words right now.

Yet here I am, fresh off the plane, still filled with this experience. I am aware that no one ever really wants to hear someone else’s vacation stories. And if what you’re after is an overview of Peru you’d be better off talking to Ner Shalomer Rita Rowan who lived and worked there in the Peace Corps or to Ner Shalomer Bloom Almeida who lives there now. So I will spare you the sights and slides and will limit myself to really one day of the trip, the story of a summit and a struggle and a psalm.

First off, some background. The Peruvian highlands and Machu Picchu were not and have never been even a drop in my bucket list. Looking at travel pictures was enough. But my husband and his brother and his husband have been wanting to go for years. In addition to seeing the Inca and pre-Inca antiquities, they wanted to hike the Salkantay trail – a rugged adventure that brings you over a mountain pass at 15,000 feet. That is a lot of feet. That is halfway to where the pilot typically says, “We have reached our cruising altitude.” The path is rough. It is many miles long and climbs and drops sometimes steeply. And the traveler attempting this does so at a distinct deficit of oxygen.

The three of them, Oren, Elon, and Doron, all a bit younger and clearly fitter than I, were excited and determined to do this. But I, who have made a meaningful life for myself in which I spend all of my time in chairs, was frightened at the prospect of this trek. I feared coming face to face with my body’s limits and with the effects of age. I was once someone who could scamper. I no longer scamper. And I was frightened because my mind wanders toward calamity in the best of circumstances, and these wouldn’t be the best of circumstances. I would be – and in fact turned out to be – a 63-year-old surrounded on the trail by intrepid and athletic 20- and 30-year-olds, mostly Europeans, undoubtedly raised from birth on mountain air and muesli. I worried about my heart, I worried about my lungs, I worried about my legs. I worried about threats both real and imagined.

But we were as well prepared as we could be. We had bought and brought all the equipment. We spent many weeks marching up and down Sonoma Mountain to train. My friend Rabbi George Gittleman and his wife Laura, who had done this trek last year (both younger and fitter than I), spent generous time giving us insider advice and trying to ease my trepidation.

And then we were in Peru. A few cosmopolitan days in Lima and then on to Cusco, which sits in the Andes at 12,000 feet, an altitude that in the US or Canada would be above the tree line and subject to frigid weather. But in the Andes it is warmer and greener because the mountains are sitting in an underlyingly tropical zone.

We began our official mountain trek last Thursday at 8 AM. It was not a long hike, that one — three hours or so. But there was plenty of climbing and extreme breathlessness and within minutes I hit my first moment of regret. I had instantly fallen behind the others, and my mind raced with how I could quickly extricate myself from this entire adventure and go back to Cusco to sit in a hotel for five days waiting for the others to come back. I pushed through this first wall, because I expected this first wall, and I contented myself with straggling behind, remembering Rabbi George’s advice that I can take tiny, little steps. So I shuffled along like Tim Conway playing his “Oldest Man” character on the Carol Burnett show, a character my father used to love to imitate. I thought of Tim Conway and my dad and I chuckled in my misery.

By midday we’d made it to our first night’s lodging and we took a rest. We then had the option of an additional afternoon hike to a high lake called Laguna Humantay. We began that hike and my body and spirit quickly started rebelling against this renewed abuse. Weather came in and a rainstorm began and our guide, a very skilled 40-year-old Peruvian named after a German philosopher, turned us around, saying there was no point in continuing. It was unlikely we would see anything in the fog and rain, and the climb would be difficult. I barely concealed my relief. But I began to worry how treacherous the next day’s march over the high Salkantay Pass would be if this weather continued.

I woke up before dawn on Friday to two encouraging developments. One was that the sky was clear and the high peak of Salkantay was smiling down from a distance. Salkantay is considered, in Inca mythology, to be an apu, a powerful guardian spirit of the people, taking the form of a mighty mountain. I stood outside alone in the pre-dawn looking at the far peak with its glacier crown, and the second encouragement arose. To my mind, unbidden, came the words of Psalm 121, one of the handful of psalms that I know by heart. It begins shir lama’alot, “a song of ascents,” supposedly referring to the ancient kohanim who would recite it while climbing the steps of the Temple. But in this moment I felt certainty it was a psalm written for or by travelers facing a mountain trek. Shir lama’alot, “a climbing song,” full of assurance to or petition from the traveler on a perilous journey, an assurance or petition that our difficult roads be divinely companioned. Shir lama’alot, esa eynai el heharim. “I lift up my eyes to the mountains.” Which I began to hear as, “Get your eyes off of your feet and see where you are.” Good spiritual advice and good hiking advice.

The psalm goes on to offer or ask for Divine alertness. “Your feet will not stumble.” “Your hands will not burn from the sun.” And closest to my heart, literally, Havayah yishmor et nafshekha. “The Divine will take care of your breath.”

The words and melody began going through my head and it became my walking song for the day, a litany to calm the traveler’s rattled nerves. I faced Apu Salkantay. I asked permission for passage. And I offered Psalm 121.

We began our ascent. Again, I instantly fell to the back of our group, struggling with my steps, trying to drink water, sucking on coca leaf candy, which gives energy and addresses oxygen deprivation. I was grateful for the hiking poles that America Worden had lent me, which are a little like having a portable stair railing to lean on, to haul oneself up with, to balance against. With the hiking poles, I began hoisting myself from rock to rock on the trail, avoiding the messy mud between them, until Oren, watching my hard work and struggle, said, “Irwin, you have to walk in the mud.” And I realized that I was working twice as hard choosing and hoisting myself on rocks than I needed to be, out of an unconsidered instinct not to get my shoes muddy. That was the moment I let go of vanity, and my shoes have never been the same.

The hike to Salkantay Pass would be four-or-so hours up and six hours down, not counting breaks. I shuffled on, step after breathless step, trying to lift my eyes like the psalm instructs and to see the magnificence all around me. When I was gasping for breath and couldn’t go forward anymore, I would stand still, lower my head, and wait until the sound of the river rushing by was louder in my ears than the pounding of my heart. Eventually I wasn’t paying attention anymore to my heartbeat and breath. I would find myself calmed and relaxed and able to go on.

I became a bit separated from my companions and our guide. Then suddenly the narrow rocky trail gave way to a vast plain – green and lush and muddy from rushing water and littered with boulders. This is Salkantaypampa, the plain of Salkantay. On some of these boulders hikers had built cairns or left traditional offerings of coca leaves. These did not seem to be markers of achievement – hey, look I made it. They were offerings, devotional artifacts left in this great green theater presided over by the snowy Salkantay Peak; offerings left on stones that have probably always been considered sacred.

There in this meadow I found the others and we rested and ate. We tore into packets of an intense and sweet nutritional supplement called Gū, which had been recommended by Rabbi George. With the consistency of pie filling, it fills you with fast energy for the next leg of your journey. I had tried one the previous day and found it too disgusting to swallow. Today though, struggling and depleted, I could not be so choosy. My brother-in-law Elon noticed with amusement that we had all packed Gū in different flavors. I responded with the kind of arcane joke my character Winnie used to offer up on stage. I turned to the others and said, “Chacun à son Gū.” It was a ridiculous joke and was met with blank faces and a stony silence, just as it is being met right now.

At last it was time to continue. We were close to the summit of the pass. The others set off, but our guide held me back to talk to me. There was a horse here that could take me this last bit of the trail to the summit. Would I like to do that if this climb was too much for me? I knew that I had become the old man, a bit of a curiosity. I knew that the group’s pace was determined not by the fastest, but by me, the slowest. I knew there was no shame in getting on the horse, although sitting in riding posture for the last steep rocky ascent sounded painful in its own particular way.

Many thoughts raced through my head. I had not come on this trip on a dare. It was not a test. I have no macho credentials to uphold. There have been many things in my life that I have completed and many things in my life that I have left incomplete, some for good reasons and some for bad, and some of those haunt me. I did want to do this. I wasn’t trying to prove anything to anyone including to myself, but I had committed to this path, this literal path. I wasn’t done with it yet and I wanted to move the needle just a little bit on what I imagined I was capable of. “No,” I said. “I think I want to do this on foot.”

I took a last suck on my tube of Gū. We caught up to the others and the guide placed me in front now to set the pace for the last steep ascent. I turned to Oren and Elon and Doron and said, “Move over boys, Tanta Winnie is driving.” And we took off.

Within a half hour we had reached the top and it was glorious — there was glory in it. The weather had held and the sun shone brightly on the snowy face of Salkantay Peak and on us just beneath it. The views were magnificent, and the trekkers, those athletic Europeans and adventurous young Americans, were elated, taking pictures, faces full of joy.

I was elated too. We were at over 15,000 feet, on this spot where Earth itself was reaching for the stars. I had never stood this far from the center of the Earth and I’m reasonably sure I never will again.

We rested our legs. We took all the requisite photos next to the altitude marker. And then we did a ritual – the four of us, and our beloved guide, and the 30-year-old couple who rounded out our group and supplied the much-needed heterosexual demographic.

I had planned to offer some private ritual, thinking no one else would go for it. Then our guide piped up, saying that sometimes people leave gratitude offerings, often coca leaves. I revealed that I had brought chocolate from home specifically for this purpose. Caramel and sea salt. Now bringing chocolate to Peru is a bit like carrying coals to Newcastle. But it was manufactured in the US and I had purchased it at the Penngrove store, so it did represent home. At our guide’s direction, we began to collect rocks and build a kind of box or vault into which we could place our offering. We circled up and I addressed Apu Salkantay directly, offering gratitude for the permission to pass, and for the magnificent weather, and for minding our steps, easing our path, and giving us the opportunity to feel awe this sharply. Each of us broke off a piece of chocolate and placed it inside the stone vessel. Then Oren looked at me quizzically and said, Shehecheyanu? I was glad he requested it, because I wasn’t going to impose it on this mixed group. I opened my mouth to say, Brukhah at Shekhinah, which is how I make blessing when I’m alone, but in that moment what came out was B rukhah at Pachamama, that is, the Incan earth goddess, the closest equivalent to our Shekhinah, in that way that the Divine Feminine finds its way to emerge in every spiritual tradition, whether suppressed or uplifted.

B’rukhah At Pachamama, shehecheyatnu v’kimatnu v’higiatnu lazman hazeh.

It had taken us four hours to ascend to this peak experience. I felt proud and uplifted. So much focus had been on the ascent that I’d given virtually no thought to the descent — over six hours of it. I hadn’t given thought to how much harder the descent would be on our bodies, nor on how fast a clip we would have to maintain to make it down by nightfall, by Shabbos, which comes quickly and like clockwork this close to the equator. And indeed the descent was brutal, taxing every part of the bodies; and indeed, by the end we were hiking in the dark. Our guide was now taking up the rear to make sure I didn’t get left behind, like Julie Andrews crossing the Alps, minding the Von Trapp children.

In the subsequent days there were more adventures and delights and dangers and those are stories for another time. Mostly, at that high altitude, I felt the proud, protective spirit of the land touch the protective magic of Psalm 121, and it was a harmonious meeting. Incan apus and Jewishly-named angels speaking to each other across time and glorious space. Oren says the key to transformation is pushing yourself beyond your limits. I don’t know if that’s true. But I did push myself beyond my limits. Whether I am transformed only time will tell.

And now I sit here again, at home at Ner Shalom, with the mud of Salkantay still on my shoes and the thin, chill air of the Andes in my lungs. As I drive up Sonoma Mountain tonight to sleep in my own bed, I will lift my eyes to the Mountains, taking my attention off the mechanics and remembering the cosmic vastness of Heaven and Earth. Shir lama’alot, esa eynai el he-harim, me’ayin yavo ezri. A climbing song. I draw my eyes beyond the mountains. From the vast, sweet nothingness behind the everythingness, I will find the help I need.

Gratitude to George and Laura Gittleman for the prep sessions, America Worden for the poles, and Adam Shemper for the practice walks. YJéguel Camasa is the best guide ever – skilled, nimble, caring, and well versed. Thank you to Edwin Espinoza Sotelo, Rocío, and Flor at Refugios Salkantay. Sonia and Samir in Mollepata were gracious and generous hosts. Natalie and Drew added great humor and fun to tough climbs and predicaments. And to Oren, Elon, and Doron for pushing me to say yes and making every moment so worthwhile.