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Did I miss it? Am I too late? I take a seat on the curb to contemplate my next move. I feel the uneasiness of the unknown surface in my stomach before spreading to consume my body. Dawn has yet to break as I step aboard the empty bus I had believed forgotten me. I ease my way down the aisle, judging row after row for the seat that will suffice. I secure a window view, slouching into the seat and leaning back to prop up my knees. With headphones in, I play a melodramatic tune and reflect on the stresses that keep me distracted from the present. This is my first solo trip, ever. My intention is to spend this trip connecting with myself. While I tap my foot to Liability by Lorde, I gaze out the bus window and watch the hustle of the community as they settle into their daily routine. My focus is disrupted by her presence. She points to the empty seat next to me. I offer her a weak smile and nod my head. Tentatively, she eases into the seat. Buzz cut. Baggy army cargo pants. Military backpack. Butch. I am intrigued. We have approached the national park entry. There is an unexpected delay. We make eye contact, equally displaying curiosity. She initiates conversation, my voice is raspy as I speak my first words of the day. I learn she has shared German and Belgium nationality. She speaks of times serving in the Belgium army. She expresses her contempt for Germany and for her parents. I do not pry, I just listen. Tour guides begin to call the names of their group members. My name is never called. Have I been forgotten, again? The intriguing woman is concerned for me, “What about Clare?” she asks. The request surprises her guide. He glances at his crumbled paper before calling me to join their team, Pachamama. I feel obliged to her. The descent into the canyon is steep. I nearly fall on a handful of occasions. I am impressed by her elegance and pace. She becomes my companion and we exchange stories. Does this count as a solo trip? I have settled in the bottom of Colca Canyon. It’s nearly dusk and the mosquitoes are out for blood. I gorge on spaghetti and marinara before strategically preparing my clothes and backpack for the morning ascendant. In a flash the alarm sounds, it is already 4 a.m. I sit on the edge of my bed rubbing my eyes then stretch my body as I yawn. I manage to swallow a few bites of banana despite having no appetite. I doubt my ability to survive the ascendant. I fear letting Pachamama down, letting her down, letting me down. The only light on the trail comes from the reflection of the stars. The shuffling of feet on the gravel grows louder as more teams join the 3-mile zigzag trail to the top. I sense her slow her pace so that we are walking together. I feel guilty for holding her back, I urge her on without me but she refuses. My body’s fatigue intensifies with the sun’s heat. The top of the canyon surfaces into view. I look below, confounded by my progress. Though my mind is telling me to rest, she keeps me distracted, speaking to me about nothing relevant but all things important. Her determination to persist propels us to the finish line. I collapse on the ground and close my eyes to relish in the moment. My body is overcome with feelings of hunger, thirst, and exhaustion. Too soon I hear, “Pachamama!” With eyes still closed I attempt to sit up, but my body does not move. The breeze hits my face, cooling my sweat. I open my eyes slowly to see her hand reaching out to me. Without exchanging words, she lifts me to my feet. I realize that I needed her, not a solo trip.