Chronicles of the Wayward Moot

WELCOME TO THE MOOT, oh world-wanderers and word-whisperers. After two years of Peace Corps. After 2,200 miles on the Pacific Crest Trail. What. Comes. Next?


More pictures from the trip to the ruins last week. Here is a fantastically colored beetle that I thought was a leaf at first. Reminded me of an Edgar Allen Poe story called The Gold Bug. This little guy didn't look real. That little guy? I wouldn't worry about that little guy!

Here the atmosphere was misty and wet and altogether spooky, like we were hiking through a time warp. Everything dripped with moss and vegetation and there was no sense of our altitude or what century it was. Cold cotton air hung onto all of existence, thick to walk through, thick to breathe. We were getting close to the ruins of an ancient lost people and we could feel it. This big boulder was about two minutes walking distance away from the ruins...

Heres where we ate lunch in the drizzle. U can't tell in this pic, but centuries ago this was some kind of important field for games or rituals. Maybe they made sacrifices of virgins on this very rock!?!?!

Miguel looking out over some of the overgrown ruins, thick heavy walls of piled irregular stones, squares and rectangles of muted history, trying to tell their stories before the shrubs and mosses and grasses overtake them. We tried, but we could hear very very little.

The sodden author atop ruins he wouldn't be allowed within fifty feet of if they were in the United States.


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