Aloft from Santiago’s airport after sleepy hours of there-too-early waiting: Hills lie waded and plunked on a tiled floor of green and grit. Rivers plow restlessly, their knotted swaths the sum of past indecision. But as we bank eastward the hills become everything—become mountains—with rivered veins and man-made tracks etching out meager horizontals. Drama builds as uncontainable black crags pierce the snow's amelioration, propelling its white—and that of its nebulous source—to near painful brightness.
It doesn't last. As we breach the peaks the snow loses climatic stamina and recedes to whirls and slivers burrowed in shadowing creases. The ground returns, reddish brown and partially parched to tan. Folds and furrows relent to molds and wrinkles before calming to gentle modulation. And like that we’re across and the Andes’ one-act play is complete. Man rekindles his tracings, lakes add blue to clouds’ clear shadows, and God’s lines wriggle and rope as the landscape recomposes for less dramatic endeavors.
Aloft from 
