Darkness hovers around me as I wrestle with my alarm and force my feet to feel the chill of the bare cement floor to make sure I don’t snooze my way back into oblivion. With numb fingers, I slip into yesterday’s dusty clothes and lace up my sneakers.

The sky is just beginning to lighten as I pull the gate and hear the click of the latch behind me. Seeking heat anywhere I can get it, I slide my gloved hands into my pockets and burrough my chin into the wool of my new alpaca scarf. A moto-taxi sits idling on the near deserted street as I whisper a “Buenos Dias” to a stooped woman taking determined steps in the direction of the market with her wares wrapped in a bright blanket and bundled at her back.

When I enter the Plaza D’Armes, the sun has just begun its crest over the mountain and the sound of a women sweeping refuse from the weekend festivities into a faded green dustpan echoes through the stillness. My fellow volunteers filter from the various streets of their host family homes and we congregate by the cold metal of a green bench until we head en-masse to the Grifo (gas station) to find a ride up towards the brightening sky.

We pile into a rusted station wagon and the driver carves around the mountain side until it feels like we have reached the other side of the clouds and then he abruptly cuts the engine. We alight onto the dewy grass and one of the volunteers immediately has to put his head between his knees as he seeks oxygen in the thin air.

From behind the hills, a pint-sized man appears in the distance. When he finally gets close enough to be life-sized, I see patches of caked on dirt on his faded navy trousers and notice the haphazard way the collar of his aging winter coat disappears in a fold at his neck. He flips through a tattered notebook and speaks to the ProWorld Site Director in a blur of Spanish and Quechua (the local language of the Peruvian Andes).

A few minutes later, the English translation filters through the still quiet morning. The two families we were scheduled to meet are not ready for us. I can’t blame them. It’s 7am on a Monday morning after the biggest fiesta weekend of the year.

We are high in the hills above Urubamba in the tiny community of Tambococha. Our task is to gather data for the new Healthy Homes Project; the plan is to implement a variety of initiatives to improve the overall living conditions and health of families in the community. But first, ProWorld wants to understand the true needs of the community. Once the data is collected, volunteers will get involved in a variety of initiatives including building cleaner burning stoves and distributing ProWorld built water filters so people in the community will have access to clean drinking water.

The challenge this morning seems to be finding people to talk to. After more rapid fire conversation between our Peruvian ProWorld Site Director and the President of the Community, they both turn and walk towards the rising hill. We follow them up a set of rocks, panting like thirsty dogs because of the altitude, and come to rest outside of a simple wooden and brick structure. The President asks us to wait for a moment while he speaks to the occupants of the house. We collapse to the grass or grapple to pull our water bottles out of our backpacks while staring in awe at the snow capped mountains in the distance.

A few moments later, he motions for half the group to follow him even further up the craggy hillside until we reach a few simple structures scattered against a backdrop so beautiful, it almost can’t be real. A woman in a round pleated skirt steps out from the darkness of the doorway to greet us. Her silver braids hang down to the middle of her chest and with her rounded shoulders, made worse by years working in the potato fields, she doesn’t look taller than 4’2″. In words I can’t understand, our Site Director asks if she would mind answering a few questions. The woman smiles and the leathery skin around her eyes crinkles into soft ridges as she nods her consent and greets each of us with a kiss on the cheek.  Afterwards, she steps back to adjust the top-hat on her head – her only protection from the sun’s powerful rays. A tethered pig grunts and the wind rustles through the trees and I can’t help but glance down and notice the blackness of the mutli-layers of dirt between her bare toes.

As she speaks, it’s the beauty of each wrinkle on her face that captivates me. I study each line like it’s a lesson, wishing I could speak enough Quechua to rest my back against the lean-to kitchen as I ask her what life is really like up here above the clouds. With 77 years lived in these hills, she would have so much to teach me. But, with our questions answered, we must say our goodbyes and retreat back to the waiting cars.

Soon I will leave these hills miles behind and head for Costa Rica. With only one project left, my Adventure of Hope is winding down and it won’t be long before I re-immerse myself in the rhythm of daily life in the Western World. Perhaps, I will get caught up trying to figure out how to earn an income; coveting a new pair of jeans; or sitting at a Starbucks sipping a cappuccino as I juggle 20 different tasks on my to-do list.

But, I hope that I will always remember the crinkly papery skin surrounding her hazel eyes and the pure beauty of this moment.

I won’t oversimplify it by suggesting we give up our creature comforts and move to the Andean mountains (although the photos might tempt you, as the vistas have tempted me), but I will say that I feel grateful to have spent time here in the stillness; witnessing the rawness and realities of daily life. I also feel incredibly grateful that I can continue to share these moments with you. I hope that the next time I get caught up worrying about something immaterial, I will remember this Andean woman’s beautifully weathered face and catch myself before I overcomplicate my thoughts or my actions. I hope I will come back to the moment that the early morning sun warmed my face and a woman I will never see again taught me a life lesson without having to say a single english word.