We had only gone a quarter mile off the main road before our first river crossing. We surveyed for the shallowest route then gunned the tiny car through the water. This was only the first of many crossings as we climbed steadily into the Andes. The view around each corner made our hearts stop anew. We pointed toward soaring condors; jumped out to photograph large, hairy tarrantulas; and waved down drivers of large-wheeled vehicles to ask, "are we still pointed toward Cachi?" in Spanish. And such a reward when we arrived. A special town with a playground in the park, children everywhere, a smiling man who served us dinner then coffee at a different cafe in the morning, arid peaks soaring above the cobblestone streets, and a museum with stunning pre-columbian petroglyphs.