Huayhuash mornings. Wake up. Rub your eyes until all the dry gunk let's them open. Unzip your tent to go to the bathroom you've been holding on to all night because you didn't want to get out of your sleeping bag. Almost trip over your tent stake as you amble to find the spot of your calling to relieve yourself. Look up. Verbally utter holy s**t. It's the best routine I could ask for. The Andes provide it daily.