The journey from the cool, cloud-forested heights of Coroico down to Guanay is a transition of both climate and culture. As you drop in altitude, the air thickens, the vegetation turns a deeper shade of emerald, and the quiet mountain life gives way to the frantic energy of the mining districts.

Our base for the first day was the home of Edgar Kann in Guanay. Edgar was a fixture in the local mining scene, and his hospitality provided us with a front-row seat to the industry that fuels this entire region. Guanay sits at the confluence of the Mapiri and Tipuani rivers, a strategic point where the wealth of the mountains is washed down in the form of gold dust and nuggets.

Crossing the Divide: The Canastilla
One of the most visceral memories of that first day—and a highlight for the kids—was our visit to the mining company’s site. In the Yungas, infrastructure is often a matter of necessity over elegance. To reach the site, we had to cross the river using a cable cart, or canastilla.
There is a specific kind of thrill that comes from hanging in a metal cage suspended by a steel cable, with the brownish, churning waters of the Rio Mapiri rushing beneath you. It’s a moment where you realize how much the people here rely on their own ingenuity to conquer the geography. As a photographer, the perspective from the middle of the river, suspended in mid-air, offered a unique angle of the valley that no bridge could ever provide.

After the adrenaline of the crossing, we settled in for a “hardy lunch” at a riverside patio. The architecture of the region is functional: wooden supports and metal shingle roofs. I can still remember the sound of that afternoon—the distant roar of the river and the occasional “ping” of the metal roof expanding under the relentless tropical sun. It was the perfect moment of stillness in a region that is usually defined by movement and labor.

The Ghost of the Underground Mine
Later that afternoon, we visited the entrance of a massive underground mine. At the time, it was an impressive feat of engineering, a dark maw in the side of the mountain where men sought their fortunes deep within the rock.
We didn’t know it then, but we were standing at the entrance of a site that was about to be reclaimed by nature. Later that same year, a massive landslide occurred a few miles upstream. The mountain literally moved, altering the course of the landscape and forcing the permanent closure of the mine. Looking at the photos in my Flickr album, you can see the entrance as it was—a gateway to the earth that no longer exists. It serves as a somber reminder of how fragile human enterprise is in the face of the Andes’ geological power.