Although little can be done if fate fingers you for a victim of soroche sickness, Jill and I had taken all precautions possible within our power, including ample time for altitude adjustment. But, in a rookie mistake that a now globetrotter like yours truly should've sidestepped, I overestimated the concreteness of my constitution and indulged in an unhealthy amount of chicha. There’s nothing quite like the fear of facing a four-day backcountry climb through the tallest mountains you’ve ever crossed when in a condition that calls for Imodium. Like my final night in Delhi before flying to Addis with stops in Saudi Arabia, this was no time to fall ill, especially after a couple of setbacks in Cuzco… Jill’s iPhone was likely lifted from her coat on a trip through a flea market, and to add insult to injury, her sunglasses went MIA the following day. Malaise was no option. Like in one of the greatest travel movies ever filmed, we the Griswolds were no longer on Vacation, but rather on a quest. Machu Picchu was our Wally World, and we were hoofing it, Andean elevation or Aunt Edna be damned.
Steeped in history and steep stairs, the Inca Trail is the traditional route to Machu Picchu, a precipitous path plied by natives that was never known to the Spanish. Not of much practical use to Peruvians pre-1912, Machu Picchu was "rediscovered" when aboriginal agriculturalists brought a Boola Boola Yale boy through the bush there a century ago. Today, the Inca Trail is the most famous and most crowded route to the ruins, sans the switchback road that brings fair-weather feet to the peak via motor coach. The popularity of the trail can be a turn-off, as well as the price tag. While the walkers are limited to a couple hundred per day, you’re never far from a fellow gringo and camping close to him…making the commodes less like a rustic retreat and more like a bad Bonnaroo trip. Because it is the prima donna of all Peruvian pageantry, the average cost of the affair was more than triple my pseudo-safari through the Simiens of Ethiopia. However, the trail is still the original blaze, and more importantly, those who stroll in the spirit of the indigenous Inca get to watch the sun rise at the site hours before buses begin to arrive.
I wondered if our tour company might be tempting Viracocha by giving us “I Survived the Inca Trail” t-shirts before we even started. But it didn’t take long after leaving the minibus to determine that we’d fortunately fallen in with a good group. Made up of couples on vacation, co-workers, an ex-stepmom with her ex-stepdaughter, and a crew of roller derby teammates, our fellow trekkers were fast and fit, contributing to the overall atmosphere of the journey. Freddie, our animated guide, acted as a loquacious liaison between the more-Quechua-speaking, less-European- looking quartermasters and porters (referred to by the vernacular cheski ) and our mostly English, un poco Espanol cohorts. For reasons unknown, I was one of the few in our crew given a Quechua nickname, Erik-cha.
From day one, the cheski made our fast and fit group look slow and sloppy. Jill and I were unique in having not hired a porter to carry our personal equipment, but that said, the cheski still carried twice as many pounds atop their nearly half-sized frames and swiftly scrambled up and down the slopes in sandals, trumping many a Timberland. The advantage to being outpaced became obvious on our first lunch break. Setting a precedent for piquant plates to come, our midday meal was lavishly laid out away from the elements, and every supper following would be avidly anticipated after a hard day’s hike.
The scourge of soroche broke the stride of one of the Reservoir Dolls roller derby squad, and a teammate compassionately accompanied her on her descent back down. The whole group seemed empathetic to those absent, well aware that any of us could suffer any number of physical setbacks before making Machu Picchu. Our greatest ascent took us through Dead Woman’s Pass, at an oxygen-thin altitude of 13,860 feet…the highest point on the Inca Trail or any other trail I’ve traversed. During a happy hiatus, we celebrated the achievement with a small ceremony dedicated to Pachamama involving sips of sangria, hojas de coca, and a cairn constructed from stones we’d walked up the mountain. Dinner was dark due to the accidental destruction of the mess lantern by a fellow camper. We didn’t know it then, but the incident gave Freddie a perfect set-up. At dinner, with flashlight in face as if a teenaged camp counselor, he talked about tragedies along the trail, and having to carry casualties off of the mountain. All smiles, he continued with a story about a man murdering his wife at our very campsite. We started to pose half-jokey questions as to why Freddie was so morbid. Then, he conveniently flipped his flashlight off, and after a giggly pause as we got wise to the gag, switched it on to reveal a Guy Fawkes mask, a la V for Vendetta. As if this alone wasn’t hilarious enough to a group of physically-exhausted, sleep-deprived, light-headed hikers, he went the extra mile by munching on capsules of fake blood. Maybe it was the altitude, but for some reason I laughed at his sanguineous drool until I got a headache.
The temp at camp was literally freezing, which left my extremities numb thru the night, but this was comforted by tent-side tea service the following morning, courtesy of the cheski. The third day of the Inca Trail is sometimes labeled the hardest, because it is nearly all a knee-knocking descent, and the effects of fatigue may slow you down. However, our group seemed to be thriving and getting along better than ever, both on the trail and with each other. We all knew we were lucky to have had nothing but clear skies and sunshine so far, and this only led to a greater appreciation for the amazing views. Freddie told us this was his first hike where it’d been clear enough to see the stupendous Salkantay glacier in seven months. We walked through cloudless cloud forest, around the nearly as Picchu-esque ruins of Phuyupatamarca and Winay Wayna, and through cave-like tunnels where the Guy Fawkes mask made its return as Freddie ambushed approaching hikers in the shadows, scaring the walking stick out of them.
We were informed that the head chef was celebrating his 40th birthday, and the cheski had prepared a party for him that evening. At first, I met this news with skepticism, wondering if it might be a veiled attempt at increasing tip percentage. Jill was elected as the leader of our group to speak in honor of the occasion, and thank the cheski for all of their hard work. With the help of one of our group to translate into his second language, Jill thanked our chef and praised his culinary mastery while wishing him a happy birthday. If he was only forty, then either Andean anos are longer than American ones, or the years of hard work under the harsh Peruvian sun had aged him. His eyes started to well up with tears upon getting kudos. It was a touching moment.
Although the cheski stayed up late partying with their chef, we all agreed to wake up at 3:45am, hoping to get a good spot in line along the last checkpoint before Machu Picchu, opening at 5 o’clock. Determined not to have wasted our exorbitant admission and our aching ankles, we merited the second position in the queue. In the early morning twilight, we were moving faster than ever before. We overtook the tour group ahead of us, and made an adrenalin-fueled dash to the Sun Gate. There was an almost vertical climb up a stone flight of stairs known as the “monkey steps” that I would’ve liked to have gotten a photo of…but I couldn’t…we were in a hurry.
Seeing the sunrise over Machu Picchu was the icing on top of my whole international excursion. It made me glad I didn’t go west to east, because I might’ve been disappointed with later destinations if I’d seen Machu Picchu right off the bat. But, perhaps the best part of hiking there is the privilege of wandering the ruins in relative privacy for a couple of hours before bus-borne throngs of tourists show up. By noon, the crowds had become almost too much for Jill and I to handle. We returned to Aguas Calientes, a tiny pedestrian-friendly hamlet tucked away along the banks of the Urubamba. Although we would’ve preferred to leave at an earlier time, the only train out of town was hours from departure, so we enjoyed some street musicians while relaxing on a café patio.
We returned to Cuzco via rail and road, accompanied by Darwin, Freddie’s more-Quechua-speaking, less-European-looking apprentice. Once we arrived in Cuzco, our group went our separate ways, and Jill and I walked to our hotel after escorting a fellow hiker to her accommodations. The Inca Trail hike improved our attitudes overall, and marked a nonpareil benchmark of any travel I’ve done anywhere. Although reluctant to leave Cuzco (which remains our favorite Peruvian polis) we were ready, willing and able to light out for Lake Titicaca and our overnight stay on an island made of reeds.
