The culprit to my insatiable desire: fascinating and enticing television programs displaying this uncommon union of natural with man-made beauty. A union made manifest by the Incas, the worthy imperial masters of the Andes, who flourished throughout most of the South American mountain range from approximately 1400 to 1533 AD. In addition to their commonly known architectural contributions, such as temples, citadels, and irrigation systems, my imagination and soul were stirred by the Incas' (and their predecessors') impressive and varied art, vibrantly colored and intricately patterned weavings, and captivating music and dance.
The other contributor to my learned (and innate) attraction to this place was reading and studying the many histories of Latin America, particularly those of Peru. Thus, Machu Picchu, the Cuzco Region, and greater Peru have become an unrelenting passion, my passion.
Until you have set foot onto the Machu Picchu site, or in any other location throughout the Andes mountains, it's impossible to imagine such beauty, such grandeur, such a heavenly ambience in one natural setting. Machu Picchu still ranks high on my list, given the other sense-inspiring and -awing vista areas to which I've journeyed in other parts of the Andean region.
In the case of this four-day and three-night venture (which forms the typical Sacred Valley to Machu Picchu trip via the "Inca Trail"), of which I had the honor of taking in December of 2008, few of my previous trekking adventures would stand up to the magnificent sights and experiences lived here on the road to the "Old Mountain," (the English translation of) Machu Picchu.
From Kilometer 82, a half-hour past the alluring and historically-important Sacred Valley town of Ollantaytambo, this adventure begins.
From Kilometer 82, a half-hour past the alluring and historically-important Sacred Valley town of Ollantaytambo, this adventure begins.
It was a warm day, with clear skies, and an air filled with excited anticipation. In addition to me, the only North American, there were two Argentines, three Spaniards, two Germans, two Frenchmen, one Englishman, and one Irishman. Sounds like the start to a really long joke, huh? But really... The beauty of a trip like this is that, like it or not, you will assuredly get to know the characters in your group.
Fortunately, this bunch was very familial given the influence of a certain few: namely, the Spaniards and Argentines. More than anyone else on the trip, these nationals put the "close" in close-knit. Invariably, they were the ones enraptured in conversation, while the "northerners," (the Germans, English, Irish, and, to a lesser extent, the American - the writer) were more comfortable being reserved, uncertain about the open nature of conversation and intermingling.
From the beginning, there were fluid vibes flowing between almost all involved. Almost, I say, because one of the Germans, a woman in her fifties, was quite unbalanced and, at once, stood out for strange.
From the beginning, there were fluid vibes flowing between almost all involved. Almost, I say, because one of the Germans, a woman in her fifties, was quite unbalanced and, at once, stood out for strange.
I, fortunate as I am, and given my "un-paired" status for the trip, was the beneficiary of a three-night, two-person tent-stay with this woman, who, as it turns out, was really very sweet and was only a little weird given either her, as might say the psychologist, questionable psychological state, or her, per the spiritualist, extreme sensitivity.
The others, not having this intimate mode of communication like myself, never truly understood this woman. And, unfortunately for the cohesiveness of the unit and, more generally, for humanity's sake, most didn't even attempt to crack her code.
To illustrate. Her insanity was awkwardly revealed before the entire group met. Just outside of the colonial-era doors of my Cuzco hostel, Hospedaje Iquique, at 5:00 a.m. stout, I stood wearily waiting inside the hostel. There was a firm knock at the door. Trembling, less by the shock of the hand-to-wood than by the early-morning rise, I scrambled on the hostel's ancient wood floors to gather my prepared gear and address the hostel attendant. After giving my despedida (goodbyes) to Raul, the trusty son-of-the-owner, I scampered out the door with an air of determination.
A preface is needed, here. Just four days prior to the proposed four-day jaunt to Machu Picchu had I returned from my painfully arduous yet divine four-dayer to the hallowed region of Choquequirao, the sister site of Machu Picchu.
A preface is needed, here. Just four days prior to the proposed four-day jaunt to Machu Picchu had I returned from my painfully arduous yet divine four-dayer to the hallowed region of Choquequirao, the sister site of Machu Picchu.
This particular trek was discussed in a previous article. For the unfamiliar, here's a synopsis. It goes as follows. Upon dropping an unnecessary (in the end) anti-malaria pill after dinner on the last night of our journey, I, two quick hours forward, was bombarded with stomach tremors that I'd not soon forget. Regrettably, the illness manifested rampantly from the outset and subsisted for an eternity.
The successive foreshocks were rapid, stuttered, and wicked. This bodily atrocity was followed by the gut-wrenching and -emptying climax, which both won-out any hitherto hope for a peaceful trek finale and was a constant for roughly the next six hours: during every step of my 6,145 ft. zig-zag ascent up the mountain wall. Hence, the real victor of this hike was determined at 3:30 a.m. on the final morning, just up from the abysmal flows of the great Apurimac River (home to some of the deepest river ravines in the world).
The catalyst: The Great Climax of Atahualpa's Revenge, or, to me, at the very least, a variant of it. Though, luckily, as I deathly puttered my way up the inclinous (note: my word) ascent, dubious of the chances of its completion, and just on the edge of what felt like imminent death, my health surprisingly and slowly started to improve. And, by faith, prayer, and surrender I was ultimately victorious in finishing the trek with my life still attached.
For the subsequent three days, I rested, resigned from the sickness I had acquired. Alas... On the heels of a 72-hour near-comatose status, it was on the fourth day that my body rose, in halfhearted anticipation of my maiden journey to Machu Picchu on foot.
Back to the origins of the current story:
It was still 5 a.m. stout. That's when I met Lionel, one of the tour agency guides. He immediately appeared to me upon opening the heavy, ancient front hostel door. I was promptly introduced to Elizabeth, the "crazy" German lady alluded to, above. With respect to the latter, I knew this woman for loony as soon as I listened to her painful and successively unsuccessful struggles to utter even a few simple words...in any language. She grappled, first, in what sounded to be broken, attempted Spanish. No luck, there. Her follow-up was marked by a cursed something; an utterance probably unintelligible even in her native German. Then, the final attempt: English. The lingua franca the world over. And, there we were! We had a winner! And, like I said, I already had her for crazy...
In wasting no time whatever, Elizabeth, Lionel, and I sought out the other members as we briskly strolled through the early-morning, narrow stretch of street, with all its architectural magnificence that is La Recoleta. We continued in the direction of the Plaza de Armas, the jewel of the city of Cuzco. Before that, though, we veered to the left onto Avenida Ruinas, one of my favorite long Cuzco blocks. While Lionel and I rapped about those to be collected along the way, the chosen collector vehicle arrived: a plush Mercedes Benz tour bus, not an untypical sight in touristy Cuzco.
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Our trio, plus a few other workers, were the initial passengers on the bus. As such, I looked around and cordially greeted the others. Both were porters, the indominable heroes of all journeys along the Inca Roads and other roads. One of the porters was older, likely in his 50s, and had a spark of life in his eyes, which were planted into a face, weathered and leathered, certainly, from years of hauling around the weight of tourists. His character was amiable and innocent, as was evident in judging from our initial greeting. The other porter was much younger, just as strong and, in all likelihood, more durable than his twice-the-age cohort. I'd say that the latter porter was aged probably around 25.
The bus rode on through the frigid, early-morning cobblestone streets of Cuzco, en route to the Plaza de Armas.
There, in the majesty of the still Plaza, we were joined by an Irishman and an Englishman. Moments later, a few more group members came. Then another. Then three more. Then finally, the all-important last two. This latter pair, as we were to find, would dually be the connectors, given the German and Spanish make-up of this duo, to the grave language barrier existing in its incipient stages between Elizabeth and most certainly the rest of the universe! Thank you, Stefan and Carla.
Inside, as the bus sped away, some of us reluctantly mixed. Others didn't speak at all. And still others visited leisurely as our bus began its long ascent up the looping switchbacks on the outskirts of the grand basin of Cuzco.
Once upon its perch, the views from high atop this basin are worthy of an extensive respite. But, per the necessarily-strict schedule of the tour agency, we pressed on, exiting the Cuzco basin rim.
The multilayered landscapes opposite the threshold were even more wowing than the previous ones. The area before and around the Chinchero area, the largest town just outside of the old Inca capital, is one of many homes to heaven-on-earth in the Andes Mountains. From its pungent scents of fertile, lush soil, to its blessed sights of far-away perched lakes, myriad mountain peaks, and dreamy, layered horizons, Chinchero has it all.
Our relaxing trail brought us to and through the town of Chinchero (12,345 ft.), past the turnoff to Moray and Maras (home to very worthy Inca ruins, like all of the other towns mentioned), and zigzaggingly down the mountain and into the Sacred Valley city of Urubamba (9,420 ft.). In Urubamba, we skipped the various town and ruin pleasures there, instead opting to plow our way through, along the river of the same name: Urubamba. The Benz, as if skipping on water, flowed past the early morning traffic of the city. Scant a half-hour onwards, we climbed the cobblestoned, ramped road that approached the outside walls of the holy city of Ollantaytambo (9,160 ft.).
All on board, now identifiable by their respective accents, were amazed at the views before us: the tall post-Conquest wall (protecting the city inside) made from quarried rock from a nearby mountain, the cobblestone road leading to the city's entrance (twentieth-century creation to add a bit of historical flair to the city), and the subtle view of reed-made roofs rising just over the top of the great surrounding
wall.
Our collective amazement continued inside the walls of the city as we made our way to the main plaza of this, as it were, quaint town. At the nucleus, we joined the herd of already-parked tour buses, chomping at the bit to take in the unique mountain scenery. We filed out of our bus to take advantage of this and to jump on the opportunity to buy supplies and eat breakfast. I opted for the second choice. And, to my luck, my new best friend was there, front-and-center: Elizabeth...
So I decided to put lemons to correct use.
Following a couple moments of non-verbal sign-making, we settled for and ate at an outdoor restaurant on the opposite side of the plaza. To retreat from my already harsh treatment of this woman (i.e. the use of demeaning language in this current piece), I must say that I take a particular liking to the anomalous and unusual, people such as Elizabeth. I find that, if nothing else, they make great entertainment and potentially indispensable characters for whatever creative endeavor: be it essay, movie, or just plain-old comic relief to lighten a low mood. As I was to find during my breakfast, and during the following three-plus days, my new German "girlfriend" was to contribute-a-plenty to her role!
Breakfast was odd and funny. Uncomfortable silences followed by engaging conversation on the history of the region, spiritual insights, the tastiness of what was on our plates, and whatever else came up. I found it quite easy to talk openly with Elizabeth and found her to be, despite my initial perceived misgivings of her, very cool, albeit in still a "crazy" way. (Refer to the picture below, showing Elizabeth contentedly present in Machu Picchu, with Huayna Picchu perched in the near distance.)
Thirty-minutes on, we rejoined our group and reboarded the bus. While the Benz led us toward our starting point at Km. 82, we were privy to yet more exhilarating views and breathlessly majestic landscapes. During the devotion, an insight came through me. It's curious that upon witnessing and relishing such beauty in the form of sights that fully define this Andean billing, one becomes, oddly, almost immune to them. Essentially breathtaking sites/sights seem to lose some of their alluring punch and, thus, perceptually reduce in the pot of melting vistas, albeit divinely accented.
Once at the anticipated Km. 82, we departed our trusty (and stylish) Benz to briefly explore the environs. Within seconds, we were flocked to by a small flock of vendors, looking to capitalize off of the arriving capitalists. I, by that point, had become immune to their familiar calls and offers, opting, instead, to stand back and reply, on occasion, with a short "no, gracias." This proven technique, coupled with ignoring looks into the distance, always worked, especially when used triply with a hint of patience. In the end, I was magically left alone. Following our guides' quick, rehearsed pep-talk, colored with the detailed hues of safety disclosures, our adventure began!
Like any good tour to lands infested by hordes and herds of tourists, a team picture was entirely necessary prior to the outset. The group of twelve gathered jovially around the official Km. 82 sign bordering the train tracks, which was the "Cheater's Road" (A.K.A. the train, originally, from Cuzco, with destination Machu Picchu, which takes a quick four hours). "Cheeeeeese!, Whiskeyyyy!" and whatever other equivalent, were uttered, giddily celebrating our entry onto this ancient road of glory.
Once at the anticipated Km. 82, we departed our trusty (and stylish) Benz to briefly explore the environs. Within seconds, we were flocked to by a small flock of vendors, looking to capitalize off of the arriving capitalists. I, by that point, had become immune to their familiar calls and offers, opting, instead, to stand back and reply, on occasion, with a short "no, gracias." This proven technique, coupled with ignoring looks into the distance, always worked, especially when used triply with a hint of patience. In the end, I was magically left alone. Following our guides' quick, rehearsed pep-talk, colored with the detailed hues of safety disclosures, our adventure began!
Like any good tour to lands infested by hordes and herds of tourists, a team picture was entirely necessary prior to the outset. The group of twelve gathered jovially around the official Km. 82 sign bordering the train tracks, which was the "Cheater's Road" (A.K.A. the train, originally, from Cuzco, with destination Machu Picchu, which takes a quick four hours). "Cheeeeeese!, Whiskeyyyy!" and whatever other equivalent, were uttered, giddily celebrating our entry onto this ancient road of glory.
Others chatted as we leisurely scooted along the well-marked dusty dirt trail.
There was a stop made a Llaqtapata (8530 ft.). The first part of the site previously functioned as a storage house, with the surrounding plots of land used to grow necessary produce. The other part that we saw was an immaculately-preserved stone lookout structure, which provided incredible views of a breathtaking tri-valley area. These stops, with education given by the expertise of our three tour guides, provided us a wonderful experience and contributed to an undemanding yet informative first day of the trek. Our eventual first night's stop was at the last "community," until past Machu Picchu, on this stretch of the Inca Trail: Wayllabamba.
The kids only realized my bluff fifteen feet ahead, as my giggle grew to laugh. The other group members joined in this light display of innocent entertainment as well.
We finally reached our first night's campamiento (campsite), when we realized that paradise had, once again, been found. With this splendidly-situated camp spot at Wayllabamba (9,875 ft.), my new international friends and I collectively calmed, allowing the peaceful sights, sounds, and vibrations of undisturbed Nature to flourish.
The groups' eight tents had been set up, each with double-occupancy capability. I promptly claimed my place in one tent. And, following a brief moment of panic while sitting inside that tent, I realized that the lovely and crazy woman from before would be my bunkie: Elizabeth! (Note: In that moment, from somewhere afar, I could hear the crazed psycho-like scream: "Eeeliiizaaabeethhh!!!" Reminiscent of Gargamel's call to Azrael, his cat, especially when the latter had gone missing.)
Oh, yes! And so the primary stages of adventure were set. To my dismay (or, perhaps, to my good fortune, given that I had a girlfriend), I had come very optimistically to the reaches of paradise hoping to share myself with a lovely Brazilian or Spanish girl, only to encounter my pairing with a slightly witchy German loon who would keep me company (and, most likely, keep me honest and, most certainly, on my guard).
Elizabeth entered, unknowing of my sorrow, and unloaded her chosen goods. Meanwhile, I lamented, whilst finishing up the final touches on my end of the tent. Continued bouts of uncomfortable laughter on her part gave way to momentary streaks of silence. Our time to "mix" was stricken with disharmony given her inability to communicate really in any language other than German. We sufficed to settle for third-grade level conversation, until osmosis pushed us out of the tent, in search of the others in the meal-tent.
Inside the fifteen person tent, the lights of the multiple lanterns guided our way to knife and fork. Our lovely dinner, consisting of "I can't remember," was much welcome and very tasty (albeit still a lost memory). As enjoyable as the quality dinner was, the conversation ran the table. Right from the get-go, our group had a certain punch, a connection. The majority of the chatting was in Spanish, thanks to the high quantity of Spanish-speakers in the group, which, in addition to Spaniards and Argentines, also included Stefan, the German, the feminine side of the French Connection, and myself. The events of the night, in sum, included many stories, much laughter and contentment, setting up what would be a common tone during the days and nights to come.
The next morning, God must have breathed an especially sweet breath of air. I woke up refreshed, enthusiastic, and more-than-prepared for the prospects of the day. I got dressed, jumped out of the tent, and walked jovially to the meal-tent.
There, to my blessing, sitting at the tail-end of the long table, having just rolled out of bed, was Carla, the MILF-of-a-Spanish woman! With all due respect to her boyfriend Stefan, the Hamburger, I would have relished penetrating this wonderful woman's world. But, for the time being, we were strictly trek partners, and co-adventurers on the road to Machu Picchu. Accordingly, I resolved to stick to this idea. Yeah, right....like I said, all business.
As this infatuated chaos brewing inside of my skull and percolating in my body more or less subsided, I realized that breakfast was perfect. It was quintessentially Andean: a Cream-of-Quinoa concoction with butter and sugar.
We hit the trail rather quickly, opting to stay close to the well-planned schedule exacted by the tour company. Upon close observation, all other groups (of which there were probably twelve to fifteen) left approximately upon our departure. As we worked our way along the path through the campamiento, in all directions, small hordes of trekkers now appeared. It was almost like a behind-the-line war scene as we saw, for the first time, others from the various companies. We observed tired yet excited faces, inspired and prepped for the experiences to be lived during day-two of the four-day trek to one of the lost cities of the Incas.
Early on, the trekking was smooth, hardly offering a hint of difficulty. The morale was high, as our group visited and got to know each other a bit more. A humorous relationship sprang up between me, the Englishman and Irishman, and the two Frenchmen (one of whom was a woman). It was a mix of dry, subtle English humor (that of the first three members mentioned) and the tactful, mime-like musings of the boyfriend of the French couple.
Michel, a 30-or-so year old chef, living and working in Quebec, was in a similar scenario to "the loon" (who, from early on the second day forward, became known as my "spoon"), for he could only speak French, with very weak English and even weaker Spanish capabilities. Fittingly, Michel was the creator of the "spoon" myth. He wasted no time in breaking any still-present "ice" by mimicking a cuddly object (i.e. me!) being held/supported by the larger spoon (i.e. Elizabeth, who, herself, was much larger than me) while unclearly uttering with a toothy French accent, "spuune...yes? She's yur spune (spoon...yes? She's your spoon)?!"
We hit the trail rather quickly, opting to stay close to the well-planned schedule exacted by the tour company. Upon close observation, all other groups (of which there were probably twelve to fifteen) left approximately upon our departure. As we worked our way along the path through the campamiento, in all directions, small hordes of trekkers now appeared. It was almost like a behind-the-line war scene as we saw, for the first time, others from the various companies. We observed tired yet excited faces, inspired and prepped for the experiences to be lived during day-two of the four-day trek to one of the lost cities of the Incas.
Early on, the trekking was smooth, hardly offering a hint of difficulty. The morale was high, as our group visited and got to know each other a bit more. A humorous relationship sprang up between me, the Englishman and Irishman, and the two Frenchmen (one of whom was a woman). It was a mix of dry, subtle English humor (that of the first three members mentioned) and the tactful, mime-like musings of the boyfriend of the French couple.
Not the least bit offended by the claim/question, I was first to explode into laughter at the Frenchman's hilarious, albeit presumptuous and mistaken, reenactment.
To celebrate this festive chord, skipping was the appropriately chosen mode of transportation for the initial stretch of the hike. Contributing to this mood, set early by Michel's joke, was the altogether breathtaking landscape whose colors and textures were unveiled by the dissipating fog to reveal its hidden beauty in the form of high-exalting mountain peaks in every direction. Added to this, were the low-lying and wide river valleys from the young Andean mountains, accented by ever-winding rivers and streams. These vistas would become more and more commonplace as the day-two trek went on.
That morning, there were a number of deceiving climbs through the high jungle, a micro-climate through which we awed in until the elevation notably increased, eventually leading to the climax of our hike, Abra de Warmi Wanusca, or "Dead Woman's Pass."
The trail to "Dead Woman's Pass" was long, arduous, and borderline decapacitating. Intriguingly, our long ascent began on the same Inca road on which we spent morning to noon meandering through the verdant, wet high jungle and mixed-hued, dry low mountains.
The trail to "Dead Woman's Pass" was long, arduous, and borderline decapacitating. Intriguingly, our long ascent began on the same Inca road on which we spent morning to noon meandering through the verdant, wet high jungle and mixed-hued, dry low mountains.
Notwithstanding, the two- to three-hour climb (depending on one's pace) was singular in focus and goal: ascend the road's endless and well-rebuilt steps, carefully and intentionally, or face accident, by way of slip, or early fatigue, by way of rushing. Thus, one must climb, steadily, and continue to climb. And climb. And climb to the crest at DWP. The zenith, sitting at a (literally) breathtaking 13,776 ft., was the physical and, for the trekkers, the psychophysical climax to the Inca Trail trek and would be the most uncomfortable yet pleasurable (especially upon its completion) stint of the tour.
As we stepped faithfully upwards, awaiting us in stillness, high above, was the small plateau of the dead woman. Surely from there, so monumental a vantage point, the spirit of that now liberated woman sat, leisurely passing each day while watching bemusedly as the nearly-debilitated hordes struggle to reach her tall confines. I, luckily, was one of those so fortunate enough to experience the woman's inclined and altitudinal danger and the concomitant beauty of her splendid heights.
Finally, after much toil, at the top of the mountain pass, the Englishman, Irishman, and I celebrated our arrival. We basked in our incredible feat while sharing our successes with other hikers who came before us and continued to arrive thereafter.
Finally, after much toil, at the top of the mountain pass, the Englishman, Irishman, and I celebrated our arrival. We basked in our incredible feat while sharing our successes with other hikers who came before us and continued to arrive thereafter.
The stout winds broadened, thrusting in what seemed to be a rhythmical pattern. The clouds threatened a change to rain as the landscape promised a stoic continuity as it always had. One of the most beautiful sights blessed us in all directions: from that paramount point, high atop the pass, we could see to each side of the mountain, both back, toward our low-sitting origins in the valley below, and forward, toward the distant yet eagerly-awaiting sacred grounds of Machu Picchu, a day-and-a-half into our collective future.
An hour after our arrival at the DWP, we commenced our descent toward our eventual campsite 2,300 feet below. The entire trail was accented by the unmistakable stone work of the Incas and their predecessors. Since the time of the Incas (and even prior to them), much of the Inca roads have been and still are reconstructed due to the advent and constant presence of hordes of trekkers to this region. According to the Cuzco Regional Government, the official number of hikers allowed on the Inca Road per day is 500 (200 tourists and 300 porters/guides). This rule has been in effect since 2002, with the intent to curtail the physical impact on the ancient stones and steps.
As I talk about in my book, "The Globe Trekker's Club: Adventure Peru," these incredibly shaped stones form roads that could literally (in most parts) fit cars onto them, maybe short of the unmanageable and severe inclines and declines.
I walked in awe of the vibrant mountainscapes covering the entire stretch of our journey. From the back side of Dead Woman's Pass to our arrival at the campamiento in the valley far below, I observed, dumbfounded by the ingenuity, vision, and dedication of all of the minds, spirits, and hands of those that committed their lives to such an audacious architectural endeavor. And to think that this greatness can be seen throughout all of the long, rigid, and magnificent stretches of the entire Andes Mountain Range. All that one must do is look to a map to see the spider-web of roads that stretch and wind their way in a psychedelic train-track formation over and along the monstrous mountain range to truly imagine the centuries of work that have been invested into this miraculous project.
The extent of the Inca Road system is approximated as being 24,000-25,000 miles in its entirety. This includes two main arteries of roads, one coastal and one in the highlands, ranging from northerly Ecuador to the Atacama Desert in southerly Chile. Stretching from the coast of modern-day Ecuador, Peru, and Chile, over the Andes mountains, where it adds Bolivia to the mix, and into the jungles of Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia.
During the 15th century, in particular, the Inca Road's vitality was integral to the expansion of Inca strength and consolidation in the Andean region. After allotting control, in piecemeal fashion, over a strong majority of Andean groups from north to south, coast to jungle, the Incas were able to uphold order (or a semblance of it) over these groups, thanks to the presence of the Inca Road system and its facilities. It wasn't only the Road in itself, but its intelligently-spaced towns and stops, with their storehouses, shelters, and crops, in terms of material phenomena. Not to mention the Road's workers, who worked the land, stocked the storehouses and shelters, and maintained the roads. Add to this, the celebrated movers along the road, the messengers of royal and nonroyal renown, the chaskis.
The chaskis were gifted runners who sped along the Inca Roads in a relay-like system. Their job was to carry royal messages and khipus (the knot-tied accountant/recording string device), among other items, from one location to another.
Between the origin and destination of any one job, usually numerous chaskis would be required to participate. The duration of each leg of relay would be approximately six miles. It was said that around 150 miles could be covered in one day, by roughly 25 chaskis. Accordingly, 1,250 miles could be covered in one week, or the distance between Quito and Cuzco (or vice versa), the two main royal cities in the Inca Empire.
Like always, a practice that became common place during our half-week together, the porters had already set up camp and cook and had begun the preparing the food. I couldn't help but thanked them, heartedly, as I approached our campsite: site number ten out of fourteen.
Later on, I took a much needed "bath" in the small river that cut through the large campsite. We were situated on the flat part of a small canyon (11,480 ft.) that shoots its way down to the invisible Urubamba River valley floor, approximately 3,500 feet below.
Later on, I took a much needed "bath" in the small river that cut through the large campsite. We were situated on the flat part of a small canyon (11,480 ft.) that shoots its way down to the invisible Urubamba River valley floor, approximately 3,500 feet below.
Just up from our site, I could make out Runkurakay, the ruin site that was formerly a lookout and ceremonial area during its active days. The Incas, like most societies who lived (and live) close to the Earth, viewed everything as a whole; there was and is no separation between the sacred and the profane; for all was intertwined into a "holistic" view of life; from a farmer working the land and toiling in its fields, to the aristocracy making over-arching decisions; homage was paid, to whatever degree of faith, on all levels of Andean society.
To me, this and other ruin sites are examples of this holistic vision of life, given the shared use of the structure as ceremonial and practical, sacred and profane. And, even I, the foreigner, the gringo, offered thanks to the Earth for the cool water that fed my replenishing bath session in the close camouflage of the campsite foliage. It's hard to understand, and even more difficult to explain, but in that moment, while staring in quiet observance of this dream-of-a-landscape, I was connected to it all! The Andes Mountains, like any place in undisturbed Nature, have an ability to center even the most unbalanced of souls.
I eventually returned to our campsite with a released attitude ready for the fun of our group's interaction/meal. And, as to be expected, "spoon"-jokes-a-plenty would soon follow!
We awoke on Day 3 with the onset of light. The promise of a fine day was made, forty-five minutes before sunrise, with all a bit tired due to the previous day's hiking intensity. Notwithstanding this collective fatigue, a combination of impending excitement mixed with the byproduct of tired: namely, calm.
Once in that shape, the idea is to blow on the leaves while reciting a prayer. At the end of the recitation, one places the leaves on a rock in an offering to the Pachamama, or Mother Earth.
This beautiful ceremony was a fitting way to start the day and a proper solidifier of our group's already existent and vibrant camaraderie.
After the ceremony, I felt a natural flow of it all: from conversation, to leg stride; from the unfolding of the hike, to each breath taken. The human caravan wound its way along the descending path into greener and greener pastures. At one point I thought to myself, "the Incas and their ancestors were so intelligent. They chose the most chillingly beautiful places to situate their roads, ruins, and rendezvous points."
Given our flux in elevation at varying points between nine-thousand and fourteen-thousand feet, we had passed through myriad microclimates; from above the tree line and dry, to (at this point) within the trees and increasingly lush and wet terrain.
Lionel informed me that the "real" Vilcabamba lay many hours away from the site to which I trekked the year before. I firmly maintained that he was mistaken; that Espiritu Pampa was the site of Vilcabamba, not some place further in the jungle. He insisted that I was in the wrong and that the "real" Vilcabamba lay numerous, arduous hiking hours past Espiritu Pampa. We went back and forth for a bit, and I eventually yielded to his claim, though only outwardly (there was no way that the fantastic and being-wrenching trek that I completed the prior year was a farce. I internally refused to recognize his case).
We pressed on. Our next stop would be a lunch break at a relaxing place along the trail. Prior to reaching this spot, I ventured off into the virgin lushness along the way. I spotted a small ruin area a stone's throw from our history lesson location. There, I climbed the dozen wet stone steps up to the base of the ruin. I then walked solo through the surviving rows of seven-foot walls. This place was so alive with vegetation that it was revitalizing to just take in the air; it also worked on your skin while balancing the external as well as internal. I eventually forced myself to reenter the trail and continue on to our next destination some thirty minutes down the road.
Upon our arrival at the lunch spot, the calmness and slight fatigue was kicking in. The heat of the sun was quite strong, along with my increasing hunger. Once again, we had a wonderful lunch, precluded and followed by an hour or so of fun interaction. One of the three Cuzco-native guides with us was working on her English. Stefan and I were assisting her in translating certain words. It was very satisfying to have this time to share with her, for the role was reversed: it wasn't just guides being guides and tourists being tourists, this girl was actually getting something out of the whole thing.
At lunch, all of the group members visited, really opening up more and more. It was a perfect preamble for what was to come later that night, the third night and the grand finale at the "lodge," just below the entrance to the Sun Gate and Machu Picchu proper.
The rest of the way that day was swift and easy, for we were descending further to roughly equal the elevation of Machu Picchu itself, approximately 8,000 feet. En route to our destination at the lodge, I relished in anticipation the treat coming our way in the shape of shower and beer. In the last mile or so, I met a few non-group members and shared fun and interesting conversations with them. I met a lovely couple from Valencia, Spain, one of my favorite Spanish cities. Upon telling them of my dream to live in Spain and travel all of its lengths and widths, they informed me of their dream, which was to travel to California, my home, and see all of its blessed lands.
At the lodge, which sits some five hundred plus feet below the base of Machu Picchu split by a mountain, it was like arriving to summer camp. All of the other groups' tents were already set up as I walked past them all. Our tent site was toward the end of the grounds, bordering the outside deck of the lodge. Probably built in the eighties or nineties, this lodge was a welcome break from the simplicity of the trail before. Coming from the United States and the enclosed and safe confines of houses, stores, and structures, I somehow yearned to be present at this lodge and to take full advantage of all of the comforts that it provided.
To start, we were offered a shower! Though the lines were long and the sanitation quite questionable (the drains were clogged; surely athlete's foot ran quite rampant), it was incredible to wash the layers of sweat buildup off of me. The second perk was next taken advantage of: beer. They sold beers inside the lodge for about three dollars U.S. and I was there, enjoying the cool refreshing taste of Cuzquena, the beer of Cuzco and the most quality beer in Peru. The third perk: (one that was admittedly off my radar) a special dinner cooked by our magnificent cooks and porters outside of the lodge at the sub-deck open-fire stoves.
That night was a blast. Our dinner was elaborate and consisted of various Cuzqueno and Peruvian traditional plates. Ricoto Relleno, a rice- and meat-stuffed pepper (ricoto) from Arequipa, a city in the south of Peru. The other plates were all impressive, but the most striking of all to everybody seated at our lively table that evening, the art-work of the food. On top of the arroz de pollo plate, and its heaping quantities, was placed an incredible series of cut vegetables in the form of flowers. The crowd response (or that of our group which was the loudest and liveliest of the masses) was of complete awe, bewilderment at the creativity and ingenuity of the cooks.
The entire menu prepared by these culinary geniuses was delicious, especially considering the fact that cooks and porters alike carried all of the materials, foodstuffs, and cooking equipment on their backs! And to think that any of us could've complained about sore shoulders or a painful blister; these guys were machines and the toughest of the bunch. To see the size of the multi-pounds being carried was quite a sight to see. The embolden stoicism etched on their faces. Their physical mannerisms were reminiscent of just about any time in the history of this area. They formed a timeless reminder of just how hard-working and tough one has to be to live in the Andes Mountains. These men were as tough as the terrain in which they lived.
And, needless to say, I thanked them in honor of their extraordinary efforts and skill. In fact, a face-to-face ceremony was held just before the grand dinner to pay homage to our whole crew. Many lovely and heart-felt things were said and a true show of appreciation was given to these men and woman who deserved it so much.
Okay, back to the dinner and the fun celebration in the Trekker Lodge. All were eating, drinking, and conversating. Once the food had been nearly completed, we decided to take the festivities to a higher level. The beer was flowing, on par with our spirits. It came to the point of karaoke time. But, we had one problem: there was no song box to be found anywhere on the site of the lodge. So, like any good, responsibility-assuming person, the lovely Carla offered up the plan of singing our own songs, sans the karaoke box.
As Mitch Miller (the man attributed to be the founder of the modern art, and recently deceased) stirs in his grave as I write this, our Spanish beauty flows forth a haunting and sensual rendition of a flamenco classic. In that instance, it was of no importance the name of the song, the writer, the singer, or historical significance of the song, for I was in heaven, fantasizing of the slow and seductive micro-moments in which my Iberian crush angelically recited those same smooth melodies to me. Eventually, a few minutes after the song had ended, I ever-so-slowly came out of my lolled state of ecstasy. And, as the next singer sang, I was back into my normal reality; not a bad place to be! The rest of the songs were very entertaining, some beautiful and intense, others light and hilarious. In the mood of the latter, I sang mine. My opted-for ditty: the quintessential American song, "Old MacDonald."
I expounded with a hand-clap and foot-stomp in ode to my flatland compatriots of old (and today). Of course, the melody is universal by now, and my friends joined in the romping, with requisite hoots and hollers while we collectively transformed the Trekker Lodge into the bar from Road House. Sweat poured from my forehead as the crowd cheered on. By now, there had developed an audience to our most entertaining of cast of characters as smiles and cheering abounded.
In the end, no regrets were left. Well, actually I had one. If I could turn back time, I would have stayed up late and danced to the night away to the club beats being pumped through the Trekker Lodge. Though most of the trekkers had gone to tents by this point, I still would have liked to have closed the place. With that said, my confessions/regrets are complete.
The next day was the grand ascent to the Sun Gate, over which and further into the distance stood the magnificent outlay of Machu Picchu, the Disneyland of South America! Now I say Disneyland with mixed emotions: a hint of sarcasm and cynicism, a touch of comedy, and, aside from all that and underlying it all, the utmost and most humble respect for this magical place.
At 5 a.m. sharp all of the camps rose like troops ready for their mission impossible into unknown terrain. Like clockwork, we prepared, ate, and promptly left the campsite at the Trekker Lodge. The anticipation level was off-the-charts as we strode along the high jungle trail, moist in all directions from ground to low-hanging and all-encompassing foliage. Most everybody on the trail were chomping-at-the-bit to push the pace to arrive first at the Sun Gate, at which point the fifteen-minute coast down to the ruin site was only a formality. If hikers were lagging in front, those behind them would execute impeccable passes, all in hopes of being the victor. I, too, fervently participated in the rush to be first.
The action that characterized the shadowy and shady jungle-covered ascent up to the Sun Gate symbolized both a perfect preamble and counterpoint to the nonaction found at the arrival to the almighty perch-in-the-sky. Anxiety, stress, and haste accented and colored the mood up the mountain, while peace, serenity, and stillness encompassed us at our arrival to the Sun Gate, with its concomitant view of heaven on Earth: which is, of course, Machu Picchu.
It's as if a collective exhale sounded off as the slow herds of hikers trounced upon the nest-like entrance that invited us to the first official view of the Old Mountain. With the Sun Gate arch anciently accenting the threshold between desolation and civilization (in a New World way; which is always comparable to anything Old World; always!), from lost to found, and from uncertain to certain, this divine view inspires each soul who passes through this segue to pause and cede to this surreality, inescapable for all. And, in spite of its undeserving visual cliche quality (given its ubiquitity, the world over), nobody can take for granted its splendor; on good or bad visibility days, the presence of the father, Old Mountain, and the son, Young Mountain (Huayna Picchu), are forever known and deeply felt notwithstanding any natural attempt to disguise its riches.
From the bird's nest that is the Sun Gate, we marveled at the blessed wide-open view. Today was a perfect day to be here: a few passing clouds, a slight breeze, and unmatched company (in the form of all present). In that instant, high atop the pass, we could see each aspect that lay patched-out below.
The first observation made: the inseparable quality of Machu Picchu (the citadel) and Huayna Picchu; Father and Son. From there, the rest just happens. The various courtyards and structures molded and stretched over the Old Mountain. Falling mountain-sides surrendering to a destination unseen and abysmal. When entering this great human achievement area one must entertain the mighty toil that was expended in executing such an endeavor. Though, in keeping in mind that Machu Picchu was probably a later construction undertaken by the Incas, this project might not have been considered large by the standards of the Incas who, especially during the time of Pachacutec, were enormously prolific and ambitious, architecturally speaking. Regardless of the mindset of the architects and workers of the citadel of Machu Picchu, the place's grandeur cannot be understated or ignored.
I raise this point for one reason only: the fact that we, the trekkers, walked three full days to arrive at the ruin site, while on the other hand many of the day-trippers hopped a train and a bus to get to the gates of the Machu Picchu "Park." Prior to this trek, I had been to Machu Picchu on two other occasions. Both times via train. During those leisurely trips I didn't understand completely the viewpoint that I so fervently hold now, even though I did always feel a subtle emptiness which I now know to be this yearning to hike in the, in my mind, "legitimate" way. Not to take anything away from anybody who opts for the train, but the continuity of trekking for three days and camping out during this time forms a complementary and necessary (I feel) prerequisite to the arrival at Machu Picchu. After experiencing this connection with the environment, the other trekkers, and with myself, I would find it difficult to enter the citadel any other way. What I'm saying is that you must go the "soulful" way: hike in! The result is much more integrous and the sense of connection, pride, and achievement more profound and enjoyable.
So after this point at the top of the Sun Gate, what more can I say?! That Machu Picchu sucked and that I'll never return again because I had the most hellish time during our tour of the multifaceted ruin site? That none of this trek was worth it because of the anticlimactic let-down at the tail-end of our trip?! No...the answer is the most expectant of all: that our jaunt through the grounds of Machu Picchu were an absolute joy; that a calm, special, and more-than-fun time was had by this gringo; and for certain, all the others in the group and in any group for that matter. The one novelty to this trip, given my already-mentioned previous two-time experience with venturing to the site, was the climb to the Young Mountain, Huayna Picchu. This incredible hike was well worth it given the second-to-none result at the top of the youngster. I'll let the view speak for itself...
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