In a flash, the initial heaves began. Each ensuing and myriad aftershock yielded similarly hellish results. After what seemed to be endless declarations of profound sickness, I finally reached a brief moment of peace. With an all fours’ crawl on warm earth, the cold sweat that formerly shot from my forehead like grease splashing from a hot skillet now settled as my temperature quickly followed suit.
At this point, I had nothing more to give as I delighted in this blessed break from the onslaughts. Although I had just vomited everything and was suffering from acute dehydration, I still managed to find time for gratitude as I was present to the heavenly terrain that now seemed to envelope me: omnipotent mountain peaks; abysmal river canyon; the most radical of hillside inclines humanly imaginable. Brushing off my dirty hands (the unavoidable result of my uncontrollable heaves and concomitant fall to the ground) I continued forward.
Well, actually, I continued on aimlessly, with my only point of reference and direction being the ascending trail on which I desperately lunged, ever-so-sickly one step at a time. To say I had heavy feet would be a gross understatement; I was the Universe’s best breathing example of the walking dead!
Two minutes through my “death stroll,” I needed to sit down again. And, after a couple more lifeless steps, I did so. It was on a series of small rocks at the trails edge that I sat, rested and contemplated the prospects of my life. Shortly thereafter, I noticed a man energetically approaching on the trail below. The sporty 30-something man reached me and immediately inquired as to my condition. I couldn’t lie to what was so evident, so I told him the truth. He reacted empathetically to my sorry state by offering me a granola bar and some extra water from his pouch. I gratefully accepted and thanked him. He then made certain that I would be alright and he wished me the best. As if connected to the fountain of youth, my savior skipped on. I, by stark contrast, could do nothing more but watch as he hopped so effortlessly away.
I made my attempt soon after as I treaded lightly entering further into my hallucinogenic trip. As I walked, I wearily observed the trail’s dry amber-colored earth with hints and tints of vibrant illumination. The steep mountain side stretching from so high above, to down, down, far down below had the same psychedelic effect. The outlying mountain peaks, so enormous in size, gloriously jumped into the sky while the sun’s rays began to weigh down upon me as the temperature shot up to the max. My “sweats” turned from cold to hot, and quickly back to cold again. Light-headedness breached and stayed with me for the rest of the day. Indifference marked my experience on this fourth and final day of my trek to Choquequirao, the Inca ruin site located four hours southwest of the city of Cuzco, the former Inca capital.
Previous to day four, my outlook toward this trek hadn’t contained a hint of bleakness. Actually, and ironically, the previous three days of trekking through this radical terrain was nothing short of bliss. And so you may ask: At what point did it all go so wrong?!
In two words: malaria pill. And, well, a couple more words: consuming malaria pill after eating tuna. That’s a “no-no” in the worlds of both biochemistry and trekking, and the formula for a chemical reaction that yields grave results in a matter of minutes. You may also ask: could you have avoided this situation altogether? A simple response: yes. But, the reasoning behind my precautionary consumption of the malaria pills actually sheds light upon the divine, dynamic and microclimate shifting magnificence of this four-day trek adventure through the heart of the Andes Mountains.
The Divine Adventure: Origins, and the Descent of the First “Wall of Eternity”
I met Miguel Angel Delgado Choque when I was making my way to the “Lost City of the Incas,” Vilcabamba, the previous year. We met in the small, Inca trail hub town of Huancacalle (in the Cuzco Region of Peru), where Miky (a nickname self-coined after the epic Rolling Stones’ front man) was working/trekking while documenting trail locations and measurements for the Cuzco Regional Government. We talked briefly, exchanged information, and I, after sensing his integrity and experience, promised to call the following year during my planned return trip to the Cuzco area.
Shoot forward one year.
Miky, Evelyn (Miky’s girlfriend), and I sat while enjoying the long and windy bus ride through the breath-taking Abancay Province of the Cuzco Region. While gazing out into this beautiful space that is the heart of the Andes, I told myself for only the second time in my long history of trips to Peru, “Now this is the real Peru!”
We eventually reached our stop, where we promptly exited the bus. There we stood high atop a panoramic lookout with views of quintessential Andean majesty while considering our next move.
As the cool Andean air passed through my hair, at one point nearly smothering me with its sheer force, I was quickly brought back to reality and reminded that we were on a mission to other pastures, literally. Miky immediately affirmed, "Patricio, vamos por aca! (Patrick, let's go over here!)." Miky referred to the direction opposite the landscape that formed my imaginative Andean dream to the pressing task at hand: the search for transportation to our next stop, the small town of Cachora.
After descending a long, looping road into the basin of Cachora (9350 ft.), our trio unloaded and began a relaxed search for lunch and extra supplies. We found a local Chicheria where we all ate the special of the day. When finished, and, once having denied the many impassioned offers of Chicha (the usually high-alcohol-content corn beer of the Andes) from our waitress at the eatery, we decided to get a move-on.
The trail began on the outskirts of Cachora, at which point a sign read: “Choquequirao, 27 km.” During the next ten minutes, while I considered the easy, flat trail on which we casually walked, add to this the calculated distance of 16 miles to the ruin site, one way, I naively figured "no problem!" Unbeknownst to me, the invisible terrain up ahead held many-a-surprise.
After sensing my "walk in the park" attitude, Miky, with his Cuzquenan (a person from Cuzco) flair, immediately assured me that the "stroll" would only last a few more hours; once we reached the first vista point of the Apurimac Valley, “The Point of No Return,” we would be privy to not only the majesty of this area, but also to the high degree of difficulty characteristic of the trail on which we would spend the next three days of our lives laboriously descending and ascending (and vice verse for the return trip). And just like that, my leisurely fantasies were squelched underfoot!
Just prior to the entry point at the ominous "Point of No Return," Miky, Evelyn, and I observed Mount Veronica, the highest peak in the Urubamba Mountain Range. With frozen and firm glacier solidly intact to and enveloping its peak, and frigid clouds mischievously obscuring our visibility of it, this mountain's heavenly grandeur fell precipitously and abruptly to the invisible floor of the Apurimac River Valley far below. This same river valley, the Apurimac, is debated to be one of the deepest in the world. Upon witnessing this surreal spectacle, our rampant conversation immediately halted as we all gloriously submitted to the unspeakable beauty before us. Just then, I got the chilling picture that what we were about to embark upon was something far more involved and much greater than previously expected.
The first steps through the threshold of "The Point" were hallucinogenic. The sun’s “light and shadow play” on the mountain-scape was so surreal that it couldn't hope to be replicated by even the most talented of Hollywood set designers. The same gargantuan mountain steeps characteristic of Mt. Veronica, were omnipresent and ran the entire length of the valley from right to left, on both sides (or “walls”) of the river valley. The sky was as blue as it gets, with subtle clouds gracing the various glacial peaks of the two long mountain ranges.
Miky then gave us a briefing on what was to come. "Tonight, we camp at the bottom (referring to the bottom of our current 'wall'); on the second day we'll camp at the top of the other side (referring to the top of the opposite 'wall'). After going to Choquequirao in the morning of the second day and spending a few hours there, we will return to the first night's camping spot; on the fourth day we will return to Cachora." Our plans were set; the form had been formed, and now we were ready to descend the first wall!
Now when I say descend, I mean DESCEND! Our arrival to our first night's campsite would be achieved by descending the steeps of two enormous sets of zigzags, measuring six or seven miles in all, with a drop in altitude of some 5,000 ft.
Ignoring my past issues with knee problems, I enthusiastically got to stomping! And so the formula continued for the rest of our evening jaunt: run down hill with long strides for an eighth-mile, reach the end of the leg of the trail, use short, choppy steps to brake and turn the sharp corner, then commence anew until the next corner. I estimate that we cleared about fifty or sixty of these zig and zags until finally reaching the first night's campsite just after dusk.
The next day we awoke early, 5:30 a.m., with hopes of out-running the beating rays of the soon-to-rise sun. We promptly ate breakfast, packed-up our stuff, bought a few products that would hold us over until the next depot four hours away, and left. During the pre-hike procedure, I popped a malaria pill to compensate for the jungle-like microclimate that we were now in; we had descended so far down into the river valley that I perceived this to be a necessary move. As I would find out the hard way later on, this definitely wasn’t the case!
The grand ascent up the next wall was precluded by a smooth and short descent; a nice little warm-up to ready ourselves for the giant and intimidating climb ahead. As before, although to the contrary, when I say ascent, I mean ASCENT! We would first cross the great Apurimac River (4800 ft.) which stood as a threshold to the other wall that stretched up toward the sky with unflinching certainty.
Although I was feeling a bit intimidated by the prospects of the day, I felt strong and energized. I was ready for it! Like always, throughout the duration of the trek, our humor was on full-bore, lending wonderfully to the ease with which we handled seemingly "difficult" circumstances to come.
The Crossing of the Great Apurimac and the Ascent to the Heavens
The crossing of the Apurimac River was reaped with myriad feelings. In one respect, we were joyful to have reached the half-way point of the trek. In another respect, we were saddened after Miky pointed to a cross planted in a series of rocks on the riverside. It was erected to celebrate the life of a Spanish woman who had drowned during the previous wet-season, when the river ran high; a fact that yielded a somber note to our endeavor.
It was March. The weather had cleared. The waves of the Great “Apu” were up, and the trek was on to ascend the opposite mountain. Well, at least for the majority of the group. Prior to the big climb, Silvia decided to take a brisk dip in the slow-moving river to quench here curiosity. Before the others could respond, and just as the cautious cries were called out from the trek leader, Silvia dove head first into the high tide of the Apurimac. In a millisecond a loud “crack!” was heard; it was the sound of head on rock. A millisecond after that, the woman’s limp body simultaneously rose to the river’s surface and floated downstream. The trek leader, Melchor, and Silvia’s best friend, Lucia, reacted by cautiously yet emphatically jumping in to save their client and friend, respectively. Following a three minute salvage campaign, Silvia was pulled from the great river, lifeless; her head still bleeding from the blow, her skin blue, and her spirit already making its way toward the heavens.
And so it was that we began our ascent up the second sacred "wall of eternity." The ascent, divided into two parts, was first a series of long stretching zigzags. After a brief stop at Santa Rosa Baja and Santa Rosa Alta, a series of shorter, yet steeper zigzags would eventually lead to the crest of the mountain, and the lookout at Marampata, 9350 ft.
The first of the zigzags were a breeze, and, although it wasn't a race, I was the first to reach the rest stop at Santa Rosa Baja. There, I spotted a 30-something man reaching up with a stick to poke something in a tree.
A bit disoriented, I nodded in recognition as he laughed in delight and confessed in an enthusiastic manner, "I like to make games out of everything." I smiled as I continued on in search of respite. I found it in the form of a long-stretching bamboo bench with a matching shade cover hanging over it.
Julian, the man, was the nephew of the operators of the next stop up-mountain at Santa Rosa Alta, and part of an extended family that operated the network of sites on the far side of the mountain. They had a "monopoly" on some of the most utterly beautiful land and landscape in the region, and as far as I'm concerned, in the entire world! With views of all of the various peaks of the region, it was the ideal place to pass long, tranquil, and for my new friend Julian, playful days of enjoyment.
Every once in a while, I would catch Julian talking to what appeared to be himself, or to the trees in the distance. I was initially uncomfortable with this oblivion-talk, but quickly accepted it as "communicating with nature and the spirits of." I not only accepted his antics as that, but I directly asked him on our return visit, "Do you talk to the spirits?" He immediately nodded in affirmation and responded, "Senor, all you have to do is return here one day, and I could show you some things!" Given that the unseen and deeper realities of the Universe interest me, I agreed to one day return to Santa Rosa Baja to visit my new mystic friend Julian.
Julian then informed me of the current and future governmental plans to expand in the area between Cachora and the Choquequirao ruins. He said that he and his family's campamientos would be replaced by other "new" and "more acceptable" businesses; in all likelihood by non-local entrepreneurs. In the case of the increased populating of the area, Julian told me that he would move into the jungle areas so as to preserve his close-to-nature lifestyle. I immediately voiced my concern and my disdain for irresponsible expansion like this. He agreed with my words and said, "Some people just don't understand."
Just as we finished discussing this topic, Miky and Evelyn reached the Santa Rosa Baja campamiento. My conversation with Julian immediately shifted to more practical topics; probably out of fear of discomfort. We shifted our discussion to small talk of the trail ahead, the weather, and how much longer to the neighboring site of Santa Rosa Alta. The three of us rested a bit more, ate a small snack of trail mix, washed our faces in the chilly fresh waters coming off the mountain side, and eventually proceeded to pack up our belonging and head out on the trail anew. As I said my good-byes, I felt that for the time being, our visit was sufficient, and I most definitely anticipated our return to Santa Rosa Baja on the trip back.
We pushed up the mountain incline further through the monotony of zigzags that was now to us very much commonplace.
After an immensely tranquil lunch stop at Santa Rosa Alta, our divine trek continued up towards the top of the current wall and Marampata. With each step, I could feel my closer march toward the target on the mountain top and my concomitant energetic connection with these mountains, with Pachamama (The Quechua word for “Mother Earth”).
In no time, it seemed, I came to Marampata, whose presence was marked by a short bamboo bench with a canopy hanging over it.
Marampata provided a majestic panoramic view, second to few. Just ahead, I could see, was the next campamiento, and up further in the distance I could barely make out the mountains containing the riches of the Choquequirao site.
Impending Jaunt to Choquequirao
It was only two-thirty in the afternoon when we reached the campamiento; we had gotten such an early start, that it felt later than it really was.
We were very comfortable at this site; its bird-nest vantage-point provided a breath-taking view of all of the neighboring mountain ranges and low-lying valleys below. A cool wind passed through our site as we ate dinner that night. We exchanged stories and jokes, while laughing intensely, just enjoying the company of one another.
I slept perfectly that night and was first to rise the following morning. After all of our tasks were fulfilled at the campsite, we set out with a light load: small bags holding water, snack, and camera.
During our jaunt along the trail to Choquequirao, we witnessed beautiful rivers and charming creeks flowing at differing degrees from places unseen uphill, to much the same downhill. The vegetation was very wet and muggy; a welcome change from the dryness and heat of the previous days. With all of this beauty, even prior to viewing any of the ruins, I began to ponder: with a place so fantastic in nature, and so comfortable and agreeable in climate, why would the Incas not have built an important ceremonial area in these parts?!
Flowing along the slight ascents and descents, and through the winding trail still decorated by a lingering fog, we approached the first ruins that graced our immediate trail. What was initially a short stretch of large, stone-supported terraces measuring about six feet tall, quickly gave way to a whole extended network of terraces ascending up the cleared-away mountain side.
As we inspected the beauty and precision of the Inca stone work, I came to the terminal realization that our goal, the site of Choquequirao, the great sister of my beloved Machu Picchu, was quickly approaching. When we finally made it to the entry point of the main plaza of the Choquequirao site (9940 ft.), we all joined in union to congratulate one another.
We spent the next three hours strolling through the various areas of the site that ranged from courtyards, to temples, to ceremonial grounds, to former houses. The fog eventually cleared, providing us a perfect view of not only the ruin site, but of the rest of the unimaginably distant valleys that extended away and down in all directions from the Choquequirao nucleus. I quickly realized, while standing at this vantage-point, that Choquequirao was the perfect area, like most other Inca constructions, to place a sacred site. The truth was that Choquequirao, the place to which my friends and I had spent two arduous days hiking, was one of the most incredible places that I had ever seen in my life! Only two other places match it in beauty; one is in central Ecuador, and the other, not surprisingly, is Machu Picchu, a very proud brother.
So to answer the question of whether it was worth it to venture for three full days only on the fourth day to experience hell-on-earth in order to essentially “make the trip.” Quite simply: yes, and I’d do it all again without hesitation. Well, maybe the first three days of it anyways!
The Adventure’s Over: Reuniting Yin with Yang.
The initial “quakes” began while at the second night’s campamiento. The bad stomach came during our tour of the Choquequirao site. And the grand tipping point occurred after a tuna cake supper at our third night’s campamiento (same as the first night’s, on the first “wall”). At 2:00 a.m. I rose and exited our tent, for that’s when the pangs and eventual heaves became too spontaneous and uncontrollable. The same cold sweat, mixed with bile-fueled eruptions, that would rule me the following day were just beginning; this was just a warm-up for my imminent, terrible and precipitous fall from grace.
Fast forward past the toilsome 5,000 ft. return ascent up the first wall of eternity and to my arrival at the lookout at the “Point of No Return.”
There I laid down at a covered resting spot as my entire being surrendered to its sun-shaded and cool cement foundation. Up until this point, I had been vomiting blood for a good hour, and hope for holding down anything else was all but gone. A few “newbie’s” approached and stopped in front of me before making their initial descent of the first wall. I, having surrendered to my humble state, made short of the short talk and asked the two full-health men (an American and Canadian) for any extra water that they may have had; I knew that there wouldn’t be a place for me to purchase water until my return to Cachora, two hours plus into the future. Reluctantly, one man agreed, but only after I assured him that there would be places for them to buy water along the way. I diligently filled my bone dry “San Luis” (a Coca-Cola owned brand, ubiquitous in Peru) water bottle and desperately drank from it. I thanked the men profusely and they were off.
About twenty steps after my saviors’ exit, I spontaneously heaved up another offering to the Earth; and again, and again, and yet again. In that moment, I felt it all to be so futile, everything; I needed hydration, but nothing was staying down. My body wasn’t cooperating, so I sought out solutions. Soon after, an idea came to mind: I could accumulate salt by licking the sweat off my skin; thus retain water! My salt-searching expedition first led me to lick my right hand, and then my left. Next, I licked my lips and my arms, attempting to consume every centimeter of dried salt-sweat. Though I probably resembled a giddy Golden Retriever, I had no other choice; at this point I couldn’t afford to lose any more water. I willfully resolved to continue on.
The trail on the other side of the “Point of No Return” was easy, smooth and a coast to the trail’s origins at Cachora. Even though I was in no state to even be alive, I found this to be satisfyingly the case. Toilsome as the day had been, I continued to walk while praying gratitude for just being able to live this whole thing out. I thanked everyone and everything in my life: I thanked my feet and legs and back for being so courageous; my stomach, esophagus and throat for their resilience; my mind for maintaining focus throughout this newly dreadful trek.
Just then, a burse of inspiration emerged in the form of a favorite fruit! I began to dream of watermelon, in all of its goodness; that became my saving image for the two-hour tour back to freedom at Cachora. I imagined the fruit’s succulence as it encompassed my mouth, teeth and my entire being! “W-A-T-E-R-M-E-L-O-N!!!” was my mantra as I prayed for its consumption to be my future mudra, again, and again, and again…
As each step continued to form a syllable of my favorite and much desired fruit, my pace magically increased. Just before I arrived at my divine destination of Cachora, I, for the first time in three plus days, set foot on an asphalt road. And now, with this reality firmly in place, and my return to Cachora a certain manifestation, I began to look up into the distance to attempt to spot any open small markets on this leisurely Sunday afternoon. Once noticing that most of the small town was closed up for the day, my worrying commenced anew. I questioned what I would do if I wouldn’t be able to consume water or some form of it. Would I be relegated to some purgatorial zone of pre-death only left to waste away in this leisurely town without hope for being spared?! Would it be possible to dial 9-1-1 and receive that immediate attention that we are so accustomed to in the States?! In short, would I survive this hopeless battle?!
This endless head-talk instantly dissolved upon view of the image of ice cream. It was there hanging just above the open door of a side street store, that the ubiquitous “D’anafrio” ice cream advertisement came gloriously into view; that same brand that I always strayed from given my resistant attitude toward overly-sweet sweets. But today, on this most unique of occasions, I heeded its call.
In a matter of thirty minutes, while sitting alone on a park bench in the main plaza, I inhaled eight fruit pops which sparked my quenching attack on my withering dehydration. It’s inexplicable the feeling that ran through me at this point. The pangs subsided as I just simply basked in the goodness of these blessed fruit pops! Although the stomach damage had been done, I knew that I would be alright; that I would survive what appeared to be, just one hour prior, a truly scary situation. There, I sat. A feeling of intense stillness blew over me as I peacefully enjoyed this prize at the end of this arduous trek.
During these four days, the highest of the high and the lowest of the low were touched upon. The “ying and yang of life” is probably the best description that I can conjure from the stuff of this experience. Lessons were learned; some the hard way, others as effortlessly as possible. No need to expand on these ideas, for all has been purged, acknowledged, and put on display above. In sum, I recommend this trek to all, sans the malaria pill!
Happy Trails…
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