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Setting out
Andy, Amanda, HJT, Caroline and Jeff For months by now I had been hearing tales from fellow travellers about how tough the Inca Trail was. "You will die", "you will wish you had never heard of it", and "you will want to be airlifted out of there" were just some of the ominous predictions that had been thrown at me by wild-eyed trekkers of all shapes and sizes and from all walks of life. While at times I felt like I was having a curse placed on me by some warty old witch, I was comforted by other stories I heard about the trek - the ones about the 65 year old retirees that do it. These made me wonder just how hard it could be, and whether my friends on the road were merely having a lend of me.
The first half of the first day of the trek had me wondering what all the fuss was about. From the start until we stoppped for lunch, I hardly broke into a sweat and only once was I gasping for air. The fun and games started promptly after lunch. On the first night, most other tour companies camp at the spot where we had lunch.
Early morning in the Andes
First light over the first night's campsite This sets them up for the infamous torture of a day two which includes the full climb up Dead Woman's Pass (a lazy 1,200 vertical metres) followed by another 400 vertical metres up the second pass. Thankfully, my company was smarter. We did the first 700m of Dead Woman's Pass after lunch on the first day, which was a big enough challenge for me in itself.
The challenge was compounded by the fact that I had opted against paying a porter to carry my gear. When I had packed everything I needed and tested the weight on my back in the hotel room the night before we left it felt so comfortable. I suppose I should have tried harder to replicate the conditions of an extra 900m of altitude (not sure how) and imagined how my pack might have felt when I was scaling a seemingly endless flight of steps on about a 70 degree gradient. I'm quite sure it somehow doubled in weight at that time, and on many occasions I swore under my breath when I was reminded of my two fellow trekkers who had porters carrying their stuff, and the other two who had been smart
The full strength team
The porter standing in front of me was the 59 year old and packed light.
Initially, I was happy when we passed the first porter station and weighed our packs. Having the heaviest pack made me feel tough, like a real man's man. Less than an hour later I felt just plain stupid. I was under severe duress, and the tough-guy satisfaction eroded more and more each time I was passed by a porter who was carrying almost twice as much weight as me and at times, quite literally, running along the trail. While throughout the trek I was taking in some of the most breathtaking scenery I have seen, it was the porters who truly took my breath away.
As you will see from the photo beside, I had at least 10cm and 10kgs on any one of the porters in our group. At 26, I should be pretty close to my physical peak. I didn't have proper hiking boots, just some old sneakers, but at least these had a rubber sole for grip and enclosed my toes for warmth. The oldest porter in our group was 59, he wore leather sandals and carried each day, amongst other things, two gas cylinders similar to the ones used for BBQ's.
Dead Woman's Pass
She was ugly but well endowed I had heard many times about the superhuman efforts of these porters, but never appreciated them until I had seen what they did and considered them alongside the extreme difficulty I was having with a far easier task. I would love to have one of these blokes on a wing or a half back flank for the Maggies - you'd get run out of him all day.
Even though we had already knocked off 700m of the 1,200m climb on day one, I still found day two a tough assignment. I had never been up above 4,000m for that length of time before, and had certainly not been busting my gut hiking on previous adventures up to that altitude. The downhill sections were nearly as hard, as although I was never out of puff, the extra weight and steepness of the steps took their toll on my joints, particularly my knees.
The second night was, in a word, traumatic. Jeff, the American fellow in our group, had fallen victim to the altitude during the day. I had a tent to myself, but I thought I'd do the right thing and let him have it so he could rest
Breathtaking... literally
The view from Dead Woman's Pass more easily. All was well when I drifted off to sleep at about 9PM, but around midnight I woke up with my stomach bubbling like a pressure cooker. Though I was sure that the bubbling and churning would eventually wake Caroline (my tent partner for the night) up, I held on for as long as I could, but after about 20 minutes I was forced to bite the bullet and go and destroy the (very ordinary) toilet.
Momentarily relieved, I went back to the tent to rest up before another long day of hiking. To my dismay I discovered that in my haste to get to the toilet I had jammed the zip of my sleeping bag right near the bottom, and despite my best efforts (eventually resulting in me ripping the metal tab off the zip) I couldn't get it to budge. As a result, I was forced to simply drape it over me. This was very ineffective at protecting me from the nearly freezing conditions, and besides, it was only another 20 or so minutes before my stomach started bubbling furiously again.
Anticipating that this would last all night, and that my frequent trips to the
Proof that I made it
HJT at the top of Dead Woman's Pass toilet would ruin Caroline's night as well as mine, I decided that I would ride out the night sitting in the meals tent with my sleeping bag wrapped around me. I thought this would allow for easier access for toilet runs. I didn't realise that the meals tent doubled as the porters' sleeping quarters, and was rather shocked when I unzipped the tent to put my sleeping bag inside before heading to the toilet, and a porter shouted something at me in Quechuan.
In my rush to exit the scene and conceal my identity, I tripped over one of the ropes holding up the tent, causing one corner to collapse. I fled to the toilet, and once again destroyed it. Not knowing what to do, and fearing the need for further trips to the toilet, I ended up sitting on the concrete outside the toilet block for around two hours. It was actually warmer than lying in the tent as I could get better coverage with the sleeping bag, and my stomach felt marginally better while I breathed the fresh Andean air rather than the fetid air inside the tent. This situation became untenable around two hours later though
A light lunch
The food throughout the trek was absolutely fantastic when the dew began to fall and my sleeping bag became wetter and wetter, forcing me to retreat to the tent and ride out the last couple of hours before sunrise lying there shivering and writhing in pain. I just couldn't take a trick.
The next day, I woke with my stomach still churning away. I confessed my crime the previous night to our guide Sol, and though I was still shaken by the ordeal, she saw the funny side. The thought of a whole day's trek in the state I was in nearly broke me, but I put on a brave face and soldiered on. Thankfully, it turned out that I was suffering from altitude sickness rather than some sort of food poisoning, as after descending 1,000m on day three the churning and bubbling stopped completely. As I drifted off to sleep on the third and final night, my vigour was renewed and I eagerly anticipated the next day's early morning approach to Machu Picchu.
We rose at 4AM on the last morning, and after eating breakfast and bidding our farewells to the porters, we set off for the final 6km trek to Machu Picchu. The guides
The stairway to heaven...
...or the stairway from hell? do a great job in building the anticipation as you approach the Sun Gate, from which you catch your first glimpse of the 'Lost City'. I actually thought it looked rather small at first sight, but I hadn't factored in that we were still some distance away. When we arrived at the site itself, it was hard not to be impressed.
For all the ancient grandeur of the place, it's easy to forget that it's only 500 years old. Of course 500 years is a fair while, but when you consider that the Pyramids in Egypt are well over 4,000 years old, Machu Picchu is a baby in archaeological terms. After plenty of time to absorb all the Kodak moments, Sol took us on tour through the ruins, explaining the key sections and painting a picture of life at the height of the Inca (or more properly Quechua) empire.
As though we hadn't had enough of climbing up and down steep mountain paths over the previous 3 days, we all climbed to the top of Huayna Picchu (the mountain behind Machu Picchu in the classic postcard shots). My legs were like jelly by that stage, but with my
Smiling with the worst behind us
Amanda, Andy, Caroline, HJT and Jeff at the top of the second pass pack stored and consequently 15 less kgs to lug up there, I made it to the top in a stable enough condition to appreciate the incredible views on offer.
For one last hurrah, Jeff and I opted out of the bus from Machu Picchu down to Aguas Calientes (the town at the bottom of the valley from which we had to catch the train back to Cusco) and walked down. After 47 odd kms of trekking up and down mountains over the previous 4 days, the pizza and beer in Aguas Calientes was probably the most well-earned I've ever had.
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Rag Doll
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Wow!
Awesome photos and story mate. Dunno if I could do it!