On the trail to Machu Picchu

The dot matrix tune of the Hummingbirds filters through dense jungle, their small frames dart between flowers, feeding and hovering, never staying still for long. They're good luck reputedly, seeing five as they feast bodes well for the next four days.


Jungle surrounds us on this the first day of the Inca Trail. The trail is hot and dry, the Vilconta River swollen and nasty. All around us are the sounds of birds and insects, amplified by the heat from the earth, calling out for moisture - a prayer answered most days, this being the wet season.



We're an excited bunch of newbies. Our group, 16 strong, consists of Australians, Swedes, Danes, an American and the usual contingent of Kiwis. The mood is excitable, the hike has begun, we've met, exchanged pleasantries and now we clatter forward digging our rudimentary walking poles into the earth and yearning for pace. But our guide Wilfredo maintains a regular cadence. We're at altitude and have many days of hard walking ahead, he's all too aware that gringos burn out easily at these heights and he wants to get the group to the goal in one piece.


Wilfredo himself is a stout Peruvian, well versed in Inca folklore and conversant in Quechua, Spanish and English. He has the round, brown face of the indigenous people, a stunning grin that breaks lines at the apex of his deep brown eyes and a sturdy body that inspires confidence. He stops us frequently to point out medicinal plants and the history of their use in Quechua and Inca culture and we sit attentively during longer missives at the various Inca ruins along the way, Huillca Raccay being a particularly stunning example at the mouth of the Cusichaca River.


He has also given us a marvellous feeling of togetherness, that we're a family embarking on a journey, that our collective spirit will lift us through the more testing days ahead. Coupled with the deep history that pervades the Inca Trail, it bonds a group of strangers together in an instant. We feel part of something much greater than a simple trek and the looming mountains and Inca ruins and burial sites about us drive the mystical feeling home. We're an hour in and it feels special already.

And so the first day passes easily. An undulating trail does not force us to expend much energy, we stop often to rest and to talk, we eat a marvellous lunch under a tent, soup to start, rice and meat and even desert, and we bond. The talk is hyperactive and we're well versed in the backgrounds of our fellow travellers by the time we make camp at 3,000m above sea level.


We share a touching moment with our group of porters who outnumber us by five. With ages ranging from 18 to 55, these men will break their backs for the next four days setting up camps, making lunches, pitching tents and generally making life that much more enjoyable for our party. Each man is introduced to us and we are singularly introduced to them. Most are farmers supplementing their income by taking on porting duties and while some wear hiking boots most choose sandals preferring the balance that the wide spacing of their toes enables over the more crushed confines that footwear provides. Over the next four days, as we struggle over snow covered passes and through torrential rain, these men will run past us with sizable loads on their back. They will smile and joke in spite of adverse weather conditions and their strength will humble us all.

The second day is the big 'un, the one everyone talks about and the day that breaks many a hiker. In the course of a morning we climb from the relative temperate climes of Wayllamba village at 3,000m through steepening woods and increasingly spectacular terrain, past rushing rivers and spectacular waterfalls, out past the treeline and through scraggly, alpine grass to the highest point of the trail, Dead Woman's Pass at 4,200m. We strip off clothes as the searing heat drives us under the trees and don windbreakers as cold winds blow through the higher reaches of the valley. Sunscreen and sweat sting our eyes, calves and thighs ache and our lungs  scream out for oxygen. Chatter all but stops as each tramper goes into their own space, plodding determinedly forward, grim determination etched across their mug. Although we hike this part of the trail with nearly 100 other people, we feel all but alone as we make for the pinnacle. 

And at top it's all bon homie. Each trekker that reaches the pass is welcomed with claps and shouts, photos taken, chocolate, skittles and sweets shared out. Languages from all over the world excitably talk to the three hour trudge to get here, grins and sparkling eyes tell the story. And the view is commanding, a verdant valley stretching out beyond you, the multitude of colours of the trekkers dotting the exposed trail at its higher reaches. And further down the roof of the campsite bathroom, a mere speck of grey and white some 1,200m below and in the background jungle clinging to near vertical peaks with the snow covered Mount Veronica sitting imposingly behind. It is as magnificent as views get, it is utterly spectacular, it breaks you emotionally.


But it's not over as you must climb down the other side of the pass, through nearly 1,000 vertical metres of knee jarring Inca steps. Halfway down and you're yearning for another Dead Woman's Pass if only to take pressure off your joints. But if the mood up was one of grim determination and exaltation at its zenith, the mood down has opened up the floodgates of deep thought. We discuss the world's problems, the politics holding the human race back from sustainable life and seemingly drill down to the nub of the greatest issues facing our planet. Why can't people just get along? It would seem we all agree hitting the Dead Woman's Pass might solve a few of our global ills.


I sit for a time with a Swede whose back is adorned by a large angel tattoo. He talks about taking hallucinogenic plants in the jungles of Ecuador, of the body's fight to expel the sickening weed and the moment of acceptance when calm spreads across your soul. He talks of how to find the right Shaman to guide you through your trip and of expelling troubling thoughts over the course of the hallucinogenic journey. We sit for a moment in silence, various topics of thought striking home, a deeply pleasing calm pervading the atmosphere and then we're off again, jolting down stone steps carved into the mountain some thousand or so years ago. We sleep like babies that night.


The third day is the toughest. We wake grimly aware of an uncomfortable day ahead as rain beats down and snow adorns the peaks we walked through yesterday. There is a biting chill in the air which coffee and pancakes do little to combat.


Again we climb, this time with frozen hands and wet feet. We stop at an Inca ruin called Runkuracay which commands imposing views of the Pacamayo valley below and a white breasted deer pelts down the mountain beside us. We climb and climb up deep Inca steps which test weary thighs and balance of tired trekkers. An hour and the cloud closes in some more. Grunting from effort and uttering a few choice words when missing your foothold on slippery steps, we plod still further up at last cresting at 4,000m.


This pass, Abra de Runkuracay, holds sway for the Incas. On a clear day you can see in all directions and sight the four great peaks that surround the valley including Salkantay (6,271m) and Veronica (5,750m) It is here that we link hands and say a prayer, Wilfredo leading us in quiet contemplation of what we've achieved so far and friends made on the journey. We are silent but for repeating the word 'Huanpi' the definition of which has me baffled now but meant so much at the time. We also stumble about the pass depositing small stones collected from this morning's campsite. We pile them on others already seated on the pass and make our wishes as custom demands. These stones deposited on the pass will bring good luck on account of their central position close to the Sun god and drawing on the magic supplied by the majestic peaks around.

It's a moving moment but is over soon as clouds move in and dictate our rapid descent. And so it continues for the rest of the day. A hard slog over craggy Inca steps, wet through, exhausted and slightly grumpy. But the scenery remains magical. We sit atop mountains with steep, jungle crusted valleys sweeping either side. The snow covered mountain ranges peak through clouds now and then and we lunch on a majestic sight with 360 degree views of the spiked terrain about us.

We continue down, negotiating steep steps, past Phuyupatamarca an impressive Inca ruin that means 'Town in the Clouds'. We pass Inca Baths probably used for the ritual worship of water and into cloud forest full of hanging mosses, tree ferns and flowers and through an Inca tunnel carved out of rock. The rain never lets up, we stop only momentarily a few times during the eight hour trek, but finally we descend towards camp through Wiñay Wayna, a magnificent set of agricultural terraces and it's find a tent, get off the wet clothes and get some shut eye. Quite a day this one and the camp is silent save for the sounds of countless snorers as everyone sleeps dreamless with the prospect of a 3.30am start in the morning. 

Day four, 3.30am and it's drizzling. We dress by the light of a headlamp, eat stale white bread and smash down multiple cups of coffee. It's not so cold, but it's early, we're damp and everyone's tired. No one speaks much but there is an electric air of anticipation - Machu Picchu approaches. 


We assemble with the throng of other groups at a gate which will space the trekking groups apart for the final jaunt to the site. Everyone's jostling for position wanting to get ahead of others. As the sky gets light the groups begin the trek. The pace is frantic, like try line fever, everyone wants to get to Machu Picchu as quick as possible. 


The trail contours a mountainside and drops into cloud forest before coming to an almost vertical flight of 50 Inca steps. I don't really remember any of it so intent I am on getting there. Arriving at the Sun Gate, we are humbled. Down somewhere in the cloud filled valley is Machu Picchu. We can't see it, but  we feel it. There is a hush that pervades the group as we break at the gate, taking water and food. And then the clouds break, a small ray of sunshine illuminates the peaks and there she is. Machu Picchu, standing alone, its stone walls dropping away into the deep valley, standing resolute against the tough terrain around it.


It's difficult to describe this moment. The hush amongst the assembled trekkers is almost loud. Talkative Yanks and blustering Aussies are startled into silence and no one really bothers to take a photo. We all just suck in the view like a deep breath of wet air. 


You feel close to your fellow trekkers, your family for the past four days, and those grumpy nights of wet sleeping bags and restless sleep is forgotten (sorry wife). Smiles and hugs, everything is ok. It is magical, spiritual and emotional. And then it is gone, hidden again behind the clouds. It is a moment in time I shall remember forever. 

For more on where we stayed and what we did, check out our Cusco travel bites.