A first-time hiker tackles Machu Picchu’s Inca Trail.
By Marie Elena Martinez
As soon as I stepped off the plane, my head and chest tightened, and I felt my lungs working overtime, pushing through each inhalation and exhalation with the determination of a marathon runner. Soroche, “altitude sickness,” was quick to set in. At 11,500 feet above sea level, the old Incan capital of Cusco took some adjusting to. Located in southern Peru, the town offers a panorama of rolling chocolate brown mountains that stretch endlessly in every direction. At their apexes, there’s snow. Down below, in their valleys, are tiny towns. Automatically worried, I wondered how I would manage a trek across Machu Picchu’s famous Inca Trail, the reason I’d come to Cusco in the first place.
The Inca Trail is the 50-kilometer path from Cusco to Peru’s ancient city of Machu Picchu. Since the trail is wildly popular among tourists and historically important to the city, getting a chance to hike isn’t as easy as lacing up your boots, grabbing a walking stick, and setting out. Tour operators have to be licensed, and hikers are limited to 500 per day in groups of 16. Although hiking fatalities aren’t readily reported, stories of such tragedies are plentiful. The latest casualties involving both a hiker and guide occurred on January 26 of this year, when Andean mudslides ravaged the trail.
I had absolutely no idea what to expect. For me, hikes were the folly of other people. As a lifelong New Yorker, I defined a hike as walking from the Upper East Side to Midtown or crossing Central Park. Hikes were for people who owned net-covered hats and majored in entomology. Me? Not so much. My interactions with nature included first kisses in the underbrush behind the arts-and-crafts shack at sleepaway camp, Girl Scout overnights in the community park, and art projects that consisted of tracing leaves and painting pinecones. Being exposed to the elements without an umbrella was my definition of an experiment. Besides, who really hiked the Andes?
It didn’t take me long to realize the answer: people just like me. It was the perfect hiking weather—clear blue sky, bright white clouds, low humidity, shining sun. I positioned myself in the front of the pack and found the one-two click of my walking stick oddly calming as we began our trek over a rickety suspension bridge. One hour in and I’d already shed the initial three layers of clothing I’d piled on. I was down to the bottom layer. This trek was going to be hard, very hard. We would hike uphill, then down. Uphill, then down. Hike for two hours, rest for 15 minutes. Seven or eight hours later, we would approach the Sun Gate of Machu Picchu.
The Inca Trail was at turns exhilarating, and downright frightening. There were periods of tranquility and calm, stages of awe, and instances when my body just felt too physically taxed to continue. A constant battle with altitude added to the challenge, but—even as an antidrug advocate—I found that chewing coca leaves helped, offering enormous bursts of energy at the most demanding sections.
I enjoyed walking by myself, ahead of the group, the ticks of my staff keeping me on track and marking a syncopated rhythm in my head. For the first time in my life, “one with nature” wasn’t just a catchy phrase used by hippies and ecologists—it was a feeling that echoed off mountains in every direction, an invisible hand that reached deep inside of me and grabbed on. The greenery ahead and behind was visual ecstasy; the trail displayed more than 400 species of plants—orchids, begonias, heaven-reaching palm trees, and low-lying shrubs like the indigenous Muña. The rustling of animals, like pumas, bobcats, and the endangered Andean, or spectacled, bear offset the chirps of Peru’s national bird, the Cock-of-the-rock, and the buzz of insects—apt accompaniment to a symphony. The earthy, dense smell of the jungle was intoxicating; the trail was a sensory hallucination and provided a consciousness like no other.
Every twist and turn of the Inca Trail offered a new variation of mountain, jungle, valley, and sky—similar but different, unfailingly beautiful. The hushed flutter of our cameras’ shutters was a sad reminder that we’d never fully capture the beauty of the place. Just two hours in, I’d snapped 228 photos. At intervals I stopped and peered off to my right. My gaze reached out over the 2-foot-wide trail, and I marveled at both the outrageous outlook and the perilous drop-off, the valleys beckoning from below. Each status check of the terrain I’d already covered helped build my confidence—especially at an elevation of 12,000 feet. I could see the trail ahead of me cutting into the mountains, and the blips of colors that were other hikers—red shirts, white hats, yellow shorts—stood out against miles of vast green canvas. I could see the trail I had already tackled behind me.
When we reached Wiñay Wayna, Forever Young, we celebrated with hoots and hollers. It was a halfway marker that ascended one of the most exquisite parts of the trail, a place of ritual baths and elegantly curved terraces that functioned to support ancient agriculture. We trekked farther, across steep mountainsides, up fragile stairways, through humid forests of ferns and other vegetation, over ravines, and past waterfalls.
Although I consider myself coordinated, I still struggled to take in the view and walk at the same time. The dizzying height, coupled with the narrowness of the trail, didn’t allow for multitasking. I had to shift focus from one to the other, sometimes literally talking myself through the tougher patches under my breath. Another perk of leading the pack was not exposing myself as a crazy novice who ranted to herself—although I imagined others might be doing the same thing. And thank God for my walking stick. Not just a trendy Inca Trail accessory, after all, it guided each and every movement, securing a foothold before making a commitment to any particular step.
It dumbfounded me each time a porter or group of porters raced by carrying massive overnight bundles on their backs and wearing flip-flops, immune to soroche, with stopwatches running so they could compare trail times amongst themselves. Now you see them, now you don’t. Porters in a game of tag. Good for them. I felt lucky just to get by.
I was the first of my group to reach Intipunku, the Sun Gate. An eerie quiet filtered through the park. Llamas, sheep, and wild goats roamed freely, some even posed warily for pictures. Discovered in 1911, Machu Picchu is still revealing itself and excavations are still underway. Was this mountain-top fortress a sacred retreat, or a city inhabited by thousands of Incans? Characteristic dwellings, temples, altars, and terraces are abundant, pulley systems and irrigation channels work even today. Bright, grassy knolls roll in every direction, while carefully arranged rock formations divide the abandoned hilltop into clearly defined agricultural and urban sectors.
Each boulder was placed by hand. I looked down at my own hands; I could barely bench-press a brick—how could people have built Machu Picchu?
Machu Picchu lacks battle scars, and age hasn’t eroded its center. The configuration of spaces and the city’s grid are logical. But logic aside, the place is magical. As I climbed ruinous piles, strolled grassy knolls, and ventured to the edges of a suspended oasis, I was humbled by the ancient world, by Peru, by South America. I inhaled deeply, the altitude momentarily unsteadying before my body slouched with exhaustion. My muscles began to burn, my contact lenses started to sting, and my stomach cried for attention. Mission accomplished, it said. Now, let me rest.
Every blister, every death-defying downward glance, each height-tested inhalation had led to this moment. The sight of Machu Picchu was unforgettable. There, in the clutches of an ancient world, atop a vast labyrinth that defined the Andes, I embraced total complacency, a calm that only I could tap. It was a first-time embodiment, a validation that came from within; there was no loneliness, no desire for accolades or acknowledgment. I was in the best company imaginable—that of the natural world.
This essay is adapted from a draft of Marie Elena’s travel memoir One Girl, Many Maps. She’s still writing, still traveling, and still looking for an agent and publisher.
