Ups and Downs on The Arduous Trail To Machu Picchu
By Eric M. Weiss
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, November 23, 2003
For four days we had schlepped over Andean mountain passes, muddy trails and slippery rocks. My head was aching from a collision with an aggressive tree branch, my left cheek filled with a wad of coca leaves to help with the altitude. At daybreak, just around a bend, I found the perfect spot. I dropped my backpack and waited for the rising sun to illuminate the ruins of Machu Picchu, the ancient lost city of the Incas.
It was the magical moment that was worth all the work. (It said so in all the brochures.) But soon I was surrounded by yakking Germans, prattling Englishmen and two American Peace Corps volunteers singing loudly and badly. I began to worry about having my Nikon stolen.
The hordes of gawkers and snapshot-shooters weren't blue-haired ladies and pot-bellied retirees who had just stepped off a tour bus. These were young, hardy souls who'd gotten there the hard way, by hiking the nearly 30 grueling miles of the famed Inca Trail.
The ancient trail is one of the increasingly crowded Stations of the Cross of adventure travel. In an effort to preserve the world's historical treasure, Peru has drastically limited the number of daily hikers on the Inca Trail, requiring all to go with accredited guides. The government also increased entrance fees, limited the weight that porters can carry and restricted camping areas to reduce erosion and other impacts.
But the results are mixed. On our trek in May, parts of the trail were as crowded as a supermarket checkout line. Our guides cheated their way through a mandatory weigh-in. Hikers trampled on delicate high-altitude grasses to get better photographs. And the high season was still two months away.
And just because more people are doing the trek doesn't make it any easier, as some in our group discovered. Our trek included traversing several high passes in the Andes, including one at nearly 14,000 feet. Of the 11 experienced hikers in our group, three came down with altitude sickness, including one woman who had to be carried down the mountain sucking on an oxygen bottle.
We found ourselves on top of the 13,776-foot Dead Woman's Pass (Warmiwañusqa) after trying to figure out a memorable way to celebrate my wife Janice's 30th birthday. We wanted something physically challenging, culturally interesting and far, far away.
Peru's Inca Trail seemed perfect. Our only hesitation was the fact that new regulations banned independent travel on the trail to Machu Picchu, requiring everyone to go with a guide or group. To us, that conjured images of being trapped in a pack of fellow cosseted gringos being shuttled about in air-conditioned buses. Even worse, it promised to require plenty of chitchat with fellow tourists.
We decided not to sign on with a package tour from Washington but to limit the group experience to the trail hike; to go during the shoulder season when crowds are smaller; and to pick a tour operator that was dependable but not deluxe. Still, we were joining a group tour, something that went against both past practice and current inclination. All we were risking was two weeks of precious vacation time, thousands of dollars and our relative health and happiness.
At the height of its glory in the 15th century, the Inca Empire stretched 2,500 miles from modern-day Colombia to northern Chile, and the Atacama Desert to the Amazonian rain forest. The Incas were excellent farmers and engineers, building large temples with huge stones that were cut so precisely they didn't need mortar. A civil war in the 1530s opened the doors for invading Spaniards, but Machu Picchu -- the city in the sky -- was never conquered by the Spanish, and wasn't "discovered" by explorers until 1911. Since then, there have been many theories about what purpose the city served: Home for vestal virgins? Royal vacation outpost? Spiritual center? Mountain trading post?
Cuzco, the Inca capital, current tourist mecca and gateway to Machu Picchu, is a fascinating mix of Spanish colonial architecture and churches built on ancient walls. But at 11,000 feet, the city is a shock to the system, especially if you've just flown in from sea-level Washington. Trail guides recommend that visitors spend at least two days in Cuzco to acclimate; three is better. A few steaming cups of coca tea, a mild stimulant available throughout Cuzco, seemed to help.
We also got a prescription for Diamox, a glaucoma medication said to help the body acclimate faster to higher altitudes. It made our fingers tingle and beer taste terrible, but we think it prevented us from stumbling around like zombies from the altitude change.
There are many ways to get to Machu Picchu. You can spend a week hiking in from Salkantay, the area's highest mountain. Or you can hop on a tourist train from Cuzco. We decided on the "classic" four-day trek.
Our adventure started with a harrowing three-hour bus ride from Cuzco to the trail head. In addition to our 13 guides, cooks and porters, our group included a Dutch couple, two California lawyers, a Czech diplomat and a brother and sister from Scotland. Ranging in age from early twenties to late forties, they were fit, enthusiastic and, for the most part, fun to be around.
And then there was Ron, an Arizona entrepreneur who was the oldest in our group. Among other quirks, at the end of meals he liked to exclaim, "Tequila for my men, beer for my horses, for tomorrow we will ride!"
That kind of guy.
At the trail head, known simply as Kilometer 82, we strapped on our packs and hit the trail for the first day's trek, a 71/2-mile hike following the Vilcanota River. The weather was mild and sunny. We each carried a backpack with our clothes and personal items, a sleeping bag and a foam sleeping pad (provided by the tour operator). For an extra $70, you could hire a porter to haul up to 40 pounds of your stuff.
The porters carried tents, food, kitchen supplies and other serious equipment. They strapped a Volkswagen's worth of stuff on their backs and literally ran up and down the mountain wearing little more than rags and flip-flops. Part of the new regulations limit the total weight porters can carry and require companies to pay them $10 a day, about double the old rate.
It didn't take long for the first casualty to appear. Will, a healthy Scot in his early twenties, dropped to his knees just a few miles into the trip and nearly passed out. He and his younger sister had had only two days to get used to the altitude before the trek. It didn't help that he had the Peruvian specialty the night before: guinea pig. The casualty list grew each day, including the most serious scare when Will's sister needed to be carried down a mountain pass on a guide's back.
In the end, six of the 11 members of the group were knocked off their feet to one degree or another by altitude or accident. But none of the setbacks proved to be very serious, and all members recovered enough to make it safely down the mountain on their own power.
Our lead guide, Manu, whose kind heart and wry sense of humor made up for his poor English, deflected our questions about the frequency of altitude sickness among trekkers, although he did not seem surprised at the number of fallen. Perhaps it underscored the safety and wisdom of forcing everyone to travel with an experienced guide. Then again, it showed how an unprepared hiker could become a human anchor to the rest of the group.
As we entered the preservation area that surrounds Machu Picchu, the porters were given the once-over by officials, to make sure they weren't carrying more than the 44-pound limit. Afterward, we learned that Manu had asked Ron and some others who'd hired an extra porter to take some of their load -- at least until they passed the checkpoint. Afterward, the extra weight was portioned out to the porters. Some in the group groused, saying the porters were being abused. But Manu shrugged it off, saying that the porters would be well under the limit after supplies were used for lunch.
After a short break for chicha beer, a homemade brew made from corn, we headed to our first campsite, in a muddy field outside the village of Wayllabamba. Dinner that night, like all the trip meals, was an elaborate feast served on tables and chairs in a dining tent.
There is nothing better than good food when you're exhausted and famished, and the cooks always came through -- even for Janice, who doesn't eat red meat or pork. The healthy mix included American comfort food, such as popcorn and pancakes, and traditional Peruvian soups and main dishes featuring plenty of potatoes and corn. The best meals were those prepared simply with fresh ingredients, such as the luscious grilled trout on the first night.
The next morning, to help us prepare for the seven-mile climb, Manu pulled out a bag of coca leaves and passed them out to the group -- an Inca ritual asking for divine assistance in our day's journey. And for a more earthy kick, he showed some of us how to chew the raw coca leaves for some additional Inca energy. Besides a mild numbing of my cheek, I didn't notice much of an effect, although chewing the stuff did take my mind off my screaming quadriceps. The leaves are legal in Peru, but don't try to bring some back home to the United States.
As we headed straight up toward Dead Woman's Pass, the trail became congested as we joined other groups of trekkers. A rare flat grassy spot made a good lunch stop, but dozens, if not hundreds, of trekkers chowing on PowerBars and gulping Gatorade detracted from the vistas.
Farther up the trail, hot steamy jungle air turned to cold mountain wind. At the top of the pass, after hours of marching straight up, we took in the views of snow-capped mountains and two valleys, and felt a true sense of accomplishment. We cheered each other on as we climbed the last few steps of the pass.
And then it was straight down, a knee-crunching series of rocky steps and gravel slopes that tested already rubbery legs. At the bottom, we stopped for a snack and a well-deserved nap. But rangers said that night's designated campsite farther along the trail was full with other groups. We had to stay along the valley floor, adding an hour of uphill climb to the next day's journey.
The new trail regulations are designed to limit overcrowding on the trail and protect the delicate mountain environment. Only 500 people per day, including guides and porters, are allowed on the trail. And the entire trail is now closed during February, to help nature recover.
Our sore legs were tested again the next day as we hiked 10 more miles, but our heads were buzzing with the beauty of the misty valleys, dotted with exotic, colorful flowers. The Inca ruins at Sayacmarca and Phuyupatamarca, long-abandoned outposts seemingly carved into the mountains, were astounding not only for their location but for the excellent engineering. The water systems still worked, as small streams trickled along stone-carved channels into ceremonial pools.
On the final day of our trek, we awoke at 4 a.m. and hiked for more than an hour by flashlight. I tried to keep my eyes focused on the ground in front of my feet, not on the sheer drop-off immediately to my right.
As light began to define the clouds, we made a turn and there it was: Machu Picchu, looking like a stage set in the middle of the sky, surrounded by an auditorium of mountain cliffs. It was difficult to take in all the beauty -- the emerging sunrise, the amazing setting, the view of the finish line.
But there were plenty of others around to share our moment. As we stood at the Sun Gate, waiting for the city to open to visitors, dozens of fellow trekkers jockeyed for photo spots that didn't include the crowds, in the process trampling over grasses and climbing on rocks set by Incan stonemasons centuries ago.
For the next few hours we wandered around the mountaintop city, bounding up itsancient stone steps, staggered as much by the location as the city itself. Minute by minute the weather changed, as the clouds and the sun altered every vista. It was almost too much for one set of eyes to take in.
Later, at a goodbye lunch with our group, there were beers, photos and promises to keep in touch. My wife and I realized that being part of the group was one of the biggest highlights of the trip, even though we'd been forced into it. Even Ron, that Arizona know-it-all, had grown on us, a testament to the unexpected bonding that a tough ordeal can bring on.
By the end, we even found ourselves joining in the chorus, offering "tequila for our men and beer for our horses."
Eric M. Weiss is a reporter on The Post's Metro staff.
Details: Machu Picchu Hike