By James Sturgeon
Jan. 28, 2008
CUSCO, PERU - At first glance, an account of a gruelling four-day footslog across harrowing mountain passes on the ancient highway of a lost civilization in South America seems out of place on the pages of a cut and dry sports magazine.
But Sweat, of course, is not a cut and dry sports magazine. And if by chance you're a cross country coach, the Inca Trail leading to the fabled city of Machu Picchu atop the Peruvian Andes, I came to learn, could well serve as the gold standard of all fall training camps.
The odyssey began in Lima, Peru’s seaside capital. A brief flight east into the mountains took my girlfriend and I to Cusco, the heart of the ancient Inca Empire and now lively tourist city of just over 300,000 people.
Set 13,500 feet above sea level, the altitude was immediately felt. We had been told to give ourselves at least a couple of days to adjust, but pressed for time, we arrived the afternoon before our 6 a.m. departure for the trail.
Cocoa tea at the hostel did little to dispel the nausea and light-headedness.
After a brief sleep, we staggered to the small, whitish bus that arrived the next morning, where we were greeted by our guide Albero, the self-described King of the Mountain. We also met the four other tourists we’d be on the trail with.The 42 kilometre so-called Classic Inca Trail began at the village of Piscacucho on the steep banks of the Urubamba river, an hour from Cusco. We set out at a modest pace for the first few hours, still quite wobbly from the thin air.
By mid-afternoon, we encountered the first sharp uphill pass toward Llactapata, or “City Above Terraces” in native Andean. We were now a thousand or so feet above the river, which was still very much visible. To the others the view, while beautiful, was a bit unsettling. To me, terrifying.
"Has anyone fallen off this cliff?" I managed to half-pant to our guide halfway up. "Yes," he says. "Was it fatal?" I muttered. "Yes." Perfect.
At the top, we gazed upon Llactapata. Albero informed us that it was the first settlement the American explorer Hiram Bingham discovered before he stumbled upon Machu Picchu in 1911.
After taking in the view, and musing over what life was like in the settlement some 500 years ago before the Spanish arrived, we continued on to Wayllabamba, our campsite overlooking the Huayruro valley and glacier-draped mountaintops where we all swiftly retired to our tents after a brief dinner.Day two: The most arduous of the four. We embarked for Dead Woman’s Pass at 6 a.m. after a brief introduction to our 10-man team of porters, who carried the sum of our camping gear and food throughout the campaign. Without them, we’d be lost.
Over the next 12 kilometres, we would climb 3,000 feet; over twice the height of Ontario’s tallest ski resort, Blue Mountain. The ascent is figuratively and quite literally breath-taking.
Still not fully acclimatized, the air practically tasted thin. But the views were simply awe-inspiring.
Albero gave us impromptu history lessons along the way to keep our minds occupied. (For example, the Spanish never discovered Machu Picchu after their arrival in 1536. The site lay forgotten to the world for almost 400 years before Bingham came upon it—and promptly looted it).
After several hours of relentless climbing, we reached the summit and headed for Paqaymayu, our campsite a mere 2,600 feet below. My knees and lungs would forgive me in time, hopefully.
We awoke the next morning to Cocoa tea served at our tents. And rain.There was still more climbing to be done, too. A 1,436-foot ascent traversing some of the trail’s most dangerous passes awaited us. From there, we descended another 3,200 feet down to Wiñay Wayna where we spent the third night.
If there were a cost-effective way off the mountain, now would have been the time. But there wasn’t (a helicopter could be summoned for US$4,000).
There was little choice but to soldier on.
Sweet relief came at the largest and final campsite on the trip, where we met multiple other soaking wet trekkers from across the globe.Wiñay Wayna offered some much-needed time to convalesce over some Cusquenas, the local beer. Moreover, Machu Picchu — and the prospect of flat ground — was just one sleep away.
We rose at 4 a.m. to get a jump on the tourists that will travel but a few hours by train that day from Cusco to Aguas Calientes, the small town at the base of Waynupicchu mountain, where Machu Picchu rests on. From there, a bus will cart the well-groomed day-trippers to the top.
We, of course, have two hours of hard terrain ahead capped with the final, wrenching push coming at the Sun Gate, the historical South-east entrance into Machu Picchu.
A monolithic flight of shallow stairs marks the entrance up to the Sun Gate. It was fitting.
Mustering whatever strength remained in me, I climbed on my hands and knees to the top, tearing a hole in my pants in the process.
Yet, what greeted the group at the top seemed to erase the hardships of the last four days. Catching my breath, I peered out over cloud-covered Machu Picchu in the distance.
Sweaty and exhausted yet overjoyed, a sense of supreme accomplishment rushed over the group. We stayed for only a couple of hours at the site, absorbing what we could of the city’s fascinating history before taking a bus down to Aguas Calientes.
But the jubilation of enduring the trail overtook most conversations. We had made it, on foot, to Machu Picchu.
