Day Four

Today was to be our earliest day yet at 4am. The group had a vote last night: sleep in an extra hour and a half and be driven to the starting point, or wake up early and hike to the starting point. I suppose the starting point was relative. Problem was, the vote had to be unanimous, or else everyone had to wake up early. When’s the last time you’ve been in a group of ten people that all agreed on something unanimously?

I slept through breakfast. Sleep was more important to me than food at this point. What I missed was the cooks made Monika a birthday cake from scratch with no oven. I have no idea how. Monika’s birthday was the following day, but this was our last meal with the cooks. It was an incredibly kind gesture, one of so many I lost count from the hospitable Peruvians.

So as the few psychos from our group who hadn’t gotten enough hiking in began their journey for the day, the rest of us lethargic slobs waited for the van. Fredy had abandoned us to lead the real hikers. We would see them all again at lunch, but for now we were left with a driver who spoke no English. At one point we had to transfer to another van, which was a complete mess with me running point as translator. But after a few minutes of sloppy Spanish and frustrated Peruvian drivers, we successfully transferred and were on our way.

The dirt road we navigated that day was much like the roads from yesterday: uneven and high on the steep hills. At one point on this road, our driver started to slow down. A very unusual thing for a Peruvian driver to do. Our side conversations trailed off as we matched our driver’s gaze. The road was almost completely blocked. Boulders of all sizes scattered across the road. Some were half the size of the van. Dust hung in the air. No signs or cones or yellow tape were seen anywhere. We were confused why no one had warned us this road was blocked, we weren’t that far from a town. Either way we weren’t getting through, so the driver carefully nine-point turned around and headed back the way we came.

Where the road began at the base of the valley there was a bridge crossing the river. As we made our way across the bridge, we saw a truck loaded with men in orange vests, cones, signs, and road repair tools. That’s when it hit me that those rocks just fell. Like that morning. Maybe minutes before we got there. If I were a better translator, we might have transferred vans sooner and been underneath the landslide as it happened. So thank god I suck at Spanish.

I relived that Final Destination moment over and over in my head until we got to the lunch spot, which was a short hike from where the van was able to drop us off. This spot was a building perched high on the hillside overlooking the valley. No other structures surrounded it. It had one, long, sheltered patio with picnic benches on one side and hammocks on the other. Above us were magnificent trees casting their vines down like tattered drapes. Brilliant flowers speckled the wall of green with scarlet, magenta, and gold. The hum of the forest was peaceful, not overwhelming. Even the insects didn’t bother us. The high morning sun was now cutting through the mist and illuminating the stunning, overgrown mountain tops stretching to the horizon. I forgotten all of our recent perils as I sipped a coffee from my hammock. I even forgot about how bad my knee and the rest of my body hurt for a little while.

The other hikers arrived just before lunchtime, and a pang of guilt shot through me when I saw how tired and disheveled they looked. But I can’t say I regretted my decision.

The path of the day was well-trodden. Often we followed train tracks and roads. But that did not make it unremarkable. The narrow, spire-like Andes towered around us like a giant’s fingers had tried to poke holes in the ground from the other side. The path was often shady, flat and lower elevation, which left plenty of lung capacity for conversation.

For over an hour Fredy and I walked alone, where he told me many of the myths of the Incas. Their only written language was in beads, but they were scientific experts of the land. They just didn’t describe it scientifically. Instead they passed their knowledge through stories and legends which instilled great wisdom in their children, who passed these stories to their children.

He told a story of a goddess who would steal the children of women who gave birth above where corn grows. The Inca knew that there were higher rates of birth complications at high altitude. They didn’t have the numbers and charts to explain it, but they knew all the same. Kind of a “scared straight” tactic to discourage high elevation births, but wisdom nonetheless.

We walked, then we walked some more. We walked through a forest which had been decimated by a massive landslide. We crossed bridges made of steel, bridges made of rope, and bridges made of dried mud and sticks. We passed huts where old women sold pastries and treats. Fredy knew them all by name. We said hello to many dogs and cats along the way. Signs of civilization became more apparent. Then we walked a little more.

Over the course of the day my knee had deteriorated rapidly. It had started to bug me over the last several days, especially on the downhill portions, but today on flat ground it was hollering at me. After hours my gait turned into a hobble, and I wondered if I would even make it. At the beginning of the trek, I was certain my lungs would give out before my joints. Now there I was, in the prime of my life, leaning on my walking stick like a cane.

Mercifully the town of Aguas Calientes, our final stop, came into view. Then my relief was squashed at the sight of the hill it sat on top of and the long slope up to it. The home stretch. We walked on paved road now. Cars passed us. Other tourists bustled about taking pictures. But our hotel sat on top of the hill at the edge of town.

My left leg was nearly useless now as I shifted most of my weight to the walking stick every other step. I climbed on. Old ladies and children passed me. But I continued to ascend. The thought of taking my boots off, a cold shower, and a frothy beer circled my head like a Looney Tunes character that just got its bell rung.

Triumphantly, I arrived in town. I think most of the team beat me there. It was clear that Aguas Calientes was a boom town as a result of Machu Pichu’s popularity, but it didn’t feel overly commercialized. Sure there were hotels and plenty of gift shops, but the town was gorgeous. It sat on a hill slope at the convergence of two rivers. Stylish wood and stone bridges crossed these rivers joining together an abundance of pedestrian walkways. The main passenger train ferrying people from Cusco to Machu Pichu ran straight through the middle of town. Keychains in the gift shops rattled as it rumbled through town, so close to the sidewalk I could reach out and run my fingers along it as it passed. The buildings were colorful and varied. There were a handful of bars and restaurants. And of course, all of this sat under the shadow of Machu Pichu and the surrounding mountains on all sides. It was just fun. It was a perfect final stop.

Finally, the hotel. My boots were off. Shower taken. Thriving.

As we settled into the hotel, Fredy told us of a great massage parlor that was pretty cheap. If I wasn’t already convinced he was my guardian angel by that point in the journey, I definitely was now. Monika’s brother, dad, and I all jumped at the idea and followed Fredy across town to find it. When we arrived, the place was fairly small. They led us upstairs to a room with three massage beds in it. No curtains, no dividers. Just three guys in their underwear. Two of which just happened to be my girlfriend’s older brother and father. Totally cool, super psyched.

It took about 20 minutes for the mental block to fade before I could actually relax. After that point I was a great massage, and all my muscles thanked me. Not long after that I had that frothy beer in front of me to complete my Looney Tunes delirium trifecta. Then I had another. Then some shots of Pisco. We had a Pisco Sour making experience behind the bar with the bartender.

By now I could call my fellow trekkers friends. We had lots of laughs. The Swiss girls had their cigarettes they’d been craving. Especially the one who didn’t seem to care for hiking. One of the Florida girls, the one who consistently bought us beer, was unsurprisingly unsatisfied if any of us were pacing ourselves drinking. To the guy from Florida who had never been on a hike, I tried to explain that most hikes were not like that, and he should give a shorter one a try. We shared stories from our lives and recounted the dangers and exhaustion from moments of the journey like it was a distant dream.

For a while I forgot we were visiting Machu Pichu tomorrow. I was satisfied. And tired. That journey alone was fulfilling enough in every way. I think part of me – or most of me – just didn’t want to get up early again tomorrow.