The Necessity of Stress
I clutch tightly my black backpack, trusting core muscles to keep me stable while our rickety van lurches forth and back.
It’d be nice right now if I actually had core muscles. My left side crunches against metal with every divet and hard turn, my right side pinned down by a heavyset señor somehow snoring. Darkness surrounds on our pre-dawn voyage, though typically trenchant music still blares in our ears. Whatever it takes for our driver to stay aware. I peer out the window and start to lose track of how long the drive has been, or will be. This is the calm before the storm...rather, the storm before great calm. Very soon I will be alone in nature, treading by foot my way to ancient wonder. Machu Picchu, city in the sky. ‘Lost city of the Incas’, though it was never really lost. White people heroically re-discovered it (and the people living there) in 1911, but also in 1904 and 1874 and 1860. White colonialists might have had a tendency towards self-aggrandizement...regardless, this has been a dream of mine for years. Nova specials on PBS helped spur this dream 15 years ago, and once this interminable ride is over it will become reality.
Ok, and after a 74 kilometer hike over a mountain range at altitudes I’ve never experienced, through cloudforests and verdant jungles and angry rivers all in the span of 2 short days in a foreign country whose language I only crudely comprehend...
I’m not always *quite* this crazy, but societal factors have somewhat forced me into this current- let’s say, ‘opportunity’. The Peruvian government smartly limits tourism to the site, with daily quotas and specific reservation times. No problem; I structured my stay in lovely Cusco around this reservation. The trek I chose to take on- the Salkantay trail- is meant to be a 4 or 5 day adventure. Naturally, I figured I would do it in 3 days and still be able to maintain a nice, moderate pace.
-Before I continue, allow me to wax poetic on the ancient Incan capital (and subsequent Spanish colonial center) Cusco. As you wander it’s cobblestone streets, you quite literally see the legacy of generations: irregular, perfectly-fitted Incan stonework under colonial Spanish brick topped with vibrant contemporary color, stratified like a vertical slice of archeological heaven. The coffee is plentiful, the climate a delight, sky and sunlight equally mesmerizing; even the street dogs seemed more joyful here than anywhere else.
Unfortunately for my timeline, the transportation industry was far less happy. When I set out to catch a colectivo (shared van service used by locals) from Cusco to begin my three day trek, I was greeted by a full labor strike. No buses, no colectivos were running anywhere. As I would later come to discover in Central and South America, this kind of labor solidarity in action is very common and something I respect immensely...though at the moment I may not be so appreciative. My head thuds against the roof as we hit a large bump. I guess the obnoxious music didn’t help our driver see it. Outside, the darkness has softened to herald new light; an arduous day is upon me, and I can’t wait. We turn off into a small hamlet named Mollepata, and after a few more thuds and awkward space-allotment with my sleeping amigo the ramshackle van pulls to a stop. We all climb out gingerly and take a minute to stretch our bodies back out into proper shape as sunlight stretches on the horizon. From here, a rocky dirt road continues through foothills; fancy tourist vans whizz past full of A/C, gringos and luxury, but I barter with a local driver in broken Spanish to take me only halfway. Why ride to the majesty when I can walk a path longer and harder myself? For a few Peruvian sols the driver agrees to what I ask...at least I think. I need to learn this language.
20 minutes later, and after torturous attempts at conversation across the barrier (his name is Juan Pablo, I at least got that), I see snowy peaks. This is good enough. ‘Alto, por favor’. I ask him to stop (nailed it). My feet feel ready to tread, and this distance is likely all I can really afford. He wishes me luck, I think, and I alight. At last, I am where I feel most comfortable- alone on a trail, surrounded by unperturbed nature. I breathe in sweet air, greet a risen sun, and take a step. It has begun.
The first leg is a slow and steady ascent; my footfall eases into even pattern and 20 minutes in I break past the physiological threshold, through initial discomfort into graceful repetition. As soon as the skin pores open to release wet sweat, I know I’m in the groove. My body works to cool down the system as each step becomes a small slice of an ever-widening picture. I feel gratitude for the fire in my quads, the expansion in my lungs, blood flowing freely to every extremity. The simple joy of being. Every stride a meditation. It is unclear if mountains approach me or I approach mountains.
I’ve always preferred the more difficult path...in most cases. I have to admit I haven’t cooked for myself in...well, ever. But I love to walk. I love the journey, the pace at which new wonders are revealed, the small sights which collect into collage over time. I love feeling as if I’ve earned each detail and destination, and a deeper appreciation along the way. When I walk in a setting such as this, I sense tangible connection to fellow humans across millennia, whose exertions and achievements shaped the bodies we enjoy today. Of course, this leads to an unfair disdain for those luxury vans that pull up and dump out cacophonous tourists, oblivious to the fullness around us. They swarm about me now, pale souls strongly perfumed. I’ve reached the end of the road, drop-off point for day-trippers. They are here for a quick hike up to Humanatay Lake, a turquoise jewel nestled under rugged peaks above. It sounds lovely, but is also an unnecessary diversion for me, over-run with all the people I aim to avoid- not to mention the fact I am currently on an expedition with an urgent timeline. The smartest thing for me to do is walk right on by and tackle the huge climb ahead.
I decide to go to the lake. Naturally.
One hour in, I intensely regret this decision. My legs are leaden, my lungs shriveled; I seem to have traveled only a dozen meters or so, and, worst of all, it’s only actually been 10 minutes. Josh, meet high altitude. I assumed my stay in Cusco had me acclimatized, what with all of my bulging physique and supreme fitness...yet it took 10 minutes to fully humble my ego. Pride won’t let me quit, though, so on I go. I take a small dose of solace in the many beleaguered hikers who gasp desperately along the way. It’s only a 400 meter climb, I remind myself through heavy breath. A thin flowering plant taunts as I struggle past; must be nice to soak in sunshine and watch this show unfold day after day. The cold air still feels wonderfully clear, despite my labored grunts and groans. When I pause, I am reminded of the tangible presence of peace here in nature. Of course, another pack of chattering gringos climbs behind and prods me onward.
I’ve never been one to “take it easy” when I hike up mountains or hills; I tend to put my head down and work without break until I reach the reward- a stunning vista, or wild animal, or quiet wonder. This kind of carries over into my daily life as well- I despise eating a meal before I feel like I’ve worked long or hard enough to deserve it. During my busy season, I eat a lot of midnight dinners after hours upon hours of coffee and mental effort. At the moment, on this crowded trail, my impetus to hike without stoppage is magnified. Step by step; tame the fire inside and take each stumble in stride. Breathe in, breathe out. Steady the pulse. A bird glides above, so light and easy. Jealous.
Finally, a crest. The trail flattens, rocky horizon lowers, and I see mirror-surfaced water. Lake Humanatay. It’s... nice. And I feel accomplished. Exhausted.
Now, I only have to hike down, back to the main trail, and then proceed to climb a 4,600 meter mountain pass. And continue on some 65 kilometers to my ultimate destination.
When I re-join the salkantay trail almost an hour later, I am alone. Again. At last. Turns out no one is crazy enough to start this ascent as late in the day as me. Perhaps an ominous blessing? Clouds quickly roll in behind, blocking all view of where I began. There is no past. Only the present moment. The path before me. And the...cow? Quietly grazing. I suppose I’m not actually alone. A viscacha jumps up a rock nearby to second that notion. My smile widens uncontrollably, to be a part of such beauty. I can still barely breathe, but who needs oxygen in this heaven. Nothing could dampen me now.
On cue, the clouds suddenly dump rain on me. This is...not ideal. The next indistinguishable few hours become a stop-and-go ordeal; I missed out on wilderness training during childhood, but I know enough to sense that hiking up mountains late in the day with rain-soaked clothing is probably not the optimal scenario. Fortunately, each shower is but a brief bout, a drive-by moisturizer. I alternate between quiet interludes under rocky shelter and purposeful strides up muddy slopes. There is no thunder or life-threatening lightning, only soft raindrops and joyful birdsong so infectious I can’t help but adore each minute of my struggle.
Struggle is the inappropriate word here, though there truly are no words for difficult this physical challenge is. I have climbed many mountains in my lifetime, overcome daunting natural obstacles, but this ascent is kicking my ass. Every step feels dearly purchased, each breath woefully insufficient. I spend many- too many- minutes at a stand-still, hands on hips, exhorting my body to go just a little bit further. Obscurant clouds mask peaks above from view and block valley below; I can only see the immediate task at hand. Get over the next hump. And the next. After that, the next. Mountains are incredible teachers in this way; we sense how small we are, how insignificant our societal worries can truly be. There is only the ridge above, and then the next. Each step is a part of a vast whole, a small exercise in humility. We can’t waste time with our minds in the distant future; the challenge of the present is too pressing. Most importantly, every time we feel we have reached our limit, the end of our abilities, another reserve of energy and willpower reveals itself. That ‘limit’ fades as a mirage, and we continue on higher and higher, balanced between doubt and belief, spurred on by necessity. The peak, once achieved, is a revelation- physical, yes, yet intensely spiritual as well. We are more than we fear.
So I climb to the next ridge, and the next. Over and over again. Each time, I think- or hope- that it is the final obstacle, only to be greeted by another. Or, as just happened, it turns out to be...horses.
Horses? Horses. They nonchalantly note my presence, then lazily return to their business. I tarry for a spell in this encounter, accompanied by the gentle drip of water on rock. The scene is so soothing I could easily just lie here peacefully...but the waning hues of daylight beckon me to continue. Or they would, if I could see them. Come to think of it, I don’t remember when I last saw the sun. Was it today? Or has it already been days? I’ve lost track. Perhaps one of these horses will tell me.
Delirium drips away and I continue on, past the horses and into the next steep climb. All that surrounds me now are rocks, moss, birds and mist. My pace is incremental and my body screams that it’s had enough. But I know better. Just get to the top of this next ridge. Left leg, then right. Quads are numb. Breathe in, breathe out. Feel the incoming energy with each flow. Stay with the flow. Another viscacha peeks out at me; can’t stop. I’m going to make this crest. In, and out. Step. Step again. I can’t tell if clouds gather or part; just keep pushing. I don’t know what muscles lift my leg into the next step, but it happens. Only a few more rocks left. Come on. Breathe, pant, cough. I can do this. I claw forwards with dry hands. Just one more boulder. I gather and heave myself up and look out- at last! The pass! A mercifully flat path leads to a wooden marker, crude finish line. I’ve made it!
To my right, a jagged mountaintop towers over the rest: Salkantay. 6,264 meters high, a full 1,500 above me. The clouds take pity and retreat to reveal utter magnificence; I drop to my knees in wonderment.
It is akin to an alien landscape, another world; surreal hush envelops me, quietness in contradiction to the grand heights that fill my vision. Four colors dominate this artwork- white snow, light grey mist, green moss and slate stone. Occasionally a blast of blue sky peeks through, illusionary memory of a world beyond this echosphere. I inhabit this dream for an eternal ellipse, one lonely, awed pioneer. How can such massive monuments feel so intimate? There is no panoramic view of land below, only me and these peaks. My legs, at the culmination of their struggle, send no more signals to the nervous system. Heartbeat downshifts from fierce to neutral, and I cease to walk up here. I float the heavenly realms, as weightless as a wisp, a waltzing sunbeam. Accomplishment and exhaustion lift me like a song.
Yet reality eventually brings me down. The trail onward summons. I breathe in paradise once more, listen again to soft drips off mossy rock, and bid farewell to majestic Salkantay. Now, to accept gravity’s pull and plunge downward into dense cloudforest.
Within minutes I am swallowed up; 10 meters alone is visible. Beyond that, mystery. The quiet hush of the pass is replaced with cotton silence. Even the sound of my footfall is deadened. Eerie beauty all around me. My pace is gentle, unrushed. I still have something like 50 or 60 kilometers and many challenges in front of me, but that remains the future’s domain. Right now, I am in love with the now. Concealing clouds disguise my approach and allow me to finally sneak up on a few viscacha for a closer glimpse. They are even more quirky than I imagined, strange hybrids of mountain mammal with marsupial skills and monkey-like agility. They spring from boulder to boulder like a flash of lightning...in fact, I’m not entirely sure they’re of this earth. They look more like Pokémon, ripped from comic books and sequestered in the high Andes, out of sight. Or...from video games? I don’t remember where Pokémon came from. I think I’ve missed a few things back in human society.
Wow. Human society. It feels so far away, a completely different timeline. I can scarcely believe I began this day in a bustling city of cars and commerce; now the only living things around me are cartoon rodents magically bouncing on stones. And, once again, horses.
The cloudforest has grown even thicker, so much that I stumble into this small pack within only a few meters. They are completely unperturbed, however, as if this is a daily occurrence. It must be so, I suppose. Random humans stomping through with massive packs and wearied bodies, ready for a nights rest in a comfortable lodge or campsite. Most everyone does this trek with all the wilderness gear imaginable, prepared for every possible outcome- and typically with porters alongside to help carry the load. Meanwhile, here comes this crazy gringo in wild hair traipsing down the mountainside with one small, sporty backpack and a whole lot of gumption. I don’t even know what I’ll do overnight, which, come to think of it, must be imminent. Grey skies have kept the sun ensconced from view, time now a relic rather than discernible cue. I pause by a stream- at least I think that’s what I hear- and snack on a snickers bar.
My eating habits, as per the rest of my routines, are peculiar...in the midst of physical exertion, I can’t fathom digesting a full meal. I often go a full days hike with a granola bar, or handful of trail mix, or my real treat...a horribly processed concoction of sugar, nougat, caramel and chocolate. Somehow, though I likely know better, I allow myself to subsist on snickers. It’s a burst of energy, maybe with a couple peanuts? And it satisfies the sweetest tooth around. Plus, Remus Lupin would give Harry Potter chocolate when he was peckish. If I were actually fully health-conscious- I’d like to think I am 80% of the time- I would find trail food with plenty of fiber to temper the potent sugars and carbohydrates I know I do need. Our bodies weren’t molded by evolution to take in highly concentrated sugar, not to mention all the chemicals involved in our ubiquitous packaged foods. We were meant to work for our meals- because for hundreds of thousands of years, our ancestors did. We have a tendency to binge due to the way they typically had to consume- in large quantities, after a lot of physical energy expended hunting or foraging, and hopefully before it went bad or another dangerous animal came along to steal it away. Humans never ‘snacked all day’ until very, very recently in our development. Heck, even the act of chewing our food took considerably more effort in the past, which is why our ancestors had such large, muscular jaws and why modern humankind can no longer fit all of the teeth we grow into our comparatively smaller, weaker mandibles (thus, ‘wisdom teeth’ we often remove). More salient to my current meal, humans developed an intricate system of insulin production and regulation of carbohydrates, fats and proteins based on naturally-occurring ratios in organic foods and active lifestyles. Once the agricultural revolution and subsequent change in lifestyle swept through human society, and with the more recent manufacture/engineering of food materials far-removed from nature, we introduced unnatural diseases to our bodies (hello, diabetes). The further from nature we elide, the more out-of-balance we make our lives.
Yet...this snickers tastes darn good. The 80/20 rule seems ok to me right now. I’ll work the 80% and allow myself a treat for the 20%.
All of this I ponder by the stream as a horse gazes at me. Alright, I say aloud. Time to continue. Though I have yet to see a sunset, I know darkness is due. I bid farewell to my equine friends, they swish their tails in response, and my break ends.
Nightfall descends rapidly. I exit the cloudforest in time to see the last vestiges of light- and a glimpse of other human-beings, that most peculiar form of wildlife. I say peculiar, with full recognition that every single one of the locals stare agape as a crazy gringo saunters by so late in the day. Just living my life, man. The trail passes by their small hamlet and quickly slides into verdant forest; the stream I have followed down mountainside gathers volume and attracts a crowd- tall creaky trees, thick underbrush and resident birds, bats, insects and squirrels. I witness this transition in muted tones as sunlight wanders westward, but the sounds of jungle-life at night move in to fill my vision. Crickets and owls herald my re-entrance into ambient theater. With the sky now drained of cloud-cover, a waxing moon helps light my path. I aim, as always, to let my eyes adjust to darkness rather than use the crutch of a cell-phone flashlight; thankfully the moon has decided to oblige. I tread peacefully for a length of time, the trail balanced between flowing river below and hill-side treetops above; I feel nestled in this natural balance, perfectly in my niche. Not separate, but intrinsically connected to it. As if the flow of the river below is actually all around me, in me. Not anxious or turbulent, but tranquil in the aggregate. An eddy may appear or an obstinate stone; yet the flow carries me around assuredly. I am filled with gratitude for, well, everything. What a day.
Sometime late at night, I arrive at the traditional second day’s stopping point. Campsites and lodges and a small village suddenly appear; human voices and electronic music fill the air, masking nature’s subtle soundtrack. I ponder the possibility of a room and bed, luxurious comfort after a tiresome hike… but I’ve already had my snickers. My treat for the day. And it makes no sense to pay for only six hours worth of luxury; I was ready to rough it tonight when I set out, and despite supreme exertion today I actually feel quite fine. Better than fine, if that is possible. I feel at home out here.
But I do probably need at least a little sleep; further down the trail I find a simple wooden structure, unfinished and currently unused. It’s so late I have to imagine it has been unclaimed for the night; so I layer up, turn my backpack into misshapen pillow, and drift off into strangely deep sleep. I had forgotten how weary my body could be.
After an amnesiatic pause, I am awake. The sun has yet to rise, but the glow of its first scouts permeates the horizon. Time to start walking. I quickly fall back into a groove, though in my search for shelter last night I strayed off the path. I find myself on a dirt road now, which may or may not be the trail as well? The river was on my right yesterday, but I am now on the other side…hm. I bring out my phone and open the trusty maps.me app. I zoom in, stare into the bright screen– and then it happens. Sharp pain seizes my shin. I stumble, cry out, and look down to see a large stone in the road, red blood now marked upon its face. My red blood. A pretty deep gash appears halfway up my shin line, but the pain of embarrassment outweighs it’s immediate signal. Seriously, how could I go all day and night yesterday up and down a mountain pass– and yet I harm myself staring into my phone on a completely flat road? The irony is going to kill me if sepsis doesn’t. I curse myself. The white–numb sense of shock wears off and I feel more acutely this undesired tattoo. Oye. Mother nature can be a jealous lover, I remind myself. I pour some water on the wound and re-embark without any more to-do. Chris Farley‘s voice enters my head from 90s comedy– “Oh! That’ll leave a mark.” Tommy Boy. I laugh out loud at myself. How could I not?
I am still smiling in disbelief when another man approaches from ahead. Human contact… I’m not sure I remember how to communicate. Then I remember– I don’t speak Spanish anyways, so that’s kind of a moot point. I raise my hand to wave and prepare to say what I do know – buenos dias! Good morning. He doesn’t break stride when we converge but gestures back towards where he came from, and then towards where I came from, all while speaking rapid Spanish. His smile is self-assured, knowing, as if he has already seen my future. I look at him blankly as he goes by. O...k? Puzzled, I continue on around a bend in the road– and see what he meant to convey. I think. The road here is totally buried in rubble, overcome by a mudslide from who-knows-how-long-ago. There is no clear path over or through it, and I understand why he gestured in both directions. I have to double back. So much for my rigorous early start. I do the math in my head as I retrace my steps… I’ve been going at least half an hour, if not more, so I am technically further behind where I started this morning. Fantastic. Well, at least I know where that belligerent stone is this time around.
As I return around the bend in the road, I see my friend again. He is on the side of the road, possibly waiting for me? He smiles, and beckons- and then disappears, down into the brush. If this were a normal day, I would have thought it all surreal– but nothing to this point has felt typical, so why not? I walk to his vanishing point; the river is maybe 40 meters below, with steep embankments on either side separated by a distance of another 70 meters or so. I didn’t measure this, I’m just throwing out numbers here. The mystery of the vanishing man is quickly answered: he is a short distance below me, next to a rope stretched across the river gap. Actually, now that I look closer it is a pair of ropes… Maybe a pulley system? Wordlessly, the man points at his feet– I think he’s standing on a wooden platform? He smiles again, teeth shining, and suddenly pushes off. The wooden platform zooms across the gap, carrying my happy amigo. It all happens so quickly my breath stops as he flies over the river. Safely on the other side, he waves and sends the platform back. OK then. This is the way things are.
I climb down to the… landing zone? I’m not sure what this should be called. I don’t have any idea what I’m doing now, but is this really anything new? The wooden platform hasn’t made it all the way back; I find that a few tugs of the correct rope brings it to my feet. There are no railings, or any way to secure myself on it– why would there be?- so it’s all on my (nonexistent) core muscles. Alrighty then. I hop aboard to test it out, wait for it to stop swaying, and take a deep breath. Seems safe enough? Whatever. Here we go. I step off to position myself, get a quick running start to push off and then jump on just in time. I feel like someone on one of the very first flying machines, with only enough materials to get the thing airborne and nothing else. I feel every bump and every wobble – but it works! I glide over the river, cool wind in my face. Liberating and terrifying, all at once. I pull myself in the final 10 meters or so, then dutifully send it back for the next lost soul. My silent guide is nowhere to be found, but I am greeted by the next best kind of friend- a slobbery pup scurries down to say hello. There is nothing quite like the hopeful look in a dog’s eyes when we see each other, or the pure joy when a greeting turns into a back-scratch and belly-rub. Roger and I share in this love for a good long moment as I come down from the adrenaline rush. He has no idea why I call him Roger, but then again neither do I. It just happens.
Sadly, though, the trail still beckons. I have to reach my destination by nightfall, and who knows how many more mis-adventures await. I bid farewell to scruffy Rog, and begin again- this time, on the correct trail. I think.
A few minutes later, the sun finally peers over mountaintops after its long prelude. All of this has happened before sunrise. Whew. The gash on my shin isn’t bleeding, but it does seem to pulsate in a gnarly shade of crimson. I shake my head again at my rampant stupidity from before. Ah, well. This is the way of life. The rest of the morning continues, thankfully, without mis-hap. The trail is relatively flat, and I pass by multiple streams that cascade down mountainside into river community below, each more splendorous than the last.
There are also a few small communities along the way, rest stops for weary hikers and homes for hardy natives. I do the spring weather clothing shuffle and strip off layers as the sun grows in intensity; mountain air mixes with thick jungle humidity here in a dichotomous partnership, but I fully adore each schizophrenic shift. I feel strangely refreshed with every step, invigorated by life abundant. The next challenge rapidly approaches, however: I could continue on a path around the mountains beside me, or take on another 1000 meter ascent up and over this range. I say there’s a choice here, but my mind is clearly already made up. I’m going to push myself again, time-efficiency be damned. There is a reward atop the pass, I know, and my body and spirits are ready to climb past another so-called ‘limit’. When I reach the fork in the trail, there is no hesitation.
10 steps later, I am out of breath. Again.
A local woman and her children come up the steps behind me; she carries a large bag perched atop her head, and seems to climb each step with ease. I smile, exchange a heartfelt ‘Buenos Tardes’, and continue up, sufficiently chastened. I’ve got this.
As I climb ever upwards, surrounded by intimate jungle, I reflect on her reminder. A brilliant book I had just finished- The Story of the Human Body (Daniel Lieberman)- explored the way our bodies developed and evolved over hundreds of thousands of years, and how the recent burst of cultural evolution in the past 150 years has severely impacted our physiology. We all used to have to carry large bags of goods or belongings up mountainsides like that woman; our bodies were made to travel long distances, to search far and wide for food or to track down prey through persistence. We are marathon runners, not sprinters; the stress of physical exertion and interaction with the natural world is essential to us- to our immune system, to our psychology, to our vitality. Even the bones in our legs rely on repeated impact with the ground to take their proper shape. Now, many of us have a machine to do all the work for us. We are increasingly surrounded by comfort, and unnaturally sterile environments. Our immune systems have confronted pathogens for millennia, learning and evolving along the way to respond holistically to each threat- which is why we experience, for example, a fever when we contract certain pathogens: our body is literally boiling it out of our system. Each bout with sickness eventually makes us stronger, yet many of us now live in an age of indiscriminate antibiotics, constant prescriptions and untold multitudes of pills. We try to avoid bacteria at all costs, when our own bodies are actually made up of more foreign cells (bacteria) than native cells (those with us since birth). This partnership is essential to our systems running efficiently and durably. I think modern medicine is a marvel, and vitally important in many ways; but we need balance between our eons-old natural processes and the targeted way modern medicine can extend and enrich our lives. It starts with awareness- and, as ever, knowledge. Especially in a country like the united states, where the healthcare system is not there to keep people naturally healthy but to profit off of our un-healthiness. Sickness is a multi-billion dollar business. Balance is the key, in every facet of what I am talking about. Stress is good for us- in doses, and natural patterns. Not the chronic stress that comes from working unnatural hours and environments far removed from the essential benefits of the world outside. I enjoy the comforts of modern society as much as anyone, probably too much. Every time I find myself in the suburbs of the states I fall into a rut, stuck in the cave. I am whisked around in automobiles, separated from other humans and fresh air; surrounded by cheap, processed foods manufactured to be as potent as possible without any of the natural elements we actually need, at the exact point that leaves us simply craving more; in front of screens and computers flooded with all the diverting entertainment my mind and emotions could desire, to the detriment of my body and natural energy flow. A different life is possible for me there, I know, but I fall into the trap every time. Once I escape into the greater world outside, I feel uplifted immediately; reconnected, back in the flow. In touch with my human-ness and the joy that comes from, say, hiking up a mountain side, with only mossy trees as far as I can see. Just as Incans did long before me.
Rant over. I am almost to the pass, and my ruinous reward. See, other than the thrill of a physical challenge, there is a small archaeological site atop the mountain ridge: the llaqtapata ruins, an important shrine and rest area for the Incans along their way to Machu Picchu. As far as 800 years ago, without any of our modern conveniences or a lot of the technology in use in the ‘old world’- wheels, iron or steel- they built a massive empire across the Andes mountains and north-western South America, roughly the size of Eurasia. They hauled stone up these very same mountain trails I have so freely walked with only a light backpack. The challenge of what they achieved is almost unimaginable, and the beauty of what they built incomparable.
The stonework is especially mind-blowing: without using mortar, they cut and pieced together often irregular stone in perfect harmony, both on the micro level within each individual structure and within the topography of their environment. That these structures remain today, after centuries of storms and earthquakes and all manner of natural disaster is a testament to their prodigious ability. I wander this silent setting, overcome with awe and adoration. Green nature and resolute stone coalesce in vibrant portrait, ethereal and lush in ghostliness. After centuries of coexistence, these ruins and their botanic partners seem inseparable. I place my hands on rough rock and feel living history, thousands upon thousands of days swirling past like a light mist. I breathe in air thick and clear; my toes press against ancient pathway. It feels once again as if I am alone in paradise. The ascent was both a chore and a breeze, and in my stillness I am re-energized by these surroundings. Then, I see it: on a ridge in the distance, situated between two peaks. Machu Picchu. City in the sky. It is but a glimpse, yet my heart races. So near, so far, so surreal yet almost within reach. The final stretch awaits.
Predictably, I am lost within minutes of leaving llaqtapata. I try to avoid backtracking and simply forge ahead down the mountain, which likely takes more time than, say, locating the actual trail. But, I mean, the river is right down there. Urubamba, the river I know will guide me to my destination. I just have to get down this mountain side. It takes a while, and a bit of bushwhacking and trail-jumping (turns out there are multiple paths cross-crossed on this side), but I manage to tumble out of the forest onto river’s edge. As elegant as a spider on rollerskates. Now take me home, Urubamba.
A couple of kilometers later I reach a hydroelectric dam- and the endpoint of a road which approaches from the opposite direction. This is the drop-off point for tourists who take vans instead of the train; from here it is a 10 km walk to the base town, Aguas Calientes. After two days of mostly solitary journey, I am overwhelmed by a deluge of foreign humanity. I am…not totally thrilled. People play music on speakers, drink beer and fill the air with chatter. Apart from the roar of the river, the soundtrack of nature is suppressed. I am 60 something kilometers into my journey, but I find myself power-walking to try to avoid these crowds. I am quite ready now to arrive at my destination– a peaceful eco-lodge by the river, far-removed from the tourist trap that is Aguas Calientes. The river spurs me on- and also implores me to stop and admire its awesome power from time to time. All of the meandering streams from on high have now converged into a white-water army that marches forth with unstoppable urgency. I take their cue and march with purpose alongside. It all starts to become a blur, as the end of any long journey tends to be.
As the sun begins to set I finally see it: Gea Lodge, and the promise of a meal, a bed, and peaceful quiet. Home, for two nights at least. My body melts when I finally check in to my room. A room! To myself! The cute girl at reception clearly wants to talk and flirt, but all I can think about is my meal of Cuban fried rice and lots of sleep. It dawns on me later that this day is Valentine’s Day…generally uncelebrated in my recent history, but an important marker for me: today makes it four years since I left the United States on my first solo backpacking trip. Four years of living around the world without a home– or more accurately, with home being wherever I happen to be. And I can’t think of a better way to celebrate then finishing a 34-hour, 74-kilometer hike up and down 3000 meters of Andes mountains to the doorstep of one of the great wonders of the world. I am content. And passed the F out.
10 hours later, I wake up. As is often the case after sleeping so long, I feel terrible. Stiff, sore, groggy. When I set out to walk the two-or-so kilometers to the base of the long staircase up to Machu Picchu, I seriously consider for the first time hopping in a vehicle to avoid the hike. Tourist buses run up to the site every 15 minutes, skipping the 400 meter ascent. My aches and, well, laziness clamor for a seat on the bus. But when I reach the convergence of road and trail, I am informed it is impossible to hop on the bus here. Saved by the universe, who always knows best. I am actually relieved to have this option stripped away; the Incans who worked as farmers on top of the ridge were not allowed to live up there with the elite ruling class, so they had to hike up and down these stairs every single day. I feel a slight thrill walking in their footsteps; I may not be a farmer, but I sure as heck will never be a ruling elite. So I take the first step, human once again. All the negative energy of the morning is lifted in an instant. I am back amongst tall trees, sweat glistening, serenaded by wrens and thatches and thrushes, with glimpses of cloudy mountain scenes in every direction. This is how it should be. The final ascent.
I arrive at the top an hour or so later, re-joined with bustling crowds and theme park lines. Honestly, it is not nearly as bad as it could be; the tourism board has done a great job of limiting the number of visitors and maintaining an environment clear of trinket shops, fake noise and modern trash. To pass through these ancient gates is to pass into a timeless existence. The city is incredibly well-preserved, all the more impressive considering its long history. My favorite part of the story is the few hundred years between mass abandonment and European ‘re-discovery’, when a couple of local farmers noticed a post-apocalyptic opportunity and took up residence in these palatial estates for generations. What it must’ve been like to call this place home, I wonder, surrounded only by nature sacred stones.
As for me, I spent an entire day amidst the ruins wrapped in pure bliss. You may wish for a longer description here, or more history and reflection; I regret to inform you I simply don’t have the words. Every once in a while in this life, the experience of something we greatly anticipate actually ends up transcending our ability to convey the experience. This was one of those days. The pride I felt in surviving the trek, the awe and incomparable majesty of that place, the love for life oozing from every pore lifted me up so weightlessly I floated on thin air for the entirety of my visit. In the absence of words, I simply leave you with these pictures, and a final message: rejoice in your human-ness, in the stress and toil and abundant energy coursing through us every day of our lives. Embrace it all.