The Road Less Traveled

Day 3
It’s early morning when I slowly rise, having slept only an hour or two, plagued by headaches and shallow breath. Foul weather appears to be crawling up the valley, but for now the sun shines down on the poured concrete and iron rods that jut from the Salcantay Lodge foundations. Despite the current state at the worksite, it’s clear that Enrique and his father have the magic touch. The location of the 12-bedroom lodge is brilliant, facing the jagged glacial slopes of the Salcantay and Humantay, which loom 6,271 metres and 5,917 metres respectively above sea level.

We set off for the long hike over the Salcantay pass. Mules, which can carry upward of 132 pounds each, haul our tents, food, and overnight packs. Today is by far the most difficult day, with a fairly direct 900-metre climb to 4,470 metres (14,700 feet).

“There are several unique aspects about this route,” says Enrique. “You cross many microclimates, from high alpine down through cloud forest, rainforest, and jungle.”

Plus, the Salcantay trail is far less travelled than other routes, making this trek feel more adventuresome and less touristy. As we hike, we don’t see a single foreigner along the path.

There are, in fact, many historic trails leading to Cusco, the heart of the Inca Empire. The most famous is the Inca Trail, a 45-kilometre route starting out from the banks of the Urubamba River. The Trail has suffered from an overexposure to tourism and to preserve its sanctity, the Peruvian government has reduced the number of permits it issues to walk the trail to 500 a day. The Salcantay route doesn’t require permits and in the rainy season (October to April) you share it solely with locals.

For the first few hours, the climb upward is constant, each step revealing a dramatic and unforgiving landscape.

Two hours into the hike, my eyes bulge when I see fellow journalist Álvaro Rocha Revilla riding a sorry-looking mule up the increasingly steep slope. In his 50s with a bit of a panza (belly), Alvaro is not exactly a poster child for fitness and I can’t help but smile when he confesses with a sheepish grin, “I’m ashamed, but comfortable.”

The solitude and rhythm of hiking is a great opportunity to connect with my surroundings. A condor, its wings broad and utterly impressive, glides into view with immortal grace. I, on the other hand, am still struggling to adjust to the altitude. As I take each slow, deliberate step, I peer up at the monstrous heights of the Salcantay and wonder how the hell anyone could climb it. (I was told it was a team of Germans who first stood on its icy summit in the 1950s, followed by Japanese climbers several decades later.)

Up here, it’s easy to understand why the Inca and their descendents believe that Apus, or gods, reside in the mountains. Being one of the highest summits in Peru, the Salcantay has great importance, with locals coming to make offerings and asking for help from the Apus.

Our guide, Ronald Delgado Zuzunaga, pauses along the trail to tell me to “pick up a rock the size of my sins” to leave at the pass now buried in fog. Like everyone else, I pick up the smallest rock I can bear in good conscience and continue inching my way up toward the ridge.

By the time we reach the saddle of the Salcantay, it’s sleeting and bitterly cold. With more fog rolling up the slopes and threatening to erase everything from sight, we quickly head for our campsite at Huayraccmachay.

I’m huddled in my tent when news arrives that a group of workman are starting up a game of soccer in a fallow potato field. Like many places in the world, soccer isn’t considered so much a sport in Peru as a religion.

With a booming headache and the very real prospect of twisting my ankle on the brutally uneven ground, I’m inclined to stay in my tent, but I’m haunted by the unconventional wisdom of Graham, the British mountaineer on our trek: “When in doubt, choose the more interesting option.”

Our game of pick-up is surprisingly well organized with coloured shirts for each side and 15-minute halftimes. A small audience of locals gathers, some listening to radios as they watch the unfolding spectacle.

“It’s like playing on the moon,” says a lanky American in our trekking party as she navigates around a big boulder in the field.

The game is physical and includes elbows, tripping and a soccer ball as hard and cold as a tightly packed snowball. There is much laughter from the spectators as one player stumbles over in the dirt and another gets plowed in the face with the ball.

Few words are exchanged with our Peruvian players; none are needed. I am struck that even half way around the world, a shared game serves as a point of entry into this tightly woven Quechua community.

It’s late (9:30 p.m.) when I make my way back to the warmth of my sleeping bag. In the mountains, time compresses: 9 p.m. is the new midnight, while staying up until 11 is a virtual all-nighter.

This entry was posted on Friday, April 13th, 2007 at 2:47 pm and is filed under Features. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site. Add to del.icio.us.