The Road Less Traveled

Day 5
Finally, we see our first group of gringos on the trail. We pass one of their numbers standing by a wide bridge over the Río Totora. She stares across the span, terrified. The bridge is by no means a hazard (unless you’re a 10-tonne truck) but she rants at it, then turns to me: “I never want to do another bridge like this again.” Clearly danger is in the eye of the beholder; Denise meanders across the bridge, stops to snap a few pics and then carries on to the other side.

For several hours, Denise and I walk in the rain, following the Río Santa Teresa, moving from cloud forest to rainforest where we see purple orchids, prehistoric ferns and wild strawberries. Above the trail, a narrow swath of forest has been cleared so that freshly cut laurel trees can be slid down to the river 100 metres below. From there, they’ll float downstream to a local furniture maker.

Along this ancient Inca causeway, commerce and information seem to yo-yo up and down the trail. We pass two kids in uniforms who walk half an hour each way to go to school in the town of La Playa. Just outside town, the road begins and I see the unsightly trappings of modernity: cars, corrugated tin roofs and electrical wires jerry-rigged from house to house.

At our final campsite in the high jungle of Lucmabamba, our tents are squashed together like a suburban subdivision. I wish the adobe lodges were finished—they’re scheduled to open in July—but instead I listen to snoring from nearby tents. At 3 a.m. and 5 a.m., a rooster cock-a-doodle-dos in my ear, but by dawn, none of that matters because we are in coffee growing country and the morning brew kicks caffeinated ass.

Day 6
Our last day of hiking will take us a thousand metres over the Paltallacta Pass and down to the Vilcanota River toward our final destination, the ruins of Machu Picchu. Diego, with his brutalized knees, decides to hitch a ride on a truck. Despite a rash as thick as the Milky Way, Álvaro, the intrepid Peruvian journalist, rallies for the fourth day of hiking.

Carved into the Andes 600 metres above the Urubamba River, Machu Picchu was the religious centre of the Inca from the 1440s until the Spanish conquest in 1532. In 1911, Yale archaeologist Hiram Bingham paid a local farmer to take him to the “lost” ruins, where a family was already living. Bingham was given all the credit for his discovery.

To get the most out of our time at Machu Picchu, we opt to take the early morning bus up to the ruins from the nearby town of Aguas Calientes. We arrive at the gates at 6:45 a.m. and I have a sinking feeling when I see shops, restaurants and turnstiles to enter the archaeological zone. With over 400,000 tourists a year, these developments are as inevitable as they are regrettable.

All my doubts fade when I arrive at the ruins themselves. When I’d visited at age 14, grass sprouted from the stone walls like hairy moles and many buildings had been only partly restored. The archaeologists have obviously been busy over the last quarter century and the ruins are especially stunning shrouded in the ethereal morning mist.

While Cusco may have been the centre of the universe for the Inca, Machu Picchu is definitely one of the empire’s most precious jewels. With only about 140 structures and sanctuaries throughout the site, Machu Picchu is thought to have been home to less than a thousand people at any one time.

Álvaro suggests we go to the Temple of the Moon before the crowds arrive. What is supposed to be a short walk becomes an hour up and down the side of nearby Huayna Picchu. We arrive at the temple, recessed into a spacious cave overlooking a deep lush valley. Little is known about the site, but based on its location and detailed construction—including a throne carved out of granite—it was likely a ritual centre. The stones were shaped with such accuracy that the walls fit seamlessly together like pieces of a puzzle.

On the hike out, the steps are so numerous that, even after four days of trekking, I’m winded and my legs burn. In truth, I don’t feel like climbing today. I want to hear stories about the great city of the Incas. But this is not to be. When I finally locate our guide within the labyrinth of stone buildings, the tour is almost over. Machu Picchu has past me by in a flash. We head for the exit, just as the bustling day-trippers arrive from Cusco and the sweltering sun hits its apex.

Homeward Bound
Time closes in around me, and I soon find myself on a jetliner back to Toronto. It has all happened so fast that I wonder if it was just a dream. Was a week abroad worth the trouble? Absolutely. I feel renewed and inspired, with great experiences and a healthy dose of introspection. “Treks are wonderful because time expands,” says Graham. “A week feels like a month, and you really can develop a close relationship with your travel companions.”

By the time I arrive home, my Uncle Steven has been readmitted to the hospital and undergone emergency surgery. His life is drawing to a close. As he views pictures of Peru on my laptop computer, however, it appears that the photographs take him away from the immediacy of his own situation. A few days later, he slips away in the night. I can’t help but think of the fleeting nature of life and of my father’s advice to live life while you can. I am inspired by my time in the Andes and, like all pathological travellers, have already begun plotting my next trip.

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