The Sacred Valley sort of snuck up on me, with a remarkable abundance that exceeded my expectations. Not sure why, as I’d marveled at the farmers’ market in Cusco, Peru, easily five times the size of any I’d ever seen back home in Minnesota. So my view of the rich, black soil shouldn’t have surprised me. I was equally surprised to discover that just as I leaned my forehead on the bus window, I affirmatively decided it was time to stop thinking about (read: obsessing over) my list: eight carefully prepared pages of “must bring, must do” for our family of four that had never camped before but somehow decided the Andes and the Inca Trail were the place to start.
We were en route to the trailhead, and I had purchased in Ollantaytambo that morning what I thought was probably unnecessary: a hand-carved walking stick. The night before had featured a terrific dinner at a world-class hotel, obviously designed for the faint of heart, those human chickens who planned to ride the train to Aguas Calientes and visit Machu Picchu in comfort. We’d chosen the road less traveled, which I discovered that morning was located somewhere between unnerving and mystifying.
Our bus rolled into a dirt parking lot. What little we were permitted to bring was deposited onto a tarp. Our family’s bags were tidy, waterproof tributes to the best REI had to offer. I was still annoyed that our 22-year-old daughter refused to mark her bag with her name, which is her nature. (OK, so it was bright yellow and impossible to miss. Still, it should have been marked with her name.)
Then Tim and I crossed the bridge to the trail together, which in my mind was a big deal. Despite the fact that the journey had originated with him red-faced, pitching a fit during the last of our “normal” vacations (“We are not sitting on our butts by pools anymore! Our next family trip will have a purpose!”), he’d never warmed to the idea of hiking the Inca Trail. He’s not a camper. Plus he is not a fan of terrorists and was convinced the Shining Path would descend upon us. (This 1980s-bred Peruvian terrorist threat peaked in the 1990s but has since retreated to the Amazon jungle, which neither of us actually knew when I signed us up for the trek.) I, on the other hand, had no fears — that is, beyond forgetting something on the eight pages of my list.
Whatever expectations either of us had, this exceeded them.
The Inca Trail is not a “hike.” It is an epically beautiful, physically challenging climbing excursion up and down (but mostly up) the stone path leading to Machu Picchu. There are other trails. But this is the trail. The views are soul-stirring. I’ve been to the Rockies and the Alps, but this is my new favorite place on earth. Each time I leaned on my now necessary, familiar and worth-every-Peruvian-sol walking stick and paused to look, the majesty of the landscape inspired me. Mark Adams in his Turn Right at Machu Picchu, a must-read for anyone visiting Peru, suggests that the Incas had not merely built a trail from point A to point B, but designed a route that was intended as a pilgrimage.
For me, it was just such a journey — one of gratitude and awareness. At 54, I rediscovered the value of my health. I thanked God for all the doctors who’d harangued me into taking preventive asthma medication. I marveled at the energy and passion of my now young-adult daughters. I deeply appreciated Roni, our seasoned guide, for caring enough to point out a condor, a bird with spiritual significance. And I appreciated him in equal measure for ensuring we lightened our daypacks before day two, which was almost entirely uphill.
During the four-day, three-night trek, any time I was able to catch my breath I spontaneously said things like, “I am in a James Bond movie!” and “I feel like Indiana Jones!” and “I can’t bear how beautiful this is! Do you see how beautiful this is?” Tim would nod, sometimes. Usually he was on the lookout for the ubiquitous Peruvian porters, so he could call out “Porter!” and we’d step aside on the trail, more out of respect than necessity. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.
They, too, exceeded my expectations. Carrying our bags on their backs, along with enough camping gear for our group of 18, they were always well ahead of us, setting up lunch before we arrived. Afterward, they’d pack up the entire operation and hurry along the trail to ensure our campsite was set up and in ready condition, all with genuine smiles and a warm joy that spoke to a willingness to work hard.
When we reached Machu Picchu, an incredible destination of its own, somehow it seemed almost beside the point. I’d arrived to realize it was the journey, not the destination, I’d most valued.
The purpose of our trip was to support Smile Network and the children it serves. As I experienced the beautiful country, learned its rich history and came to value the selfless, hard work of its people, I felt more than ever a desire to give back — to give back to Peru some measure of what it had given me.
Smile Network International is a nonprofit providing life-altering surgeries to children across the world. To fund its work, it conducts volunteer adventure travel experiences to such places as the Inca Trail in Peru, the Camino in Spain and the Roof of Africa on Mount Kilimanjaro. To learn more, visit smilenetwork.org.
Read this article as it appears in the magazine.
