The Inca Trail: Day 4, Finally

Not the view from camp, but close enough 

I slept like the dead after Day 3. I curled up in my sleeping bag and rested my head on a pillow of my dirty clothes as a sick, sore, exhausted, unhappy human but somehow I awoke renewed … at 3:30 am. That’s when you have to get up on Day 4 of the Inca Trail. Mama Darwin came by to rouse everyone at that unnatural hour without coffee (we had been warned that there would be no coffee delivery this morning), and I sat up in the tent pleasantly surprised. I was hungry again and I actually felt like I could keep food down. I felt rested and capable of smiling. I felt like a real person again.

It was an awkward morning, though, trying to pack up with my headlamp in the cold. Our campsite was on a narrow cliff ledge, basically an alley of tents with a wall of mountain behind and a sheer drop five feet in front of the tent doors. Not the best spot to make a bunch of worn-out hikers pack up before 4 am, but we were all moving too slowly to be in any real danger. Unfortunately, my refusal to visit the toilets the night before had created a situation that I couldn’t ignore anymore, but I still wasn’t feeling the hike to the nasty toilets. I headed over to the breakfast tent to see if anyone else shared my trepidation and if maybe we could come up with a solution. Thank goodness for Justyna!! She instantly knew what I was getting at and offered up a plan: We’d find a spot by the mountain behind the tents (almost all of which were packed up already; the porters are that fast), she’d cover for me, and then I’d cover for her. Everyone else who had already been to the bathroom strongly supported the idea. Apparently these toilets were the absolute worst of all the ones on the trail, and I’m so grateful that I never saw them. Stuff of nightmares, I heard.

My Time in the Spotlight

Amped up on rebellion and my overwhelming need to pee, I grabbed some toilet paper and headed out to find a good spot with Justyna. It was trickier than we anticipated, though. Almost all the tents had been cleared and a porter with a headlamp was standing guard. I’m pretty sure his whole job that morning was to keep people from peeing outside, but seriously? It was going to take way more than one dude with a flashlight to deter me at this point.

We found a tiny bush in between us and the porter, and Justyna generously offered to let me go first. Oh lordy, it was glorious, but halfway through the porter spotted us and started yelling in Spanish. He shined his headlamp directly on me and kept yelling, but my Spanish is pretty much limited to what I learned as a waitress from cooks and busers. We never covered, “You can’t urinate on a Peruvian national park, entitled American bitch.” So I just shrugged at him from my squat and kept peeing in the spotlight. I’m truly sorry, Peru, but you didn’t leave me many options. It was rainy and I threw away the paper, if that counts for anything.

But poor Justyna said she couldn’t go after that. The porter was starting to walk toward us. So we went back to the breakfast tent to eat and wait him out. Long story not-so short, she was successful and we all started out for our last day on the trail. I’m not going to lie to you, dear reader (obviously); I couldn’t wait for this stupid hike to be over. I enjoyed a full breakfast and was confident in my ability to get to Machu Picchu without hurling again, but I was so over the Inca Trail. Mish wasn’t doing so well. She ate a little but she was still feeling as bad as the day before.

I Did Not Sign Up for This

Day 4 is weird. What all the tour companies fail to tell you is the guides from all the different companies compete with each other to be the first group on the trail in the morning and the first to the Sun Gate (a stunning spot about an hour uphill from Machu Picchu where, in theory, the groups gather to watch the sun rise over the ruins below). Which is why all the groups (I’d guess there were four or five others of similar sizes pacing us) camp at the same place on Night 3—it’s as close as you can get to the checkpoint we all have to cross at the beginning of Day 4.

But the checkpoint doesn’t open until 5:30 am. So that 3:30 wakeup call? It was done entirely so we could pack up, eat, and be first in line at the checkpoint. I was so angry when we walked for two minutes and then lined up to wait AN HOUR for the checkpoint to open. I wouldn’t have hesitated a single second if Raul had given us the choice to sleep an extra hour and be last through. But there we were, first in line, with trekkers from all the other groups piling up behind us and doing that obnoxious, persistent line-shoving thing that all crowds of people inevitably do.

When the checkpoint finally opened, people started shoving in earnest and we were all sausaged through the gates and out to the trail beyond (foul, unwashed human sausage wrapped in fleece). Raul was doing his best to block other guides from passing us, but he finally accepted that he had a rag-tag group of sickies mixed with chill hikers who couldn’t care less about rank. After about 30 minutes on the trail, we went from first place to last. Now tell me again why I didn’t get to sleep an extra hour, Raul.

But I Did Sign Up for This

Photographing while walking = blurry

The hike itself was amazing. We were still walking along a cliff with the mountain shooting straight up to the left and dropping away (hundreds of feet? Thousands? I’m terrible at distances, but definitely hundreds) to death on the right. There was a chain of mountains across the valley to the right and daylight was starting creep up above them as we walked. It was my favorite part of the trip so far and possibly as close as I’ll ever get to feeling genuinely spiritual. There’s certainly something to be said for physically, mentally, and emotionally wearing yourself down and then experiencing nature in such a raw and glorious setting when you’re waking up renewed. I felt so happy and at peace. And then Raul called over his shoulder, as if he was pointing out a cool Incan ruin, “And this is the spot where a girl fell to her death a few years ago.” Cheery return to reality. We all hugged the side of the mountain a little closer but I continued to marvel at my surroundings and my amazing existence at that exact moment.

Mish on the Monkey Bars

Then we came to the Monkey Bars, an infamous spot on the trail. It looks like a water-carved gully but it goes straight up through boulders, and we had to climb it. A few stragglers from other groups kept trying to pass people, which made it even more treacherous. 

But once we reached the top it wasn’t far to the Sun Gate. We were too late for the sunrise, but that didn’t diminish the experience for me in the slightest. I came up to a little pass and noticed people clustered in front of me, posing for pictures, before I saw what they were posing in front of. It was Machu Picchu!!! And it was breathtaking, spread out below us on a flattened expanse of a lower mountain. Michele agreed that it was stunning but she was trying not to throw up on the Sun Gate, so I didn’t push her for commentary.

The view from the Sun Gate

We got to relax and mill around the Sun Gate for about 30 minutes and take pictures to our hearts’ content. There were group shots, single shots, friend shots, couple shots, new-friend shots, nature shots, every kind of (photographic) shot you can imagine. There were hugs and kisses and couples wrapping their arms around each other while gazing at the ancient city and whispering to each other. There was Michele sitting on a rock not puking and me harassing her about drinking water. It was a beautiful culmination of a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and we hadn’t even gotten down to Machu Picchu yet.

Best rag-tag group ever

From there we walked down, crossed through Machu Picchu, and exited. I didn’t realize we had to leave the site to reenter through the proper gate, but Raul stopped on our way through the city to give a little talk and let us take some more photos before he made us leave. We also had to say goodbye to Mama Darwin here, because he was going to head into town and back home once we left Machu Picchu (for the first time). I tried to give him the rest of my coca leaves but he said he wanted to take the train home, not fly. Oh, Darwin, you’re lovely and I miss you already.

Heading down

By the time we exited to line up and go back in, the tour buses had started pulling up and Raul knew it would take a while to get back in, so he let us get food and drinks at the restaurant and use the toilets before we reconvened inside. I think it says a lot about my experience on the Inca Trail that I was more excited about pooping in a clean toilet than I was about touring Machu Picchu. But damn if that wasn’t the best toilet I’ve ever encountered in my life.

Machu Picchu

Hydrated, fed, and happy, we all met Raul back inside the gates of Machu Picchu and enjoyed a leisurely walk around the site while he explained various spots. We saw the tiered agricultural area, the residential quarter, and the quarry inside the city where the Incas got their building materials. We learned about their architectural techniques and saw the exact places where they stopped working on structures, for whatever reason, right before they disappeared. (Did one of their black-llama sacrifices actually provide a premonition of the coming Spaniards, as some people believe, causing the Incas to move deeper into the Andes to hide? Did a plague sweep through the population? Did they migrate to another city for some other, unknown reason? The mystery remains!) We peered inside the sacred temple and we put a modern compass on their compass rock to see how accurate their technology was so long ago.

Raul’s tour hit all the main points, and then he said he was going into Aguas Calientes (the town by MP) to wait for us at the café where we’d have lunch. We had a couple hours on our own to explore Machu Picchu before we’d have to catch a bus into town. Obviously Mish and I made a beeline to the llamas. That’s right, folks, there really are llamas hanging out at Machu Picchu. There was even a baby! We took a ton of photos, fed a llama, and then walked around for about another 30 minutes before shrugging and saying, “Well, I guess that’s it,” and heading to the bus stop.

Llamas!

And now comes the bittersweet reminder that the journey really is worth so much more than the destination. Machu Picchu was amazing (and I can’t recommend it more highly), but somehow after everything I’d just been through, it seemed like a footnote. It might be the most awe-inspiring footnote I’ll ever experience, but it was a footnote to the Inca Trail nonetheless. And I’m totally cool with that. I feel like I experienced all the glory of Machu Picchu to the same extent that people who take the bus or train do, but I had such a separate, heightened experience immediately preceding it that I saw the ruins from a different perspective. I saw Machu Picchu as an amazing city hidden away in the Andes, an astonishing feat of human ingenuity and determination, but I like to think I experienced it in a way slightly more akin to how the Incas did: as a welcoming place to poop comfortably after an arduous trek through unforgiving terrain.

Yes we did!

Inca Trail, Part 3: Nope, Don't Want It

Before Day 2

On Day 2, Michele and I rise and shine with coffee in the tent (delivered by mom and one of my favorite porters) and start to mentally prepare for what everyone says is the hardest day of the Inca Trail: hiking to Dead Woman’s Pass, anywhere from 12,000 to 14,000 feet up, depending on your source. (Spoiler alert: Day 2 is not the hardest day by a long shot. I would do a week of Day 2s to avoid a single Day 3.) I brave the outhouse toilet situation and see adorable guinea pigs running around in a hut on the way back to camp; I try to ignore the fact that humans will soon eat them. When I get back to the tent Michele apologizes because she kicked over my coffee and it all went on my sleeping bag. She tried to clean it up with the little bit of toilet paper she had, but my bag is sitting in a coffee puddle. At least I love the smell. I ring it out, roll it up, and pack it along with the rest of my non-daypack gear in my duffle bag. All fourteen of our group gather in our fancy-pants meal tent for a breakfast of champions while dad gives us the rundown for the day, then Michele and I take our “before” picture, and IT’S ON.

Happy me on Day 2

Day 2 is certainly challenging, with lots of strenuous uphill hiking and rock stairs, but I don’t mind it. I like cardio and I’m getting a good workout in some gorgeous scenery. Plus I’m getting my money’s worth out of my rented hiking poles and my new boots. We stop for lunch on a bitter-cold, blustery outcrop in the mountains, and we all rave about having a tent to eat in rather than having the brave the wind with food. Lunch is extra warm and delicious, and when we’re done everyone seems excited but wary to keep going up.

I’m still pumped and excited about the trail in front of us, more so than most people in our group. Turns out I like cold and altitude and uphill challenges more than the average person. It’s exactly what I wanted out of the Inca Trail and to this day I don’t see why people think Day 2 is so difficult. I mean, it was a good hike, but it never seemed unreasonable to me.

We made it to Dead Woman's Pass!

Michele is enjoying it less than I am, but she comes up with a good strategy to deal with the uphill: no long breaks, but short water breaks frequently. Just keep walking up. We make it to the pass and take some photos. I’m happy and I feel good. It’s cold but exciting. It’s exactly what I imagined the Inca Trail would be. Unfortunately, the other side of the pass awaits us….

Downhill

The downhill and my
 trail anger start here.

This is where the Inca Trail stops being a hike and starts making me angry. We have about an hour and a half or two hours of sheer downhill clambering over giant rocks. No trail. Rocks. Each step is about 1 to 2 feet down. With every single, step my joints are slamming into themselves. The longer we go, the angrier I get. Michele told me later that she stopped turning around to check on me because she could tell by my gruff exhales and continual “fuck this” mutterings that I was still alive. I fell once. It hurt.

But eventually we make it to camp, somewhere in the middle of the pack, and everyone who already arrived is huddled in their separate tents, nursing wounds, I assume. I’m so mad at this unexpected joke the Incas are playing on me that I smoke a cigarette, despite saying I absolutely would not smoke on the trail (R had been smoking already, so I feel emboldened). But it at least gives me a chance to get to know a few porters better, because we instantly become buddies while they share my cigarettes. I can’t understand how they’re happy and joking despite having hours of work ahead of them and knowing what they just went through (sort of, but not really because I didn’t have 30+ pounds strapped to my back as I stumbled down rockslides).

Mish and I after Day 2

Dinner

My soup tastes weird so I don’t eat much of it, but the rest of dinner is nice. The bathrooms do nothing to ease my anger, but the group commiseration on our experiences of the day help a little. (I wasn't the only one who fell!) Then it’s bedtime and luckily, before I can dwell on how tomorrow is all downhill, I pass out.

Day 3: Sick

I wake up the next morning feeling a little queasy and tell myself it’s just nerves about an entire day of downhill. It has nothing to do with the weird soup last night. We go to the breakfast tent and when the food comes I realize it’s not nerves. I feel like I’m going to throw up just from the smell of breakfast, but I know I need fuel for the day ahead. I offer my plate to Mama Darwin and walk outside the tent with my water and a little mug of quinoa porridge. It seemed the least offensive of the options and I know it’ll at least give me protein. I try to choke it down but only get through about half of it. It’s going to be a rough day.

We get going on the trail and amazingly we go uphill for a little while. My spirits rise a tiny bit until we stop for a water break and some porters run by. I know we all stink at this point, but in my sensitive state the rush of odor as they speed by exceeds my coping abilities. A particularly pungent porter passes me and my porridge is coming back up. Before I really know what I’m doing, I’ve rushed over to some plants on the edge of the trail to feed them my quinoa. So much for my protein for the day.

Poor Michele is also feeling sick, but she has the toilet paper and somehow my water bottle. I make her bring me both and she tells me later that coming near me and my after-gags almost made her hurl too. (Travel buddies!) I clean up and we keep going. I still feel like vomiting but I’m empty now. My trail friend Danielle kindly gives me some Emergen-C packets to put in my water and they make a world of difference. (If you hike the trail, definitely bring some.)

Misery

The rest of Day 3 is horrible but it is also the most beautiful part of the trek. We are cutting through mountains with breathtaking vistas and passing Incan ruins and I wish more than anything that my knees could handle the brutal steps (they call them the Gringo Killers) and that I wasn’t feeling so sick.

Beautiful and horrible

Everyone in our group is gnawing on their coca leaves and swearing they help, so I keep trying but not only do they not help, the taste makes me want to vomit even more. We get to the lunch spot and Michele and I have to sit outside the tent and stare off in the distance to avoid being sick from the smell of food.

I also have to pee, which makes my nausea about one billion times worse. The toilets are horrific. Smells, sights, sounds (the sounds are mostly made by my shoes as I walk over things nobody should have to walk over in an attempt to find a toilet)—everything is enough to make a healthy person sick…and I’m not healthy. I keep thinking they should just let us do our business in nature and bag it out, like when I walk my dog. The whole trek would be so much more pleasant that way.

I'm scattering unrelated
Day 3 shots throughout rants

Somehow I make it back to fresh air and rejoin Michele in staring at the horizon. Mom comes out to see how we’re doing and brings us special tea that he promises will solve all our problems. I love Darwin with my whole heart, always and forever, but his tea is worthless. Dad comes out with some weird-looking bottle and says, “You’re going to put your face in my hands.” Thank goodness he’s looking at Michele and not me when he says this—she’s too nice to argue. He puts some of the liquid from the bottle in his palms, rubs them together, and then shoves his hands around Michele’s face while I try not to puke-laugh all over everyone. “Breathe deeply,” he says, over and over. Finally he lets her go and she pulls her head up. She looks dazed for a second and then starts smiling and nodding noncommittally. (You need to understand that Michele is super-humanly polite.) Raul says, “Better?” Michele smiles bigger and says, “Yeah, actually, that really helped.” She turns her smile to me, vindictively, as if to say, “Your turn, pukey.”

My face smelled like Raul's hands here

Before I know what’s happening Raul’s hands are surrounding my face and he’s telling me to breathe deeply. I need air, so I obey. His hands smell minty, but I can’t help wondering when he last washed them. He smothers me for a good minute so I’m forced to breathe in his minty-germy hand cocktail multiple times, and then he finally releases my head. “Better?” “Um…sure. Thanks, Raul….thanks?” I am not better.

Hating life right about now

Lunch is over, I have no food in my stomach, I still feel like I’m one weird inhale away from throwing up again, we have about five more hours of downhill joint torture to go, and my face smells like Raul’s hands. I’m not at my best. My pace had been snail-like on Day 2’s downhill, but today it’s pretty much a crawl—maybe a baby who is just learning how to crawl and keeps stopping for naps. I’m dragging Michele down with me, and we’re now the slowest people in our group, other than poor D who had bronchitis and had to be carried on a stretcher for a spell. And I’m still cursing like a sailor with every giant step down.

Hours go by this way until we get to a point where the group has gathered to wait for us, because there’s a fork in the road. Go left, and you get to see glorious Incan ruins that only trekkers get to see. If you take that route, it’s “an hour” to camp. Go right, and you go straight to camp, no extra sights, and you’ll be at your tent in “30 minutes.” I really want to go left, because I chose to hike the goddamn Inca Trail. I want to see it all! And I can tell Michele really wants to go left as well. But there are so many stairs that way. And I am so sick and weak and frustrated by the world I’m living in. I would swear that my knees are both broken. I keep looking back and forth between the two trails, and I feel like such a failure of a human being, but I finally say it out loud, “Michele, I’m really sorry, but I have to go right. I just can’t go left.

My coca-leaf prayer
went unanswered.

But if you want to go left, please do. I don’t want you to miss out because I suck.” She’s one of my best friends, and we’ve been friends forever, but she’s so polite that sometimes I can’t even tell when she’s lying to be nice. Either way, she says she feels like shit too and she just wants to go to camp. So we both go right. (I love Michele.)

Still going downhill

Dad said it would be about 30 minutes to camp going right, but I figured that meant an hour at my pace. So we keep plodding along and it gets to be about an hour and I still see no sign of camp. We turn a corner and there are two porters. Turns out they are waiting for us because we are the last people in the group. They follow really closely behind me. Then Raul appears from behind them and tries to give me a pep talk about how close we are to camp. But we are going down switch-backs (I kid you not), and every single step is two to three feet down (for real), and I’m sick and exhausted and my kneecaps are about to grind into dust and I have these three dudes breathing down my neck to try to make me go faster. Literally, I feel their breath on my neck and in my hair.

It’s just too much. I pull my headlamp out of my backpack (because it’s dark at this point; we should be eating dinner right now), turn it on, and start crying silently as I take giant, joint-crushing step after step down toward a camp I can’t even see. My tears are blurring my vision, and I’m trying to wipe them inconspicuously because I don’t want Raul asking me what’s wrong. I’m so angry and sore and sick and tired and I think the Inca Trail is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done (and I’ve done a lot of really dumb things). Finally we see a camp … and it’s not ours. We have to keep climbing down absurdly large steps to pass every single other camp before we finally get to ours. It is the absolute last campsite. But oh my god there’s a tent for me. I just have to find my duffle bag with my sleeping gear and I am DONE for the day. I have never wanted to be so done with something in my entire life.

So lovely but I
managed to hate it

(Side note: you know you have a good travel buddy when you stop thinking “I” and start thinking “we” because you know you are both experiencing the exact same misery. I noticed I started writing that way without even realizing it.)

We finally get our stuff and set it up in our tent and change into PJs. It’s probably not even 8, maybe not even 7, but neither of us has any concept of time. All we know is our own exhaustion and pain and illness. We both crawl into our sleeping bags to “rest” before dinner, even though we’re both too sick to sit in a tent full of people eating. But that’s what we tell dad when he comes to see how we’re doing. I wonder if I’m going to pee on myself in my sleep, but I honestly don’t care. The porters pointed out the toilets as we descended to our camp, and they are a good five-minute hike back up steps. I could do that, but there is no way I would make it back down. In my condition, I actually think that peeing on myself would be better, so I take the risk and succumb to the joy of laying down on the hard earth in my sleeping bag. (For the record, I didn’t have an accident.)

More scenes from Day 3

Dad comes back a little later to say dinner is ready and we both tell him we can’t eat. He tells us that if we want to tip the cook and porters, we have to do it tonight. There’s a tipping ceremony after dinner. I ask him if he can come get us for the ceremony, because we want to tip but we can’t be around food. He agrees, and comes back about an hour later. By then I’ve given myself a wet-wipe bath in my sleeping bag and done various tent yoga stretches, so I’m feeling slightly better. But Mish has been half asleep, so I know she feels no better; I offer to take her tips to the ceremony for her. She wakes up long enough to throw some money at me and I hobble out to the dinner tent.

The lingering odor of dinner is almost unbearable, and I have to breathe through my sleeve. Dad gives a little talk that seems to go on forever, but finally I’m able to put money on the table for Mish’s tips and my tips, and then I say my goodnights. It turns out I missed the actual ceremony part, where the trekkers give the money to the porters and cook and say nice, heartwarming things about gratitude and camaraderie and life-altering shared experiences (you know, one of the main reason I did the trail in the first place, but whatever). I feel bad that I missed it, but, given the opportunity with the same circumstances again, I still would have gone back to my tent to sleep. I was so miserable, you guys. So very miserable.

But it gets better. Machu Picchu is tomorrow! I promise it’ll be worth it, so please stick around. 

The Inca Trail, Part 2: First-World Guilt

Oh, blogging, right? Okay, when I left you, my shoe had disintegrated into worthless bits and pieces and I had four days of hiking in the Andes ahead of me. But the trek group had stopped at a scenic overlook with its own little convenience store (a shack selling water and Gatorade), so I figured I was fine. I’d just buy some duct tape and be on my merry little way. Nope, no duct tape at the store. And my intrepid guide Raul assured me that duct tape wouldn’t do the job anyway (holy hell, I know he was right now that I’ve lived through the absurdity that is Day 3).

 

This is Raul. He might have hated me.

So Raul and I stood around the store dumbfounded for a minute, and then I said, “Well, we’re only 20 minutes in. I have cash. Should I go back to the village, buy the best ‘hiking boots’ I can find, and catch up with y’all later?” Raul shook his head and said, “No, you’d never catch up with us.” He looked back at the little store and went over to the woman behind the counter without another word. I waddled back to Michele to laugh about how stupid I was for not making sure my trusty hiking boots were up to the task before leaving. I planned everything else so carefully! The boots had never failed me.

Hiking slippers

Raul came back carrying small, white, used tennis shoes. “These are her son’s. [The seven-year-old I saw running around?] Try them on.” I just laughed and told him I couldn’t take a kid’s shoes. But he stared me down until I tried them on to prove that, no, I do not share a shoe size with a little boy, saving me from the argument that I wouldn’t literally take shoes off a child’s feet to enjoy my vacation. He seemed annoyed, but returned the shoes to their rightful owner. It was about this time that my savior and fellow trekker, Peter, came over and offered me his “camp shoes,” comfy, slipper-style loafers that he had planned on bringing out only after a long day on the trail, to putter around the campsite in and let his feet relax. And he was kindly offering them to me, to stink up with a day of hiking before he even got to enjoy them (not that my feet stink, of course). They were huge on me, even after I put on a second pair of thick, wool hiking socks, but I could make them work. Raul seemed okay with the idea as well, and told me I could hike in them for Day 1, but I would need to give my shoe size and 100 soles to a porter so he could run back to the village, buy me boots, and meet us at camp that night. (The porters are amazing.)

Success! It was probably a 20-minute delay in total, but I handed over my cash and shoe size to a man I would later tip very well, and then the trekkers finally gathered in our circle to introduce ourselves. I was in Peter’s slippers. Everyone laughed politely when I introduced myself as Laura, the girl whose shoe broke. (Remember when I said I would live up to the title of “that jackass” in the group?) Raul introduced himself as our trek “dad,” and our assistant guide, Darwin, said he would be our trek “mom.” And then we carried on hiking, as you do on the Inca Trail.

Incan ruins

 

Burrito

Day 1 was a lovely, easy hike. There were a few steep areas that had us all breathing heavily, but for the most part it was a nice, manageable-in-slippers hike through relatively lowland terrain. We passed Incan ruins and pre-Incan ruins; we were passed by horses and burros and real burritos; then we stopped for lunch near a creek, and wow was it a shock to me. I thought we’d be eating PB&Js on the grass with our water bottles, but we arrived at our designated spot to find a tent with a long table inside, covered in tablecloths. The porters served us a three-course meal that the cook had just prepared, on real plates with real silverware.

Everyone was happy
that I was taking their picture.

A note about the food, though. When I booked the Inca Trail, it gave me the option of specifying that I was a vegetarian (and said it wasn’t a problem), so I did. And two other people in my group did as well, apparently. We sat down in the lunch tent and Raul came in to ask if there were any vegetarians. Justyna, Rob, and I raised our hands. Raul said, “Real vegetarian, or you can eat fish and chicken? Because it is hard for our cook to make vegetarian meals.” That worked on Justyna and Rob, and they begrudgingly said they could eat fish and chicken if they had to, but I refused. Oh, my dear Raul. We had some good standoffs. He tried staring me down again, but I won this one and got vegetarian meals through the whole trip (and the food I was able to eat was almost entirely delicious). I mention it in case another vegetarian is considering the trip. They say it’s fine when you book, but be ready to stand firm when the food actually comes out.

After lunch we had some time to kill, and Raul told us there were western toilets we could use for 1 sole or squat toilets that were free. Michele was feeling brave and decided to go for the squat toilet. Her reasoning was, everyone should try a squat toilet once, so why not now? Can’t argue with that.

Lunch spot

When she came back she said it wasn’t too bad. She said there was toilet paper and it was decently clean. She’s a damn, dirty liar, but I trusted her and followed her adventurous lead. Off I went, all happy in her lies of cleanliness and ample toilet paper, only to discover splatter patterns that belonged in a TV crime show and a distinct lack of anything to wipe with. And yet now I look back fondly on that as one of the nicer toilets on the trail.

After lunch we hiked for a few more hours, taking breaks every now and then for photos and breathers. We got to camp around sunset and our tents were already set up for us, duffel bags laid out on a tarp. The porters were running around, cooking, setting things up for us, boiling water for us to wash our hands in big bowls, and laying out tea service. Yep, we had tea service every night before dinner. And shortly after tea, my boot delivery arrived.

 

Day 1 campsite

The whole trek was a bizarre juxtaposition of first-class service and beautiful scenery mixed with physical discomfort and nauseating facilities. (I think I became a slightly dehydrated because I was actively trying to drink as little water as possible to avoid the toilets. Don't do this.) Every morning Mama Darwin and a porter came to each tent and woke us up with our choice of coffee, tea, or hot chocolate. We repacked our bags but left everything else for the porters to break down while we ate breakfast and listened to the plan for the day from Dad Raul. Then we would take off, leaving a massive campsite for the porters to deal with; about an hour later those same porters would zip past us with giant packs weighing them down. They had to get to the lunch site in time to set everything up and start cooking before we arrived.

I definitely experienced first-world guilt from the situation. Michele and I made sure to book with a company that treats its porters well, but we saw guys in other groups go by wearing threadbare sandals and old, wool, suit pants. Even with our respectable company, the porters were working so hard, carrying so much weight, cooking and cleaning for us, waiting to eat until we had all finished, and I never saw them set up tents for themselves. I don’t know where they slept. And they were so kind and funny and helpful the whole time.

I knew to expect it going into the trip, but it was still pretty shocking. I reminded myself that porter jobs are sought after in the area, and that our group was being paid a living wage and not forced to carry over the legal weight limit, but it was still difficult to process. If you’re considering hiking the trail, the best advice I can offer in this regard is to do your research in advance so you know your porters have the best possible working conditions, and then bring more tipping cash than your tour company recommends so you can try to assuage your guilt in true first-world style (more money).

I still need to tell y’all about getting sick, the misery of Day 3, and the glory of Machu Picchu, not to mention the Galapagos! So please stay with me as I slowly get around to writing it up. Thanks for reading!

The Inca Trail: Where My Pride and Shame Go to Die

If you’re like me, when you hear or see the words the Inca Trail, you think about hiking. Strenuous hiking through the Andes for four days ending gloriously at Machu Picchu, to be specific. And if you’re a realist, you also probably think about some revolting toilet situations, potential altitude sickness and inclement weather, weird food, stinky socks, snoring from nearby tents, and adorable llamas. And you’d be right about all of those things, mostly. Except for the four days of hiking.

Let me say this early on: I am not, and would not ever think of, discouraging anyone from doing the Inca Trail. It’s a unique, once-in-a-lifetime experience and if you want to do it, more power to you. I just hope you don’t have any joint issues. Now that that’s cleared up, lemme tell you about my once-in-a-lifetime experience. I don’t think the Inca Trail wanted me on it, to be honest. Looking back, I see that there were signs from the get-go.

Ninos Hotel

It was a chilly Wednesday morning at the Ninos Hotel in Cusco, Peru. Michele and I woke up before sunrise to be ready for our shuttle, and we were sitting in the cozy courtyard of the hotel with our gear and excitement outweighing our sleepiness. The stars were shining magnificently above us. The chairs were comfortable and the café was going to open soon. (We should have stayed there, where beds and clean toilets and hot showers and good coffee were plentiful. No, not really ... but maybe.)

There’s a knock on the door and I jump up, so eager and naïve, to greet two of our porters with a grin. They barely acknowledge me and my stupid face before they grab our bags and start sprinting up the street toward our waiting bus. Wait … sprinting? Already? The sun hasn’t even come up, and we’re not technically hiking yet. Um, okay. Michele and I sort of speed walk behind them in a pretend attempt to keep up but with no real worry that they get to the bus waaaay before us. And as soon as I get on the bus and swing my daypack up to the cargo area, my water bottle comes careening out of the side pocket and nearly takes out one of our fellow trekkers. Shamefaced, I pick it up and apologize in Spanish. Everyone is looking at me and I imagine they’ve already judged me as “that jackass” in the group. It’s cool. I’ll live up to the title.

We settle into the hour and an half bus ride to Ollaytaytambo (estimated spelling), where we’ll have breakfast. We get off our mini bus and pile into the restaurant they have designated for us. Michele and I get upstairs to the dining room and notice that most people in our group have spread out, sort of near each other but sort of waiting for people to bridge the gap, so I just plop myself in between two couples and hope Mish sits across from me to share in the awkward conversation. It works out, and I’m thrilled to be facilitating chit-chat among the Aussie couple and the Detroit couple, while they try to discern if Mish and I are friends or lovers (a continual theme).

Breakfast is good, although it takes the duration of the meal to get milk for my coffee. Then I try to poop, knowing this is my last real bathroom for the next four days, but it’s one of those proper toilets without a lady seat, so I’m hovering, and someone is knocking, and it’s too much damn pressure. And it’s all so far downhill from here. (I warned you my shame and pride are gone, so this won’t be the last mention of toilets. You can’t really do the trail justice without talking about them.)

I leave the bathroom carrying the same amount of colonic baggage that I entered with, and go downstairs to the convenience store. They sell baggies of loose coca leaves and packaged coca toffee, so obviously I buy one of each. When in Peru, right? From there it’s a short bus ride to the starting point of the Inca Trail, my mythical journey through the Andes. Fourteen trekkers are scrambling around a parking lot, shoving things into duffle bags for porters to carry, trying to figure out how walking sticks work, paying one sol to pee, and taking pictures. It’s a beautiful of mess of adrenaline and nerves and expectations.

From there, we walk down to a railroad crossing just in time for a train bound for Machu Picchu to go by (they must time it so the people on the train see us and feel reassured in their life choices), take some pictures by the trailhead sign, cross a checkpoint where we get nifty little Inca Trail stamps in our passports, and then actually hike for about twenty minutes. Woo hoo! Hiking on the Inca Trail!

It’s so damn exciting and we’re going uphill the whole time so it feels like something real and active and like what I signed up for. It’s perfect. About twenty minutes in we stop at a nice overlook to take some pictures and then our guide calls us all over to introduce ourselves and say hi. I stand up from the ledge I was taking pictures of the river and I feel a weird sense of gravity under my left foot as I swing it down to the ground. And when I take a step, I feel another weird sensation pulling on my shoe. I look down to see that the entire sole of my left boot has come unhinged from the shoe. It’s held on by a tiny bit of rubber at the toe. Everything else is flopping in the wind. I’m on the Inca Trail, with four days of hiking in front of me, and one completely ruined shoe on my foot.

(Part 2 coming soon! As soon as I can write it!)

Packing brain dump

Y’all. My trip is coming up so quickly. I’m going to Peru in less than two weeks! I’ll hike the Inca Trail, see Machu Picchu, sleep in the Galapagos Islands (Darwin slept there; just saying), and (I hope) get some photos of equatorial penguins. PENGUINS!! I can’t even try to explain how excited I am. BUT. I’m going to Montana for my cousin’s wedding the weekend before I fly to Peru, so I’m feeling a little crazy about packing, shuffling pets around, and tracking flights. My stupid mind has decided to muddle up Montana and Peru/Ecuador into one giant suitcase of stress. Therefore, I decided a post on packing "strategy" would be both timely and therapeutic. So here we go….

The trouble with this trip (Can I even say there’s trouble with this trip? It’s so beyond amazing and “what the privileged kids do” that I don’t think I can say anything troubling about it. But I’m going to anyway.) is the different climates I’ll be experiencing in two weeks. And fitting what I need for said climates into one big backpack, one small backpack, and one purse. Hiking boots and a sleeping bag are huge, by the way.

Lima should be lovely: highs in the 70s, lows in the I-don’t-cares because I’ll have a fleece and a hotel room. The Inca Trail is highs in the high 60s, lows in the 30s, but mix in strenuous activity everyday and sleeping in a tent, and I’m all sorts of befuddled. I think hiking boots, good socks, pants, long-sleeved shirts, a sports bra, daily undies, and a fleece should do it, but then there’s also rain (rain jacket), sun (big-ass hat, sunscreen), and cold nights in tents to consider.

Quito will be mostly like Lima but with extra rain, all the time. So an umbrella is needed. And then the Galapagos are supposed to be highs in the mid-70s, lows exactly 70, so that’s awesome. But also unexpected. When I thought about spending five days in the Galapagos, I thought about high 80s during the day and low 60s at night, which meant a range of cute dresses and cardis for nighttime. It is good for packing to know that I can omit the warm-weather clothes like shorts and tank tops, but those are also the things that take up no space in a backpack. So pile on the bulky stuff.

After lots of thought and revision, I have come up with the following packing list for this trip, which I will amend after the fact for anyone who wants to take a similar trip and learn from my packing mistakes. Of which there will be many. Because I can admit that I’m a shitty packer. But here’s what I have:

1 pair of jeans (wear on the plane)

1 pair of hiking leggings

1 skirt

4 long-sleeved shirts

4 short-sleeved shirts (wear 1 on the plane)

1 dress

1 cardigan

1 fleece (carry on the plane)

1 rain jacket

14 undies

2 bras

1 sports bra

1 swimsuit

5 pairs of hiking socks

1 pair of sleeping socks

PJ dress and pants

Hiking boots

Toms (wear on plane)

Big hat

Sleeping bag

Water bottle

Water purifying tablets

Flashlight

Umbrella

Sunscreen

Bug spray

Toilet paper (buy in Cusco)

Camera with batteries

Phone and charger

Sunglasses

Snacks for the trail (buy in Cusco)

Kindle and charger

Hand sanitizer

Dry shampoo

Wet wipes

Deodorant

Toothbrush and paste

Contact solution, case, glasses

Face wash

Face creams

Minimal makeup

I don’t know if you can tell from this list, but I’m probably going to smell bad for two weeks. I’m okay with that. I’ll have clean underwear. I will also look like poop in all photos because I won’t be wearing makeup and it will most likely have been days since I showered. I’m also okay with that. Because I’ll be on the Inca Trail and in the Galapagos Islands!!! Who cares about smelling good and looking decent when you have knock-you-to-your-knees, humbling, magical, historical, amazing ruins to look at and a cornucopia of nature’s wonder to explore and gaze upon in awe and revelry? Not me. Bring on the ugly selfies with the cute sea lions.

Port Aransas = The Awakening?

I love how traveling can reawaken, or be inspired by, or be in response to something I’ve read or seen or heard before, often without me even knowing. There’s a way my past experiences have of creeping up on me without warning to validate or invigorate a current experience. I had one of these surprise moments on my recent trip to Port Aransas.

I was wading out into the gulf while my friends stayed on the beach. The sun was setting. The coast was desolate. I was alone with the waves and the sky, and it was a peaceful, lovely moment. And as I laid back on the waves and felt the pull of the ocean upon my body, my mind recalled The Awakening, a beautiful and heartbreaking story by Kate Chopin of a woman trapped by society’s expectations of what her life as a woman must be. I floated in the water thinking as if I were Edna in the final scenes of the story. I don’t want to spoil the book for those who haven’t read it, so you should stop reading this now, go read the book, and come back. It’s a beautiful book. Go read it. It’s really short, if that helps.

I floated on the water, completely alone, and imagined myself as Edna more than a century ago. What pressures she endured everyday as a wife and mother, a life partially of her choosing and partially not. What hopes and dreams she harbored, however nascent and unfulfilled, that she strove toward. And then I thought of the life I am leading and how unlike hers it is, even though we both found ourselves floating in the Gulf of Mexico and contemplating our lives.

I’m a strong swimmer. That was on my mind as I had these thoughts. I imagined what it would take to swim so far out that I was exhausted, far enough to know I could never make it back. I thought about what it would take to make myself keep swimming farther as my limbs became heavier. I thought about what my life would need to be to keep swimming away and away and away from it, knowing I was using all of my strength to push myself beyond that life and beyond any life at all, because I saw no better life.

And then I thought about how I have absolutely no motivation to do that and how the hell did I become so much freer than Edna? I thought about all the women who had to suffer and struggle for me to be able to feel such a disconnect from that choice being my best, my only, option. I thought about all the human beings who had to endure lives worse than Edna’s to progress humanity to the bare minimum of recognizing each other’s rights to live freely (and how we’re not even at that bare minimum yet). Because a struggle for gender equality must always recognize that as bad as white women have historically had it, it’s been a cakewalk comparatively. (As long as you’re not comparing it to white men. No offense, dudes, but you know it’s true.)

To be an independent woman living a life of my own choosing sounds so obvious and not even worth mentioning today. But floating in the gulf, thinking Edna’s thoughts, brought home how many people have had to suffer, not for women, but for all people (race, sex, gender, religion, the full gamut) to maybe, possibly, one day be able to live lives of their choosing­—and it was truly humbling. Because I know mine is not a universal experience, even within the United States, let alone the world. There are still Ednas of all races and genders swimming out as far as their strength can take them away from every shore in the world, to escape persecution and a life not worth coming home to.

Travel isn’t always fun and games. Sometimes it’s learning and remembering the privilege I have in life and the debt I need to repay for those still suffering. But whatever way I look at it, I see the deep value of traveling.

Travel photography

Today at work a coworker shared beautiful photos of his recent trip to Europe with me and then I came across this list, and it's like the universe is sending me a message. I need a good camera. But not a really great, crazy expensive camera that takes up a ton of packing space and makes me look like a pickpocket target wherever I go. Can someone please recommend a high-quality, affordable, easily transportable camera that can help me take shots like the one below on my next trip?

Copyright Rus Margolin of Travel2Unlimited

Mini Vacations

I couldn't agree more, fortune.

I’m a big proponent of the mini break. Sure, I’d love to spend my time jet-setting around the globe on epic trips, but for some stupid reason my bank account and work schedule refuse to let me follow my heart in this regard. To the rescue … weekend getaways! The much more affordable and practical sister of my yearly overseas adventure, a mini vacation is easy enough to do at least once a year, if not more. Personally, I try following a schedule (without schedules, I’d end up sitting on my couch in all of my spare time) to make sure I take a minimum of out-of-town trips every year. For me, that means at least one weekend away in spring, summer, and fall, plus a few days off around the winter holidays.

My friends Christina and Matt (they’re married and I’m their permanent third wheel) and I have a loose agreement to go camping once in the spring and once in the fall, and to hit the beach once a summer. As for the winter time off, for the past decade at least, my sister or I have lived out of town, so the holidays are usually spent being a tourist in our hometown, checking out new bars and restaurants and revisiting old favorite spots. (Staycations are an entirely different beast that I’ll probably address here soon.)

The Great Outdoors

Camping is such an affordable and rewarding break for those who don’t mind sleeping in a tent and wearing flip-flops in the shower. And as a central Texas resident, I have access to so many beautiful state parks just a few hours’ drive away that it seems silly not to go camping when I need to get out of town and recharge a little. And luckily for me, Matt and Christina share this outlook. We always invite other friends to join us, sometimes with success, other times not, but either way the trips are affordable enough. Rates for a campsite are usually $15–$30 a night (and you can cram a bunch of people in one site), and then you just need to factor in gas, food, beer, ice, wood for the campfire, and any other miscellaneous stuff you want to drag out with you. It’s no stretch to plan a weekend away for less than $100 a person.

For me, camping means setting up my tent, throwing on sunscreen, hiking, swimming, cooking over a fire pit, stargazing, playing cards, talking nonsense, and making s’mores. So many s’mores! And so many stars! As a city dweller, I love getting away from light pollution and simply looking up—I can easily pass an entire night at a campsite marveling at how vast the sky is. On every single camping trip we take, Christina and I are guaranteed to look up at least two or three times and say idiotically, “Just look at all the stars! I mean, just look! It’s A-MAAAA-ZING!” No shame. It’s a great, giddy, childlike feeling. And for less than $100, how could I not indulge in that joy at least two weekends a year?

The Beach

The trouble with camping in Texas is that you’re pretty much screwed from May to September. It’s just too damn hot to be outside for that long. For me, at least. I’m sure there are people who love it, but I’d rather not share a car home with them after two days of sweat-lodging (no lodge needed) in the 100+ degree weather. Which is why I prefer to go to the beach in the summer and splurge on an air-conditioned condo with indoor plumbing to wash away all of my saltwater, sun-drenched stink.

So, yes, this mini break is more expensive than camping, because condos will always be more expensive than campsites. But you can still do an affordable beach trip, and the more people you involve, the cheaper it gets. Win win! We usually end up spending about $50/night for lodging per person (assuming three or four people) and, like camping, you just need to budget money for food, drinks, sunscreen, and gas. It’s easier to go out and spend money at bars and restaurants on a beach trip as well, but I’ve always found that with a lively enough crowd, everyone is content to cook and hangout at the condo or on the beach at night.

I’m heading to the Port Aransas this weekend, and I plan on sticking to a $200 budget, including the condo cost. (This is actually my most expensive beach trip, too, because there aren’t many people going and we’re paying a little more for a dog-friendly cabin.) And I completely recognize that $200 is no small amount in our lives of underpaid, underemployed, overcharged, and overburdened stress, but for me the relaxing respite of sitting on the sand, swimming in the sea, sleeping late, reading a book in the sun (under a giant hat), and enjoying the company of friends is worth the money.

So here’s to mini breaks and the sanity they restore! I’ll cheers to you all and your various ways of stretching budgets to get away while I watch the tide roll in this weekend.