Subject: Date: Thu, 31 May 2001 21:16:54 -0700 (PDT) From: Evelyn Dean My calves are burning. My shoulders ache. And my mind is swimming with images of ancient wonders and natural magnificence. I just hiked the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. (Note: I actually hiked it last week, but just now got around to the write up...) Yes, thousands of other tourists visit every year. Yes, there are tacky t-shirt shops at the end of the trail. But none of that made a dent in the impact of this truly sacred place. Hey, it takes a lot to impress a Coloradan, and I was blown away. We begin our journey early from the hotel in Cusco. The trip from this, the former capital of the Inca empire, to our starting point along the Urubamba river, is a three hour drive through the lush and ruin-studded Sacred Valley. As we tumble out of the van at kilometer 82, I fall prey to the swarms of hat and water bottle vendors pleading my purchase with high-pitched cries. I relent and start the trek with a brand new, probably machine made in Mexico, colorful floppy sun hat. It certainly came in handy, for the sun god shows no mercy at this altitude. We start our trek up the green canyon wall at a leisurely pace, pausing occasionally to turn and gaze at the massive splendor of Mt. Veronica bidding us bon voyage from behind. Our all-knowing guide, in the middle of explaining one of the many orchids that grace the trail, abruptly orders us to move aside. Four or five young Peruvian men jog by with determined expressions on their sweat soaked faces. No, they are not training for the Pikes Peak Marathon; they are carrying my dinner, along with my sleeping bag, clothes, the tents, etc. I was debating whether or not to admit this aspect of my journey to the public. I mean, what kind of serious backpacker hires porters? But as their might and endurance was just as amazing as that of the ruins themselves, I have to give them a prominent spot in the story. Some strapped on their gear with aguayos, the same brilliantly colored blankets local women use to haul everything from tubers to toddlers. Others jingled by with pots and pans hanging from large backpacks. Still others were loaded with bulky cans of natural gas for cooking or oxygen for breathing. All of them sported rock hard calves with pulsating veins, propelled by calloused feet in flimsy tire sandals. Once again, Evie was shown what an utter wimp she was. ÒI wonder what the porters think of us,Ó I mused aloud to the guide during a break. (Throughout the first day we periodically encountered shacks where the hikers bought soft drinks and the porters chugged chicha, homemade corn beer.) ÒThey think you are work, income, nothing more,Ó he said matter of factly. That, among other realizations, made me feel a somewhat less uncomfortable about using their services. Not that we have a choice: starting this year, hikers are required to hire a guide and porters. At least a maximum load is newly enforced. They all carefully wiegh their packs every morning to make sure they do not exceed 25 kilos (roughly 60 lbs)While still an awful lot of weight in my mind, at least it prevents outright exploitation. And after all is said and done, I was extremely grateful for their services, especially on the second dayÉ The first nightÕs camp was at around 10,000 feet, so I started out the next morning huffing. At first we enjoyed cool, lush cloud forest and its gorgeous flowers and birds. But gradually the trees shrank into short, dry grass and the only stingy shade was provided by a fleeting cloud. Not only was it infernally hot, the climb was a killer. Ascending a couple thousand feet in a few miles is no easy task. Even the porters started heaving at this point, and had to stop frequently to regain their strength. We all looked like members of some death march, plodding endlessly up the side of the steep and narrow valley to our destination: Dead Woman's Pass, at almost 14,000 feet. It is so named for the shape of the silouhette of the top, which resembles a woman lying on her back. Although we were sweating on the way up, as soon as we reached the top we donned our alpaca wool gloves and sweaters to protect against the biting wind. We wasted no time descending the other side to our campsite. Behind our tent, the valley wall rose steeply upwards, frothly ribbons of water tumbling through the greenery. In front, snowy jagged peaks glowed softly in the twilight. We all collapsed shortly after sundown. Luckily for me, nature's call later forced me out of the tent to be enveloped in the most brilliantly glittering night sky. Day three's mostly descent was much easier on the lungs, much harder on the knees and an absolute delight for the eyes and imagination. It was this day that we started on the actual, original Inca trail. After stopping by the day's first ruins, a royal resting stop, we started up another pass. I had little enthusiasm about this one, as Dead Woman had just about killed me. Listlessly trudging up the final steps, I lifted my head and was hit by an utterly spectacular view of another mountain range. At this point, I was truly impressed by the Incas. How brilliant of them to place their trail so strategically that the weary traveler's spirit is instantly rejuvenated when she reaches the end of a difficult leg! In fact, all the trail and its structures seemed to reflect the Inca reverence for nature (and their gods, which are one and the same). Early on, we asked why they hadn't simply built on the easiet, most logical route: along the river. It soon became clear that this trail was built with more than utilitarian functions in mind. Every resting stop, which included some temples to the sun and moon, a few agricultural terraces, and living quarters, was set in a magestically beautiful natural scene. Traveling the Inca trail to Machu Picchu was sort of a pilgramage, where one could bask in the glory of the gods. At least that's how it was for me. Heck, it better be something special to get me out of bed before four in the morning on the fourth and final day. The last night's camp (complete with lodge selling beer and pumping dance music...sigh...the Incas must be rolling in their looted tombs) was just a short hour's hike to the main attraction: the ancient administrative center of Machu Picchu. To see the ruins at dawn, we started crawling along the side of the canyon an hour beforehand. As the stars faded, the black dragon-teeth sillouette of surrounding peaks sharpened. A glance backwards revealed string of bobbing flashlights snaking along the curves of the trail. At last we clamored up some steep ancient steps to arrive at the Portal of the Sun, high above the valley where the most famous Incan ruins lay. When the morning fog cleared to reveal our destination, we all raced down the hill to start exploring. And was there ever a lot to explore! Row upon row of agricultural terraces, hundreds of stone "apartments," wide grassy plazas, and architecturally miraculous temples. The temples are where you find the famous Inca stone work: walls of perfectly carved, smooth granite bricks, flawlessly interlocked without a single drop of mortar. In addition, all doors and windows are a trapezoidal shape and the walls slant inwards, which is why these ruins still stood when earthquakes toppled Spanish cathedrals. Their resiliance isn't the only difference I found between Inca buildings and Western ones. To me, their architecture reflects a philoshophy of working with nature rather than trying to dominate it. For example, rather than leveling slopes, they used it as part of their wall, tapering the bricks to fit the rising ground. Boulders in the hillside formed part of the buildings as well; it was hard to tell where the crude rock ended and the carved ones began. Others saw the shape of a condor or puma in an embedded boulder and built the according temple around it. Rather than shadowing the earth and piercing the sky like most of the religious centers we are used to, these were humble, as if the Incas realized the futility of trying to trump the majesty of their surroundings. Their constructions are a tribute to nature and their gods instead of an ego trip for humans who built them. Speaking of egos, mine was pretty satisfied at having survived the trek. Our reward was a long dip in the nearby hot springs. We spent a few more days in Cusco (a.k.a., tourist central) and then went to Lima (a.k.a., the greyest, most commercialized, downright depressing city on earth. But we managed to have a good time nonetheless). After bidding farewell to my cousin and uncle early this morning, I boarded a bus to the northern mountain town of Huaraz. The guidebook calls this "the Switzerland of the Andes." I arrived after dark, so I'll have to confirm that comparison later. Love to all, Evie