Thursday, 07 Aug 2008 15:07Rhian Nicholson has swapped the bright lights of London for a three-month journey across South America from the Pacific to the Atlantic coast. Here is her eighth blog as she continues her trek along the Inca Trail:
The final ascent up to Dead Woman's Pass is the real killer: you're staggering like a 12-year-old after four sips of cider and you're prepared to sell your own mother in return for a donkey.
In fact you're so busy concentrating on your next footstep you forget to actually look around at the scenery which is practically criminal as the views down into the valley are nothing short of stunning.
Then suddenly, as if by magic, you find yourself with 20 steps to go before reaching the top and the chance to smugly laugh at all those people still struggling away below. In all, the climb is supposed to take a moderately fit person around four hours: I did it in under two-and-a-half but by god did I pay the price the next day.
The laws of physics dictate that what goes up must come down - but putting a one-and-a-half hour, knee-jarringly steep downhill stretch (which you have to complete to get to the night's campsite) immediately after an uphill slog is nothing short of sadistic.
You'd think downhill would be easier but one wrongly-placed foot and you'd be plunging down enough steps to comfortably break every bone in your body. By this time the sun's blazing and the water in your bottle seems to have all but evaporated so the sight of the night's campsite looming in front of you is more welcome than a winning lottery ticket.
And the scenery is breathtaking with the tree-clad peaks rearing up on all sides and the fluffy white clouds nestling in the turquoise sky.
Camping itself is never the best option for those of us with permanently cold extremities but as fate would have it after lugging god knows how many pairs of socks and warm clothes in preparation for the sub-zero temperatures, it seemed positively tropical - although that may have had something to do with the rather large amount of hot red wine that appeared at dinnertime.
Once again the next day came round all too quickly and after a quick two-minute contemplation of whether the bronzed colour of my skin was actually a fledgling suntan or ingrained dirt (it turned out to be the latter), it was time to brave the cold morning air and another hour's uphill slog via an Inca look-out point.
The third day involves a mere eight hours of trekking along narrow rocky jungle paths with sheer drops on the other side just to keep you on your toes.
Luckily the hard slog is broken up by various Inca ruins, where the chosen pilgrims of old could spiritually cleanse themselves in ritual baths en route to Machu Picchu. But that goal feels like a billon light years away at this point.
Rolling into camp at night there's the prospect of hot showers to magic away the dirt (priceless) and cold beer on hand to celebrate the fact you're still alive - just…
That feeling of jubilation quickly fades, especially when you have to get up at 3.30am and sit outside the final freezing cold check-point in the pitch black for an hour to secure your spot at the front of the herd.
Then suddenly the gates open and the stampede starts as every trekker attempts to make it to the Sun Gate in time to see the sun rise over Machu Picchu.
There's nothing quite like traipsing as fast as your weary legs will carry you in the early morning darkness and trying not to stumble over the rocks littering the trail which would send you headfirst to your death over the cliff edge.
After shuffling along like a lame penguin for 45 minutes with the light gradually starting to filter through, in a final twist there are then just 50 incredibly steep steps between you and the fist glimpse of Machu Picchu.
Originally the Inca trail was a pilgrimage for a handful of people to reach the most sacred city of the Inca empire- and you can quite imagine how they felt when they finally reached their goal.
Standing at the top of the Sun Gate with jelly legs, aching lungs and an overwhelming sense of relief coursing through your veins, you can't help but grin like a maniac.
At 6am the first busloads of tourists who shirked the Inca trail challenge and caught the train from Cuzco have yet to pour in and so the city is remarkably still in its mystical splendour.
Grey stone ruins, temples and grassy terraces are set majestically against the deep green of the surrounding peaks.
To say it is spectacular is not giving it the full credit it deserves: at the risk of sounding melodramatic it's one of those sights that will remain in your memory forever - and if you happen to develop amnesia the sixty billion photos you take will certainly help to remind you.
On the downside it understandably gets packed out with tourists and when they start swarming about like a plague of hungry locusts, it loses something of its sublime charm.
Walking round the city is pretty hard on your knackered legs - so many steps in such a small place - and then there are the llamas with that manic glint in their eyes to sidestep.
Plus being on top of a mountain and being in South America, the terraces end abruptly with dizzying, vertical drops. Surely a good few Incas must have met their maker after one glass of Chicha too many on a cold and misty night…
But still, when you've heaved your weary body to a prime sunbathing position in the middle of Machu Picchu and you're half dozing, half contemplating your surroundings it's hard to imagine many other places which would be worth four days of pushing your body beyond it's natural limits.
Without a doubt it's the highlight of a trip to South America.
Rhian Nicholson
Article in travelbite.co.uk
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