Sacred Valley Sky Lodge

As I gear up for my next trip, I am guiltily reminded of just how much I dropped the ball in blogging about Peru. Like always, I took hundreds of photos and constantly jotted down interesting things, people and memories...but then I came home, got back to the daily grind, and that motivation to share and reflect evaporated. But this particular part of the trip was so extraordinary that it is worth posting about, even months after the fact.

Run by mountaineers, Sacred Valley Sky Lodge is dedicated to providing unique excursions. Ours began by getting picked up from our hotel in Cuzco and driven a couple hours away to the base of a formidable rock face. Standing at the base and squinting upward, we could barely make out our accommodation for the night - pods (think the fanciest, most tricked out portaledge you can imagine) anchored by cables some 500 meters above.

Donning harnesses, helmets and gloves, we began climbing via ferrata (i.e. hooked onto a metal cable and gripping what are essentially large metal staples stuck into the rock). We reached the pods just as the sun was setting, and settled in while we waited for the guides to return with dinner. In the meantime we marveled at the panoramic views of the valley and the amenities - ridiculously comfortable bunks, purified water, an eco-friendly toilet. 

Over the course of the next forty-five minutes, our guides came in and out to serve us a multi-course - hot! - meal for which they'd partnered with a local restaurant. Dinner included pumpkin soup with various condiments, quinoa with chicken and roasted tomato, salad, and a brownie with passionfruit sauce and pomegranate seeds. Drink pairings were passionfruit juice and red wine. Oh, and we had real silverware and glasses. Elated, but tired, we slept well that night.

In the morning we had breakfast at a makeshift table erected on a platform resting on top of an adjacent pod before getting ready to head down - this time by zip line. It was my first time doing so, and quite possibly the closest I'll ever get to flying.

Via ferrata.

Our pod.

Zip lining down.

See more photos here.

Tales From the Inca Trail, Part 3

On the third day we had a 4 am wake-up call (a throwback to my days as a baker) with a planned departure at 4:30, but in the night one of our group had come down with a nasty stomach bug. The guide went tent to tent asking for medicine, and I gladly parted with my small bottle of Immodium tablets that I, thankfully, hadn't needed.

At dinner the night before, our guide had gone over the plan for day three many times, breaking it down into sections: up from the campsite to the ruins of a lookout point, then up to the pass, down 3000 steps, lunch at Wiñawayna, passing through the checkpoint by 2:30 pm, one hour trekking to the Sun Gate, another hour to Machu Picchu, and hopping on the last bus just after 5pm to take us to nearby Aguas Calientes, where we would stay in hostels. But, of course, nothing ever goes completely according to plan.

Shivering in the darkness broken only by the beams of our headlamps, we followed our guide single file out of the campsite and onto the steep trail, too sleepy to talk. The incline wasn't terrible; I was more concerned for the stretches to come, which our guide had described as "Inca flat" (making undulating gestures with his hand). In addition to making the last bus to town, the goal of the early departure was to be able to see the sunrise from the first ruins, but it was far too misty and foggy. Nonetheless, the mountains were spectacular, and the haze only lent an ethereal, mystical quality.

Dawn...or something like it.

Onward we pressed to the third pass, where we'd been promised cell phone service to get in touch with our father. My brother called him, and learned that mom had suffered a combination of altitude sickness and dehydration, but was doing much better. They would be waiting for us in Aguas Calientes. I Instagrammed the first of many photos. We joined the rest of the group for a brief respite but, unlike others around us, ours had opted to set up for breakfast a bit further along the trail. 

From the breakfast point to Wiñawayna, the trail* passed many other ruins that begged to be explored. Our pace put us somewhere in the middle of the pack, and even though we'd thought we were making good time, we dared not dally too long. We later learned that we had barely missed the cut off for seeing Intipata, the last and loveliest of the ruins, for the group not far behind us had been told to skip it and go directly to the lunch spot. 

Sayaqmarka.

Qonchamarka.

The terraces of Intipata.

Lunch was a welcome yet slightly stressful affair, as the slowest trio in our party had yet to arrive and time was ticking. Our guide seemed calm but I noticed how he kept checking his watch. Indeed, for the first time, we were encouraged to eat quickly, and by the time we had all donned our packs again it was past when the checkpoint was supposed to close. Our guide used a walkie-talkie to communicate with someone at the station and, thanks to my moderate proficiency in Spanish, I could immediately tell he was trying to persuade her to keep the checkpoint open for us. It worked. But, still, we were behind schedule and still had two hours of hiking to go.

Onward we trekked, occasionally pausing for snacks, water and photos, but with the pressure to make the last bus to town bearing down every more heavily. Finally we came to a brutal set of stairs so steep it was like a ladder carved in stone. This must be it, I thought, we're at the Sun Gate! For the first time I was glad that I didn't have poles because I could go up the stairs on all fours - the only method that seemed safe when the hefty pack on my back threatened to make me topple backwards. I reached the top before my brother and his girlfriend, and therefore was the first to realize that we were not, in fact, there yet. 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I couldn't help but yell at the gorgeous scenery.

Hitting the trail.

View from the Sun Gate.

Empty Machu Picchu.

Fortunately the Sun Gate was quite close and, for the first time, we caught a glimpse of Machu Picchu. But, once again, we had precious little time to revel in our accomplishments thus far - we still had a bus to catch. The anticipation of finally reaching Machu Picchu was reinvigorating; particularly the prospect of snapping photos of it devoid of tourists, as the park would be closed by the time we arrived. 

It's hard to sum up what it felt like when we finally stood at the end of the path overlooking the famed city. Exhaustion, exhilaration, wonder, and pride are just a few of the sensations that come to mind. When we got to Aguas Calientes not long after, and Cuzco a couple nights after that, I found it hard to readjust to civilization. In just a few days on the Inca Trail I had become so used to the silence, the mountains, and the stars at night; the feeling of simply being engulfed by nature. Months later, now that I'm back at home in the Bay Area, which is full of traffic and light pollution and people interacting through the medium of technology rather than face to face and still saying things that they don't really mean, I long for the simplicity of myself and my backpack making our way through the world. 

*By this point the trail was maybe 2 feet across, with no railing insulating trekkers from a very steep drop-off.

Tales from the Inca Trail, Part 2

The porters woke us at 5 am, rattling the side of our tent and offering a choice of beverage (coffee or coca tea). (Nothing like a hot stimulant to get you going before dawn)! We had forty minutes to get ourselves together and head to the mess tent, so that the porters could start breaking camp, after which we downed a hasty breakfast and ultimately hit the trail by around 6:30. Thus began The Climb.

For reasons relating to end-of-rainy-season mudslides, our guide had decided it best to forego what is usually the third night on the trail and condense the journey into two nights and three days of trekking. But, even so, anyone in our group (okay, maybe not the girl who caught a stomach bug on the second night) would tell you that the second day was the hardest. For the first two hours we hiked upward through "high jungle" (picture dark, damp, lush forest) before emerging onto a small plain that housed another campsite, and second breakfast. (Hobbit life ftw). It was a welcome break, but we knew that the next stretch would be even more challenging.

Dead Woman's Pass

Ascending from the campsite, the path was steeper and completely exposed to the elements, which included alternating bursts of intense sunlight and misty rain. Recall the most difficult, burning leg exercise you've ever done in your life and imagine that lasting for hours. Oh yeah, and with a thirty pound pack on your back! Squinting ahead, we could just make out the nipple on so-called Dead Woman's Pass (by a stretch of the imagination it resembles the profile of a woman lying on her back), which is where the path descends in endless stone steps laid out by the Inca. Hearts and heads pounding from both the altitude and sheer exertion, we weren't the only ones having to make frequent stops.

Finally we made it to the top, a victory made slightly bittersweet by the overwhelming fog that ruined what ought to have been spectacular views of the valley on both sides. Regardless, we gratefully dropped our packs and snapped some pictures before setting off into the white mist. On the way up I had given myself encouragement by thinking that going down would be easier, but in some ways it was perhaps even more challenging. The steps were steep and uneven, making my legs quiver and turn to jelly. My pace outgrew that of my brother and his girlfriend's (they had trekking poles; I didn't), but in waiting for them it became apparent that stopping on the stairs was harder than continuing. Not to mention that by that point I really had to urinate. Call it an extra spring in my step.

Campsite where we spent night 2.

The others reached the campsite not longer after I did, and even though we had leisure time between a late lunch and dinner, everyone was much too exhausted to socialize. I think we all slept well that night.   

Tales from the Inca Trail, Part 1

Back at the end of March, my family (parents, older brother, older brother's girlfriend) and I embarked on one of our most arduous adventures yet - hiking the Inca Trail from its beginning just outside the town of Ollyantaytambo, at Kilometer 82, to Machu Picchu. At 43 kilometers, the three day journey through the Andes also comprises hundreds (perhaps even thousands) of meters worth of elevation change. I would even go so far as to say that it made our nighttime trek up to the summit of Mt. Fuji seem like a casual stroll in the park by comparison, even though all of us are reasonably (perhaps even remarkably) fit.

As per the tour agency's guidelines, we arrived in Cuzco two days prior to trek departure in order to acclimate to the high altitude. Having lived quite close to sea level for my entire life, I was concerned about how the change would affect my body. I noticed how I tired quickly and more easily, simply by going up flights of stairs and wandering around Cuzco's historic center, but other than that had no symptoms of altitude sickness. The night before we were meant to leave, as we all stuffed and zipped and tightened the straps on our brand-new 60L backpacks, it began to dawn on me just how woefully unprepared I was. From the wardrobe of performance outerwear I had tried on but hadn't ever actually worn, to the gadgets and products hastily purchased via Amazon Prime mere days ago, I had a brief premonition that I may very well soon be suffering like Cheryl Strayed did at the outset of her Pacific Coast Trail journey as humorously and viscerally detailed in her book Wild. At least my hiking boots fit and were somewhat broken in.

Anxiously we waited in the lobby of the guesthouse, until a bus rolled by at a quarter to five in the morning, headlights bobbing along the dark cobblestone street. It pulled to a halt, and a man with a clipboard came to the door, checked our names against his list and led us to the coach, where we joined a small group of sleepy trekkers and porters who would comprise our team. After collecting the rest of the group, the bus wound its way up and out of Cuzco toward the small town of Ollyantaytambo, about two hours away, and whose modest main square was already crammed with the buses and vans of other tour groups also stopping for breakfast and last-minute purchases. (I bought a sunhat that I would later regret not wearing, when I wound up with a sunburned scalp and forehead).

Everyone gearing up at Kilometer 82.

The porters.

Re-boarding the bus, we pressed on via unpaved roads so narrow that when we passed vehicles going the opposite direction, I half-expected to hear the screech of metal on metal. At Kilometer 82, we stopped and disembarked with all our things, put on the first of many coats of sunscreen, and donned our packs. I watched the porters, local farmers approximately my size and stature, take on loads that made ours look like a joke in comparison. (I would later learn, through our guide and by observation, that the porters carry double the weight that an average trekker does yet goes about three times the speed).

In the beginning everything went well - the pace was moderate and we stopped for frequent breaks, allowing our guide to offer history lessons and, I suspect, to buy the porters more time to set up for lunch. It was challenging, particularly when the path began to veer sharply upward, but not overly so, and the scenery was unparalleled in beauty and grandeur. "I want to see mountains again, mountains Gandalf!" I thought.

Those mountains though...

Pack animals on the trail.

Trail near the lunch spot.

After several hours of trekking in the hot sun, we reached the campsite designated for lunch. The crew applauded each one of us as we entered the site. They had erected a large mess tent with folding tables and stools, where we sat and were presented with a three course meal followed by hot tea. Satisfied and slightly sleepy, our guide granted us "siesta" time before departing for the site where we would make camp for the night. I sprawled onto the grass, gratefully removing my shoes and wool socks, feeling confident for the first time that I could do it. 

Then our guide hurried up to my father saying, "Your wife is asking for you." And everything changed.

Frantically we put our shoes back on and followed him, to where my mother lay on the ground, abrasions on her hands and face, bruises blooming on her cheeks. Two women from a different group had found her, face down. Apparently she had taken a wrong turn coming back from the bathroom and fainted. One of the women was an ICU nurse, and had already rolled mom onto her back and tended to her wounds by the time we arrived on the scene. It was strange to see her so disoriented, weak and having trouble breathing, when just minutes before she'd been her usual chatty self at lunch. 

Thank god for the ICU nurse because all of us - even my father, an experienced nurse himself, was far too shocked to be able to do much. The nurse did everything that she could, but quickly found that the emergency medical equipment was insufficient; the portable oxygen tank leaked and the blood pressure monitor was faulty and failed to give a good reading. But one thing was clear: mom couldn't continue. As I knelt behind her, supporting her upper body to a somewhat upright position so that she could drink water, I couldn't help but think of the fate that had recently befallen a college classmate's father. (He was hiking in Patagonia with his wife when he had a sudden, fatal heart attack). I was scared, more so than I'd ever felt before, and I realized that I care more for the lives of the people I love than I do for my own.

A rudimentary stretcher was produced, which the porters affixed to two wooden poles on either side, and padded with the sleeping mat mom would no longer need. Carefully they placed her body on top, covering her with blankets and securing her with the bright, multi-colored textiles that local women carry everything from babies to firewood with. By now she was cold and her eyes were fighting to stay open. It was decided that two porters and the assistant guide would carry her back to the trailhead and procure a vehicle to Ollyantaytambo, accompanied by our father. She would get medical attention, and then our parents would meet us at the end of the trail in Machu Picchu. The lead guide turned to my brother and I and asked what we intended to do. 

We glanced uneasily at each other, thinking the same thing. Mom didn't want us to stop on her account, but if there were something seriously wrong with her, we'd never forgive ourselves for leaving her side. Plus, in the event of an emergency, there would be no cell phone reception until reaching the third pass two days hence. This time, I thought of the time that I was abroad in China and learned that my ailing grandmother had decided to stop taking all her medications, essentially resigning herself to imminent death. Up until now that was the only ever true moral dilemma I had ever faced.

Exiting the campground, the stretcher bearers took the left fork, back the way we'd come, while we took the right, which led onward. It pained me to watch my parents going back to Kilometer 82, knowing how excited they'd been for this trip. I recalled the smiling selfies they'd texted in weeks prior of them training and doing practice hikes, and wanted to break down and cry. It wasn't fair. Things weren't supposed to happen this way. For the next two hours the three of us walked in subdued silence, wondering if we'd chosen the right path. By the time we made it to camp, darkness had begun to fall and most of the tents had been claimed. I purchased a much needed beer from an entrepreneurial local.

By the end of dinner, the porters who had carried mom returned, saying that at a rest stop a local had volunteered to take her the rest of the way down on the back of his motorcycle. I wondered how she had managed to sit, seeing how feeble she was. My parents and the assistant guide had found transport back to town, and that was all he knew. I thanked him, then returned to our tent and eventually descended into restless slumber.

See more of the Inca Trail here.

Cuzco in Photos

Some highlights from our family trip to Peru at the end of March. See more here.

Plaza Regocijo.

Weavers at the Center for Traditional Textiles.

Plaza de Armas.

Cute pair of siblings at the laundromat we used, who were very interested in my camera.

A narrow street in San Blas neighborhood.