Peru: Day One
Part one recap of a 4-day trek in the Andes— and the lingering magic dust of an old Peruvian woman I met along the way
Truth: Documenting this trip is really for me. I want to remember every second of it. I want to dive back into it as often as possible because every time I do, I come the surface with more fists-full of awe and what feels like real Irish luck.
But I hope you enjoy reading about it, too. Some of you sweet beings have been waiting patiently for a full report. Take the delay up with covid— the uninvited asshole guest to this little soiree’s afterparty. Boo. Happy to report, though, I’m feeling a little better every day.
I realized when I got to writing Day Two, that this thing was gonna be way too long as one post. So, I’m breaking it up. Today, I serve you Day One— fresh(ish) from almost 2 weeks of writing and editing with covid brain. You’re welcome. Be kind. : )
It would mean a lot for you to subscribe to or share this post. Free subscriptions are always welcome, and paid ones continue to blow my mind with love and gratitude. Thank y’all for being here. xo
Prologue
I can’t stop thinking about her. I only met her once. Most likely, I’ll never see her again. It was a brief encounter— nothing extraordinary. Other than I’d traveled by plane, train, automobile, and tired sore feet to her little village in the Andes. It’s tucked up so far into mountains so big, being there is like being a flea on a very large dog.
A very large beloved dog. That was clear in the way the floors of her cafe were swept, and the way the small buildings that made up the village were cared for. The last morning I was there, a young man was bent at the waist and leaning low against a small house. A hand painted sign over the front door said HOSTEL in all caps. The man had a metal plate piled high with adobe in one hand, and a long wooden trowel in the other.
The sun was just coming up over the Andes, and the man was layering the mud thick and smooth over cracks in the foundation. He’d stop every now and then to dip the trowel in a bucket of water. His hands would come back together as if in prayer, and the mud would go from plate to trowel to wall. The early morning light made it look like he was buttering liquid gold over a house of worship.
The first time I saw the old woman, she was going out of her way to make my sister and I coffee. Leave it to American’s to order what’s not on the menu in the middle of literally, nowhere. She eyed my sister a little sideways when my sister asked in Spanish if she had café. But 15 minutes later, she served us 2 piping hot cups. Even found us some powdered milk. They were perfect. We thanked her profusely, told her how amazing they were, and my sister left her a big handful of solés on the counter.
She turned and smiled at us, nodding thank you. Her eyes turned into a playground. She could’ve been 40. Or 70. Or 110. She looked young and old at the same time. The folds of her face could be from a lifetime living in the elements, or they could be from joy. I’ll never know. She wore thick layers of alpaca wool— reds and purples and yellows in her skirt and poncho. And heavy Peruvian socks that look like what Americans would call leg warmers. The sandals on her thick, plasticized feet looked more like a part of her body than footwear.
I don’t even know her name. I just know I think about her all the time now that I’m back in the desert. I bet she never thinks of me at all. Unless she recounts the 2 loco American women, used to a Starbucks on every corner, ordering coffee at her little cafe window, high up in the Andes.
Her village, Marampata, is the last pit stop for hikers headed to Choquequirao. Choque, as the locals call it, is an Inca ruin site much larger and harder to reach than Machu Picchu. It sits like a citadel at almost 10,000’ above sea level. That’s where we were headed. We’d been hiking for 2 days to get there. We had another 3 hours to go. Hence, the coffee.
Before I get ahead of myself, let me take you back to the start. The part after my sister told me she was taking me on a trip to Peru for my birthday. But before the part about the old woman of Marampata. Let me go back to day one.
~
Day One
The night before we left for Choque, we had a team meeting in Cusco with our guide Joseph. There were just 5 of us in our group. Joseph outlined the trek with power point slides on a big white screen. Four days of intense hiking through the Andes. Significant elevation and temperature changes. Steep rocky trails that if you were climbing up at some point, you’d for sure be climbing down later. And vice versa. He warned us about the heat and the mosquitoes. Turns out, he was not even kidding a little bit about either thing.
Toward the end of the evening, I asked him about the condors. Andean condors have a wing span so strong and wide (more than 10’’), they only need to flap once to rise off the ground. They can soar without flapping for hours on currents of thermal air. Joseph got a little animated about the condors. In Peruvian mythology, they symbolize power and are considered intermediaries with the spirit world.
We don’t always see them despite what the brochure says. They avoid people. Generally stay at very high elevations. If we do see one, he said, it will be while we’re up in the ruins.
Later, while we were hiking together, Joseph told me the condor was his spirit animal. Seeing one is an honor, he said. I wanted that honor so badly.
The meeting left me feeling nervous but excited. I knew it was going to be hard, but I felt ready. In retrospect, I’m not sure you can be ready for a trip like this one —on any level. For every physical challenge you overcome on the trail, there is a majesty to be seen and held in that defies any level of preparedness or expectation.
You are suspended by the gods in a holding tank of tension between the extreme polarities of physical discomfort, and the unspeakable beauty of the earth. Somehow you float between the two. Somehow it all makes perfect sense. Somehow you touch and feel and hold more. Despite, or maybe because of, the current running through your body.
~
Joseph outlined what to have in our daypacks, what to bring in our duffles the porters would carry, and what to do with the luggage we were leaving at the hotel while we were gone. After the meeting, we stopped as a group to pick up last minute items at a drug store. Back at the hotel, we said our goodnights. We’d be seeing one another in a few short hours.
Tomorrow is the hardest and longest day, Joseph said, before we parted ways. Get some sleep. The van is picking you up at 3am.
After a flurry of texts to my sister in the next room, and a few trips back and forth making sure we each had what we needed, by 10pm my daypack sat ready on the edge of the bed: 3 liters of liquid— 2 liters of water in one bladder, one liter of water with electrolytes in another bladder; bug spray; sunscreen; first aid kit; energy snacks; bandanas; toilet paper and kleenex. The rest of my luggage was packed and ready for hotel storage, or in the duffel to be loaded on a mule.
I set my alarm for 2am but never needed it. At 1:39 in the morning, a 4.7 magnitude earthquake shook Cusco, rattled my bed, and brought me to my feet. So began the longest and hardest day. It would also be beautiful and soulful in ways that’ve been etched on my very cells.
I’m still trying to learn its language.
~
It was a 4 hour van ride to get to Cachora, where we’d have breakfast. Joseph was from Cachora. Breakfast was served in his parent’s home— an open aired cantina with what seemed to be a small dining room in the front, and a separate kitchen and living quarters in the back.
(Above video: woman on street in Cachora)
We arrived in Cachora around 8am. Breakfast was chicken, rice and potato, some kind of fruit juice, and a small pitcher of coffee concentrate we watered down and drank with powdered milk. The coffeee wasn’t great, but we assumed it was caffeinated. Good enough. The food was amazing. The potato was out of this world.
Peru grows over 5,000 varieties, including purple, yellow, and red potatoes. They’re the best potatoes this Irish girl has ever had. Don’t get me started on the potato chips. I’ve been researching how to get them in the US.
We loaded back into the van after breakfast, and 35 minutes later we were at the trailhead in Capuliyoc.
(Above video: last stretch in van to trailhead)
We checked in with our passports and used the bathroom at a small local store in Capuliyoc. Then there was nothing left but to start walking. We’d be camping that night at Santa Rosa Alta, about 10 miles away. I had no frame of reference for the next 8 or 9 hours. I just tried to stay present, one step at a time, knowing I’d make it even if I didn’t know how.
The first set of switchbacks were well groomed. Not super steep. A somewhat gentle easing in. For the first 30 minutes, we were above the clouds. Then we were in the clouds. Then we descended enough to be below the clouds, and got our first glimpse of the Apurimac river in the canyon below.
The canyon is almost twice as deep as the Grand Canyon. I’m not sure the human brain is designed to fully grasp the magnitudes of such depth and scope. It takes your breath away. It’s sort of like the big-smallness you feel in your chest when you’re sitting on the shore of an ocean. Except up there you feel like you’re standing on the back of a leviathan, coursing right through the middle of it all.
Apurimac means ‘where the gods speak’ in the local Quechua language. You hear them speak— even from 5 miles up. From up there, the river looks like a piece of silly string winding its way around the granite feet of monolithic giants. It was hard to believe we’d be down there in a few hours. It looked both closer and further away than that.
The first 3+ hours were all downhill, which sounds easy peasy until it’s not. When your legs start shaking, and you’re not sure with each step down if your knee is going to hold or fold, and your toes are jammed relentlessly up into the top of your shoes, you start pining away for some uphill. (Until you get to the uphill. Then you kinda just want your mom.)
I’d never hiked with poles before, but I rented some on Joseph’s strong recommendation. Was really glad I did. The downhill was so intense, it got to the point where it didn’t help to stop because standing still was just as iffy as moving. Sitting down was also iffy because well, getting back up. I found a way to lean over on the hiking poles to rest that seemed to help when I needed to stop. There was very little shade on that side of the mountain. It got warmer and warmer as we descended. In my head, I was alternately holy shitting and saying thank you to my legs like a mantra.
Peru has 2 seasons— wet and dry. August is the tail end of the dry season. The mountains we were in had a dry side and a wet side— the visual effect was stunning. The wet side was green and capped with glaciers, giving you a feel for the elevation. The dry side was brown with very little in the way of trees or shade. The whole package was dizzying in its fullness. Hard to look away.
My brain kept trying to think of words and language that might be enough to try at some point to write about what I was seeing and how it made me feel, standing there in the rib cage of South America’s strong, stunning chest.
I’m still trying, and I don’t think anything I come up with will ever be enough.
By the time we reached the river, temperatures had climbed significantly, and there was still quite a ways to go. All up.
~
Our first lunch stop was in Chiquisca, a small local camp about an hour and a half from the river. We’d been hiking for 3 hours. The 5 of us found a grassy area under an avocado tree and laid our bodies down while we waited for lunch.
I guess now is as good a time as any to talk about the mosquitoes. They look like gnats. They’re stealthy and fierce. We were all slathered in bug creams and sprays, and we were still getting bitten. I was the only one in shorts. The backs of my legs looked like target practice, and those little fuckers were just getting started. Hikers were on the menu for the next 3 days. We figured out they didn’t swarm as much when we were laying down, so our spot under the tree was perfect.
It was under that avocado tree I made first peace with the dirt and the bites and the sweat soaking my clothes. I embraced it all. I praised my tired body. It would be like this for the next few days, I told myself. Just keep walking— clear eyes/full heart/ filthy, bitten but strong body.
We finished lunch, refilled water bladders and after more downhill, made the Apurimac about an hour and a half after we left Chiquisca. It was really hot. We’d been up and at it for 12 hours, and still had 4ish to go to get to our first camp. Again—all up.
For hours, the sound of the river had been like a siren call beyond my breath and heartbeat. The water, soul-pulling me to it. The voice of the Apurimac is a constant, like a good god’s should be. It knows things, and has a lot to say if you’re listening. I shuffled the last, dusty 50 yards to the edge of her green rushing mouth, and basically folded like a broken chair on the metal bridge that spanned over her body. I was grateful. Tired. Needing shade and rest.
And underneath it all, a wild and precious current electrified my blood. I can’t believe I’m here, my brain kept saying. Believe it, my shaky legs reminded me. Pay attention, my heart. Always my heart for the win.
We rested in the shade of the bridge supports for about 30 minutes. Our crew passed with our stuff— tents and duffle bags, food and water strapped on the backs of mules. They hustled ahead to get set up for our first night in Santa Rosa Alta. We had 3 or 4 hours to go, all UP. I know I keep saying it, but I need you to really understand how up it was after 4 hours of down.
It would take the porters and mules much less time to get there. They were accustomed to the altitude and terrain. They scaled the giant Andes like they were speed bumps. They rode the mules sometimes, but mostly they walked in front, herding them on. It was an awesome thing to see. Also made me feel conflicted for the mules.
One of our porters said he could make Marampata in 4 hours from the trailhead. Solo, on foot. (It would take us 2 days.) He’d been on these trails since he was a boy. He wore sandals. Always. The rocks seemed to tumble off his feet like they were hard as diamonds. They looked half way to being carbonized.
My sister, who could’ve easily left me in the dust, stayed with me every step of the way.
Part of what made this trip the magic it was, was her and I together. Figuring shit out when it didn’t go as planned. Not freaking out when we got to Lima and an airline worker came, took her without explanation, and wouldn’t let me come with (turns out they found a small battery in her suitcase — jeez). Or her translating the language for me ‘cuz I cut Mrs. Campos’ spanish class too often in high school. We laughed about how many times we’d backpacked in the past and ran out of water. We’ve been through some shit. I know as long as I’m with her, I’ll be fine.
Most of this trip to Choque was spent following in her footsteps. Except for the times, of which there were many, she was right beside me. Slipping me packets of Gu (iykyk), and energy bars that were like little bricks of cocaine (caffeine) when I needed the chemicals to get me another half mile. Then another. She gave an amazing and un-obnoxious pep talk exactly when I needed it, and let me drink a bunch of her water.
Truth is, she’s been doing this for me in some form my whole life. My sissy is strong, brilliant and generous, and unfailingly kind. She teaches me how to find the pieces of myself I sometimes bury under ‘I can’t’. She believes in me so hard I have no choice but to can. My life would’ve been so much harder, and I would not have made it to almost 60, or that last 4 hours to Santa Rosa, if not for her.
She’s an og badass, and she’s my sissy. I am the luckiest one on the planet.
We made it to Santa Rosa Alta around 5:30pm. All told, we’d been awake and moving for more than 16 hours, hiked approximately 10 miles over 9 hours, down 5,000’ and back up 2,000’. Temperatures went from 50º to 85º. They’d go back down to 50’s once the sun set. A sign just outside of camp advertised WIFI, but was spelled WIFE. I took it as a good omen.
My sister and I rolled into Santa Rosa like Xena (her) and Gabriella (me, sorta). I felt things in my body I’d never felt before. Like, this is what would happen if you stayed on a stairmaster for 8 hours straight, Kate.
I also felt new things in my spirit. I’m still unfurling those scrolls and learning to translate. But in that moment, I felt really, really proud of us both.
For 2 solès (about .50 cents), you could take a ‘hot’ shower. I was crusted over with dirt and sweat and sunscreen and bug spray. I took that lukewarm shower in a 3’x3’ adobe cube— dirt floored and tin doored, the shower head a hose nozzle. It was the best shower of my life. Getting into dry soft pants and a long sleeve t-shirt as the sun disappeared over the edge of the Andes was a spiritual experience. I wasn’t sure how I was going to walk ever again, but I’d worry about that tomorrow. For now, I was happy.
Dinner was great, as usual. There was always some kind of really good soup, followed by a main course of meat, usually chicken, and potato and rice. I had a side of Advil for dessert. After dinner, Joseph laid out our plans for the next day. We’d head to our next camp, Marampata, then onto to the ruins at Choque for the afternoon before heading back to Marampata to camp for the night. Another 8-9 hour day. More uphill. The porters will wake you at 5:30am with coffee at your tent door, he said. Breakfast at 6:00, on the trail by 6:45.
I used el baño one more time before bed. On my way back to the tent, I caught the last light of the sun slipping off the edge of the world. Across the canyon, there were lights flickering like earth-stuck stars. The light coming from the room where we’d eaten dinner splashed over the sides of our little orange tents.
My insides felt as big as the sky. I wondered how I got so lucky to have been standing there like I was, offering a well deserved ovation to a day that brought me further into my body and heart than I ever thought possible.
Stay tuned for Day Two. Coming soon. xo
I loved this, Kate. Made me think of this time I hiked 13 miles across the Haleakala crater on Maui while I was 5 months pregnant with my son. It’s a mile down, nine miles across, and three miles of switchbacks with a crazy ascent at the end. I wasn’t visibly pregnant at the beginning of the hike, but my belly had “popped” by the end. I have before and after pics somewhere 🤣 I can’t wait for your next installments. I can feel the awe pouring through your words. And your sister sounds like the best ever 🤍
What a rich post on a rich trip. Your description of the and more up and more up to me back to some grueling hikes I’ve endured. I love how you brought to life the old woman and the Peruvian landscape and the bond sisterhood.