The second day, we were repeatedly warned, was to be the toughest. In the early morning mist we broke camp, saying goodbye to our hosts and beginning the challenging ascent which was to last the entire day. We began following the river upstream, kept cool by the spray from the churning turquoise water. The going was indeed tough, made worse for some in the group by the lack of oxygen. Headaches and weakness in the muscles began to take their toll as we climbed from Wayllabamba to the halfway point at Llulluchapampa (3680msl). I was grateful for the two weeks of preparation in high-altitude Cusco.
This was the last chance to buy any provisions we might need thanks to the quartet of women selling goods they'd hauled up from their small stalls. Here arose a dilemma - everything you wanted for the rest of the journey had to be carried on your back, beer being the most desirable commodity and the heaviest. Had the shop been at the beginning of the climb I may have bought more but two small cans would have to suffice. Surprisingly, the women were charging prices that were reasonable considering the energy required to get the tinnies to that height. Once again the porters ability and creativity were impressive, with another group fine dining at a full length dinner table in possibly the best dining room I've ever seen.
Having broken away from the rest of the group, Pete and I lingered long enough only to buy provisions and we were off. We were men on a mission and set a cracking pace climbing to the pass at 4,200msl in only an hour knocking over 30 minutes off the suggested time. As we climbed the vegetation thinned and the path steadily diverged from the stream as it rose above the valley head. As it was late morning the sun bore down on us ferociously leaving us panting like dogs. However, our determination was stronger and, on the whole, we kept pace with the porters to the saddle known as Abra dr Huarmihuañusca, or Dead Woman's Pass.
In only three hours we had climbed 1,200m moving from forested valleys to scorching grassland to an exposed saddle, gateway to the next valley. The notorious Andean weather demonstrated its formidable power shifting from burning sunshine to drenching rain in a matter of minutes. We waited for the next hour becoming increasingly colder whilst our group trudged up the hill in the rain.
One great encounter was with a woman of 68 years accompanied by her two adult children. It's a small world when you meet someone who's from the same town you work in at the top of the Inca Trail! Her fortitude and tenacity made me deeply proud of Yorkshire folk, I'm not sure I'll be able to do that in my late sixties. That's Ilkey Moor training for you.
Once all the group were together we began the steep, treacherous descent to Pacamayo. It was here that is became apparent that the idea of only one Inca Trail is in part a fallacy. There are many Inca trails crossing these precipitous mountains connecting numerous ruins, many of which date from pre-Inca times. The reason this particular route through the peaks is so popular today is it happened to be the one Hiram Bingham took during his original ingress into these long-forgotten lands. The campsite at Pacamayo is without doubt the most stunning location I've ever slept in - and I've bedded down in some pretty staggering spots. Nestled in a central glacial valley encircled with higher hanging valleys, the site commanded views of the opposing mountains. Like some kind of gigantic stage set, these vertiginous peaks were quintessentially jagged, separated by heavenly tongues of glacial ice. Even the unrelenting rain failed to dampen our spirits as we gazed in awe at the magnificence before us.
To escape the rain I read in my tent for a couple of hours. At least that was the plan. I'd brought with me a single-skin Vango which was untested. A combination of condensation and infiltration meant the interior became increasingly damp as the night went on. This saturation of gear was to last for the rest of the trip, a definite challenge to comfort levels. And this rain wasn't even heavy by Andean standards! An incredibly precious can of Cusqueña helped smooth things over until another incredible dinner was provided by the porters. As well as a fully fitted kitchen and dining room, these Trojans also carried every single morsel for themselves and the ever hungry gringoes. Not only that, the menu was as varied and tasty as many of the restaurants back in Cusco. The gratitude we all felt was palpable and became a frequent topic of conversation. Dave was kind enough to pass round his stash of Pisco which warmed the cockles enough to brave clambering into a damp, cold bed. Trail life quickly forces people to get to know one another and, luckily, I'd landed myself in a group of humourous, generous companions.
The second day, we were repeatedly warned, was to be the toughest. In the early morning mist we broke camp, saying goodbye to our hosts and beginning the challenging ascent which was to last the entire day. We began following the river upstream, kept cool by the spray from the churning turquoise water. The going was indeed tough, made worse for some in the group by the lack of oxygen. Headaches and weakness in the muscles began to take their toll as we climbed from Wayllabamba to the halfway point at Llulluchapampa (3680msl). I was grateful for the two weeks of preparation in high-altitude Cusco.
This was the last chance to buy any provisions we might need thanks to the quartet of women selling goods they'd hauled up from their small stalls. Here arose a dilemma - everything you wanted for the rest of the journey had to be carried on your back, beer being the most desirable commodity and the heaviest. Had the shop been at the beginning of the climb I may have bought more but two small cans would have to suffice. Surprisingly, the women were charging prices that were reasonable considering the energy required to get the tinnies to that height. Once again the porters ability and creativity were impressive, with another group fine dining at a full length dinner table in possibly the best dining room I've ever seen.
Having broken away from the rest of the group, Pete and I lingered long enough only to buy provisions and we were off. We were men on a mission and set a cracking pace climbing to the pass at 4,200msl in only an hour knocking over 30 minutes off the suggested time. As we climbed the vegetation thinned and the path steadily diverged from the stream as it rose above the valley head. As it was late morning the sun bore down on us ferociously leaving us panting like dogs. However, our determination was stronger and, on the whole, we kept pace with the porters to the saddle known as Abra dr Huarmihuañusca, or Dead Woman's Pass. 
In only three hours we had climbed 1,200m moving from forested valleys to scorching grassland to an exposed saddle, gateway to the next valley. The notorious Andean weather demonstrated its formidable power shifting from burning sunshine to drenching rain in a matter of minutes. We waited for the next hour becoming increasingly colder whilst our group trudged up the hill in the rain. 
One great encounter was with a woman of 68 years accompanied by her two adult children. It's a small world when you meet someone who's from the same town you work in at the top of the Inca Trail! Her fortitude and tenacity made me deeply proud of Yorkshire folk, I'm not sure I'll be able to do that in my late sixties. That's Ilkey Moor training for you.
Once all the group were together we began the steep, treacherous descent to Pacamayo. It was here that is became apparent that the idea of only one Inca Trail is in part a fallacy. There are many Inca trails crossing these precipitous mountains connecting numerous ruins, many of which date from pre-Inca times. The reason this particular route through the peaks is so popular today is it happened to be the one Hiram Bingham took during his original ingress into these long-forgotten lands. The campsite at Pacamayo is without doubt the most stunning location I've ever slept in - and I've bedded down in some pretty staggering spots. Nestled in a central glacial valley encircled with higher hanging valleys, the site commanded views of the opposing mountains. Like some kind of gigantic stage set, these vertiginous peaks were quintessentially jagged, separated by heavenly tongues of glacial ice. Even the unrelenting rain failed to dampen our spirits as we gazed in awe at the magnificence before us.
To escape the rain I read in my tent for a couple of hours. At least that was the plan. I'd brought with me a single-skin Vango which was untested. A combination of condensation and infiltration meant the interior became increasingly damp as the night went on. This saturation of gear was to last for the rest of the trip, a definite challenge to comfort levels. And this rain wasn't even heavy by Andean standards! An incredibly precious can of Cusqueña helped smooth things over until another incredible dinner was provided by the porters. As well as a fully fitted kitchen and dining room, these Trojans also carried every single morsel for themselves and the ever hungry gringoes. Not only that, the menu was as varied and tasty as many of the restaurants back in Cusco. The gratitude we all felt was palpable and became a frequent topic of conversation. Dave was kind enough to pass round his stash of Pisco which warmed the cockles enough to brave clambering into a damp, cold bed. Trail life quickly forces people to get to know one another and, luckily, I'd landed myself in a group of humourous, generous companions.
2 comments:
amazing- never fails to ammaze me how strong and resourceful the porters are- worldwide- sadly often a thankless task aswell- but they really do 'make' the trip, don't they?!- some amazing pictures mate!- can't wait for the grand finale of it all- cos that bit will most definetly make your hairs stand on end!!! keep up the blog mate!
suerte!
Gracias. We in the MEDCs have become a little soft, haven't we?
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