Rain. That’s all I can see. That’s all I can hear.
Day one, full of excitement tinged with apprehension, I had walked the easy trail in the sun with a hop in my step.
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| day one |
Day two we awoke to the beginning of the rain, the beginning of the end.
My plastic poncho is giving off steam as I struggle up the never-ending steps of dead woman’s pass. My body is a machine taking each step as it comes. My mind and soul are fighting against the urge to stop. It is the second day of the Inca trail, and with each step closer to the top the air gets thinner and the cold becomes biting. Groans are shared between hikers, language is no longer a barrier. Foreheads are wrinkled, and lips are twisted in agony. There is camaraderie. We understand. We are one. My chest is tight, and my hands feel like broken glass but I have made it to the top. Grey. Everything is grey. We are in the clouds, at the top of the world. There is only grey. There is an encompassing fog that turns voices into distant sounds, and makes silhouettes of the people around me. There is an eerie sense of Inca spirits who have tread this path, and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. My body wishes this was the end, but I know I am only at the peak, and I have to walk down the other side. Down more steps. Wet. Slippery. My knees are aching with the pressure of keeping myself from falling. As I descend the cold becomes mild, and the air becomes inviting. We are almost at the campsite.
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| day two: an eerie fog |
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| day two |
In an enchanted world of trees, logs and overhanging branches, the rain only makes it more beautiful. Day three of the trail. The rain has made the brown of the forest wood rich. The braches are shimmering and brimming with life. The different shades of green come together in an array of astounding character. The other hikers become a blur, and the beauty around me resonates through my entire being. This is where we come from and this is where we end. There is hidden wonder, and a mystic sense that fill me with joy. I am enchanted.
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| an enchanted wonderland |
My trust in nature is about to be betrayed.
2am. Mud. Moving swiftly in the night, unheard and unnoticed by the sleeping campers. With deadly accuracy it hits. It is over as quickly as it began. An Argentian girl, lost forever, in the enchanted world that has turned into a dark and twisted playground for the elements of earth and sky.
We begin the last day of trekking. Death is looming. Water. Mud. We grit our teeth and keep walking. Two pale faces. Walking in the wrong direction. Do we have a radio? No, Why. Second Mudslide. Their guide has been hit by a second mudslide. My friend and I were the next in line. We are the only other two people to know of the second death on the trail. Water. Mud. Three hours to Machu Picchu. Unable to return to the campsite. Stuck. No choice but to keep walking. When would the next one hit. My feet are floating across the wet ground, the world around me is gliding by, a blur of green. Water. Mud. I scale the steps. Only one goal. Get through this alive. My heart is racing. It is heavy. Labored. I think of my family. I think of my friends. I think of the Argentinean girl’s family. What if it was mine. I look to my friend I am trekking with. Her face is familiar. Safe. Childhood friends. Is this our last memory together. She is the only thing that is real to me. The mud is unforgiving. The rain continues.
We reach the sun gate. A view point of Machu Picchu. A place to reflect. Usually a place of beauty and happiness. For us it is fear. I am angry. I am angry at the very nature that had inspired and moved me yesterday. People are smiling. Why. They don’t know. Not everybody knows. Their ignorance stings. We continue on to Machu Picchu. Silence. We walk in silence. I keep looking to my friend. I feel her next to me. We are still here.
We have made it. I am aware. Aware of my body. How my feet feel on the ground. How my arms swing at my side. I am aware of my soul. How easy it is to get lost in a moment. To forget. The fog lifts. It is beautiful. It is grand. Surrounded by looming mountains, it is a pocket of life. Its lines are straight. It strikes me how neat it looks. Perfect. Picturesque. A postcard. Who would know. Who would know of the pain. The horror. The fear. How easy it is to forget.
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| machu picchu |
I have made it. I take in the moment. Water. Mud. Still falling. Still flowing in the mountains around me. Death still looms. I turn my back. I begin the descent to safety. I take in a breath. The air is cold. It rushes through me. I am alive. Its time to go.
