To say that we woke cold and tired on day two of the Inca Trail would suggest that we actually slept on day one.
The sound of the river was magnified the nocturnal silence. The llamas objected vocally in the darkness, to the donkeys’ romantic advances. The chefs were up at 2am, clanking in the field kitchen, making breakfast.
It sounds a bit ungrateful, doesn’t it?
Breakfast was hot Quinoa porridge and toast. We burnt enough calories during yesterday’s march to power Cusco for a week. We needed food and we needed a lot of it – either to provide us with energy or to lay down some fat to ward off the cold – probably both.
The llamas and donkeys seemed to have reached some accommodation in the night.
Doug, the ambulance donkey, was smoking a cigarette in polo neck sweater. Sandy, the llama-queen was fussing around him, laughing a little too loudly at his jokes and secretly wondering whether she had given in too easily. In a few months’ time the confused llama wranglers will sit around a night-time camp fire discussing what to call the new-born.
A Lankey, perhaps?
The combination of the climb and the increasing altitude was too much for some and Mauro took three casualties down the gorge while the rest of us pressed on. We had 8km in which to climb the next 1,250m to the high point at 5,250m.
We passed straw roofed huts and dirty faced children; old women herding sheep and more llamas. Dogs barked as we approached and immediately regretted the decision as they had to lie down for a while to recover from their oxygen-depleting exertions.
I don’t speak llama fluently but it wasn’t hard to interpret the exchanges that took place between the pack llamas the free variety as they passed by.
“Hey there Babe – do you want to come up to my place? I’ve got a great collection of dried droppings.” crooned Danny, alpha-male amongst wild llamas as he pulled a comb from his back pocket and eased it through his oiled locks.
“Get lost, scumbag” said Sandy, tossing her pearls and adjusting her twin-set. “Besides, I’m going steady with Dougie - and he’s a medical professional.”
Further up the mountain we came across an old lady sitting on a tussock.
At 4,500m and a three hour hike from the nearest hut, she had set up her mobile loom, opened her bag of boiled potatoes and sat munching and weaving. Smiddy rifled her potato bag for his lunch but she didn’t seem to mind. She patiently threaded the loom and added row by row as we watched. She wasn’t selling - it was for her grandchildren.
The path petered out and we were soon scrambling up a rock field, pausing every three steps for breath. The rocks shrunk and gave way to a steep scree slope. Every couple of minutes a dislodged rock would tumble away down the mountain side, threatening to start a slip but eventually finding a new resting place for the next thousand years.
Scree gave way to grass and we sat in the sunshine, gazing at the glacier that we had to pass, a cold wind blowing down from the ice. The warmer air blowing up from the valley met the cold coming down from the glacier, where we were walking. Clouds condensed out of the thin air in front of us and the mountain looked like it was steaming.
At 5,000m we passed the plaque to Chaca Chaca and the massive caves beside it, and then disappeared into cloud for the next two hours. Lichen was the only vegetation but butterflies fluttered in the gloom as we trudged to the summit of the pass.
Snow fell and then as we began our descent, it turned to rain which made the steep and difficult rocky terrain, treacherous. Lunch was hot soup, gratefully received in a lake-side hut as the deluge continued. Ben dived into the water, famous for its high altitude trout before emerging, blue but cheerful for the remaining descent.
The gorge became a valley in the next hour and by 5pm we were at camp in a school football ground. Five year olds were waiting with woollens and beer. They clearly knew what we wanted and what we needed.
When the shopping was done, the football began.
A word of warning?
Never try to mark a five year old above 2,000m.
Ever.
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