Story: Growing Up to Winya Wayna & Machu Picchu

In May 2006, my partner, Steve, and I traveled to Peru with a group of sixteen men ranging in age from 39 to 65. This was our first “group tour” and we surprisingly discovered that with the exception of one person, we were enjoying the camaraderie and emerging friendship of the group.

It was day six of an eleven day adventure in Peru. Steve and I had waited for months for this one particular day, the day we would see Machu Picchu with our own eyes. There have been countless personal stories of journeys to Machu Picchu. This account doesn’t tell the story of the sights seen along the Inca Trail or seek to educate about the ancient history of the Incan civilization, nor to discuss the concern of tourist overpopulation at a precious world wonder. This tale is about acknowledging limits and accepting maturity.

In Ollantaytambo, our group boarded the PeruRail train. The train actually runs downhill from Ollantaytambo. Machu Picchu is at a lower elevation than Ollantaytamo. At Kilometer 104, the train stopped in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. The trailhead at Kilometer 104 begins what is known as the “Sacred Trail” along the greater Inca Trail. Sixteen of us crossed the bridge that spanned the Urubamba River running alongside the railroad tracks and headed up to the check-in station where our passports were stamped and we were cleared by the Peruvian government to hike the Inca Trail. It was at the trail check-in that our group also picked up three trail guides.

We spent some time touring and learning about the lower ruins of Chachabamba. Our trail guide announced that we were about to embark on the most difficult segment of our day’s journey, a 3 km trek up the side of the mountain to our “half-way to Machu Picchu” destination point, Winya Wayna. A small washout along the regular trail would be sending us up an alternate route. We were not sure if this was good news or bad news. The journey was anticipated to take 4 hours. I thought 4 hours was a long time to walk 3 km.

Before we began our ascent, trail guides were placed at the front, middle and end of our hiking group to make sure that no one got lost and to sound an alert in the event of an emergency. As we trekked along the dirt path, we were surprised by the many calls of “porter!” We yielded as Peruvian natives literally trotted down the path carrying half their body weight on their shoulders (i.e., coolers, blankets, luggage). Some porters had hiked four and five days with groups, literally transporting their group’s entire campsites day by day. Winya Wayna was their final location before returning home. Others were simply returning from delivering supplies to the facility. One had to wonder how often these porters made the journey and admire the physical shape they were in to make that journey repeatedly. We made 2-3 stops in the first hour to maintain some semblance of group cohesion. At each stop the wait for those near the back of the group increased. The tour’s itinerary described the hike as “moderate” for those of average condition. I was surprised by those who were at the back of the pack and even more surprised by those at the front of the pack. My personal assessment of their physical condition was impugned; my judgment’s proved to be wrong. In my mind, I had already accurately preconceived how the journey would unfold and how its outcome would be determined. I’m not sure where, or if, a decision was made but our last “stop & catch-up” rest came at the end of our first hour of trekking up the mountain. From that point forward, the distance between the leader and the last hiker increased as did the distance between each individual hiker. The journey became less of a group endeavor and more of an individual challenge. It would not be until after we had reached Winya Wayna that we would discover just how far apart we had come as a group.

The previous day the group purchased walking sticks in the town square from the local Ollantaytamban’s. Initially, I thought purchasing walking sticks was silly; I was strong. I was still in relatively good shape. While not a superhero, I had strong legs, I was no more than 15 pounds overweight, I was mentally stable and I had recently quit a 30-year smoking habit. I felt empowered, prepared and invincible. Based on what little I knew of our traveling companions and on how I had already judged them, there was no doubt in my mind that I would lead the way to the top. After an hour of hiking at what seemed like a constant 45 degree incline, it gradually became apparent that using just my legs and swinging my arms to propel myself forward was not going to suffice. The damage of a long smoking habit also became more apparent that I wanted to admit. Much to my ego’s chagrin, the walking sticks became my most dependent possessions.

The strain of this continuous uphill climb combined with the sun and heat was beginning to take its toll on me. I wanted to bitch and complain to someone but there was no one near me to whom I could bitch and complain. I had been passed up by not only the eldest member of our tribe but also a man whom I had judged as fat and no where near my physical prowess. These facts were challenging who I was. Even Steve, who is six years older than I and most likely struggling in his own personal way to reach Winya Wayna, was ahead of me. It pissed me off. It was incomprehensible to me why this climb was so difficult. I’m not an avid hiker but I hike! And I found it annoyingly ironic that I was actually PAYING to endure this strain! I know my body and I knew enough to recognize the fact that I was in trouble. By this time, the hikers in front and back of me were no longer visible. I had run out of water, I had stopped sweating, I was dizzy and my destination still eluded me. As much as I had previously believed in my invincibility, I had to succumb to the fact that I needed help. I sat down in the middle of the trail and waited for the next hiker hoping to god it wasn’t someone I believed to be inferior to myself. It was 20 minutes before a member of our group happened upon me. A body builder, I thought for sure he would have strode up the mountain’s side like that of a thoroughbred but he had certainly seen better days himself. He provided me with some much needed water, helped me to my feet, and reassured me that we were very near our destination even though we both knew that our distance to Winya Wayna was still a mystery. He let me continue the lead up the mountain and stayed within a few feet of me until we could see the cinder blocked station that marked our arrival to the halfway point, Winya Wayna.

I turned the corner of what turned out to be the final switchback and saw a man standing on a concrete pavilion next to a building that literally rose out of nowhere. The stranger enthusiastically said, “You’re just about here. C’mon, you’re going to make it!” As I stepped onto the pavilion, I thanked him for his gracious welcome. Given the trials and tribulations I had just experienced, it was a very emotional accomplishment for me. I walked into the facility and found Steve with another member of our posse. I was surprised to learn that I was the 7th person of our group of sixteen to arrive. Steve said, “Oh my god, you look awful! You are really pale. You need to sit down and get something to drink right away!” Within a half hour and two quarts of Gatorade, I was beginning to feel normal again. I felt safe and relished in the comfort of familiar company. Sharing my experience and hearing the experiences of others was very gratifying. I was happy for the boxed lunch that was provided, I was ecstatic for the Gatorade that was sold at the facility and extremely grateful to the porters whom I knew carted those supplies up the difficult route I had just come.

Once the group had re-formed and rested we toured the ruins of Winya Wayna (which are quite spectacular in their own right). It was an exciting visit made more exciting by the fact that we were now only 3 km. to our ultimate destination, Machu Picchu. The onward hike from Winya Wayna is a lateral journey in comparison to our accomplished trek. Our group stayed unified. We no longer strayed from one another. The journey from Winya Wayna to Machu Picchu was not even remotely as arduous as what we had already experienced, however, there seemed to be an unspoken need to stick together. It was as if we needed that initial struggle and separation to appreciate ourselves and each other more.

At Intipunku, “the Sun Gate,” we finally realized our goal and gazed down upon the ruins of Machu Picchu. The following day Steve and I were up before sunrise and spent the entire day exploring the ancient ruins. We experienced sunrise and marveled at the sun’s rays beaming down upon the citadel. As the heat of the morning rose, we experienced the clouds rising until all the ruins were completely enveloped in fog, and we took way too many pictures of the llamas and alpacas that roamed freely amongst the ruins. Machu Picchu was everything we dreamed and wanted it to be.

That evening as I lie in bed at the impressive Pueblo Hotel Inkaterra in Aquas Calientes, I thought back on the day. To reach the ruins we sought was a damn difficult climb! It was twice as difficult as I had anticipated. I pushed myself to limits I did not know I was capable of reaching. At the same time, I came to the major realization that I was, indeed, middle-aged. At age 44, I was finally accepting my ‘true age’ and the personal limits I might have to begin considering. It was a reality I had been trying to suppress for some time. This journey contributed to my growing up. Up to this point, my brain fooled me into believing that I was some youthful and fearless 20-something when in reality I was a reckless, selfish and adolescent 40-something. In many ways I finally let go of that charade and grabbed hold of my elder reins. Since that experience I have emerged as a more humble, gracious and less immature man. For the first time in my life I actually feel like an adult. And much like Machu Picchu, I still remain a strong and significant force; I am just a bit more structurally vulnerable that I once was.