Our guide Ashok does a double take; the realization that the foreigner in front of him could infact piece together contextual Nepali, and that he’d been on the road with her for 7 days already, seemed to make him a tad nervous.

I chuckled and continued to trudge onward to Thorong La pass, the highest point on the Annapurna Circuit Trek, at 5416 m.a.s.l.

Hi-maa-luh-yaaz, Him-uh-lay-uhz

Whether you pronounce it the original or the anglicized way, the lure of this mountain range is irefutable. I had a dream - one fuelled by tales of my father’s youthful adventures, of course - to some day experience the range with him. Neither of us predicted that he’d also end up with an adoptive trail daughter in the process.

Hiking Machu Picchu in 2024 was monumental in more ways than one. My dad and I not only accomplished a decades-long goal, but also gained the company of a group of friendly, supportive, and equally hare-brained people. Annapurna was an extension pack quest with a tiny subset of this Machu Picchu gang.

Preparations for the trip had a slow, calculated pace, with palpable nervousness filling the days as we got closer to boarding that flight to Kathmandu. I was worried about my weak knee caving in despite a whole season spent on outdoor recreational training. My friend’s fantastic summer of music festivals and partying was coming to an end, and high- altitude reality was settling in. My dad was suddenly concerned about his age and looked visibly tense when he spoke of completing the circuit. We were off to some start, but we were all sincerely hoping it would be a good one.

Follow the jagged stone road (Chame ~2700m)

Kathmandu city was a blur. Like model tourists, we did a day’s tour of Durbar Square and marvelled at the intricately carved temples from the 4th century. We walked the narrow, overpopulous streets of Thamel and shopped for souvenirs. We made cooing sounds at sleepy street dogs, and chatted about travel wishlists while sipping on iced espressos in the blazing heat.

Then came the rocky rollercoaster.

The Annapurna massif can be circumvented in a few different ways, and there are 3 variables that determine your ultimate itinerary:

To wit, we had 12 days to spare, wanted to spend most of our time hiking uphill to the mountain pass on the right side of the massif (see image below), and wanted to get a few cultural highlights along the way.

And thus, on the third day of our itinerary, the six of us (father, friend, and I, along with our 3-person Nepali team) loaded our packs and ourselves into a rugged 4x4, to make our way from Kathmandu to Chame.

The road - a treachorous, unpaved path shoddily cut along the mountain side, chock-full of ditches and boulders, each at least 2 feet across.

The view - either the headlights from an oncoming tourist bus that fit the width of the road by a hair, or the 1000m cliffside drop into the valley.

The journey - 8 hours of constant body slamming everything within the car, coupled with whiplash and a sureshot rearrangement of our internal organs.

And at the helm, a driver with the utmost sangfroid acquired from decades of this insane undertaking.

Getting this show on the trail (Pisang ~3300m)

Day 1 of business was off to a great start after a well rested night spent in a cosy teahouse (the first of many), despite the frigid mountain air and lack of internal heating. After a breakfast of piping hot coffee, eggs, and Bhutanese sweet bread, we began our ascent from Chame to Pisang - a casual yet steady uphill trail that took us through the forest, past waterfalls, and on dusty paved roads along the Marsyangdi river, all in the magnanimous presence of the not-so-cleverly-named Annapurna II peak. The vistas on this day were perhaps the most varied in terms of autumnal foliage and highland fauna, owing to the gradual shift from lower alpine to moist alpine areas.

After 14 km of eating dust (and some fresh apples from highland orchards), we made one last pitstop at the serene Upper Pisang Monastery, before settling into our colourful guesthouse for the night.

Peak-y blinders (Manang ~3540m)

The smell of juniper, cedar, and sandalwood fills our nostrils at 7:30 am. The tendrils of smoke rising up from every temple and guesthouse refract the early morning mountain light to create a picture of meditative perfection. We take our place in the quiet lineup of hikers sneaking glances at this sight, as we march onward and uphill.

Day 2 was steep in parts. I found myself using a shuffle-step pretty often, to avoid excessive fatigue from breathing too much or too hard due to large strides. The reward was an endless view of the valley littered with ochre tones of fall, and new peaks making an appearance at every turn and change of altitude. Conversations with our guides felt a tad less forced, and that lead to plenty of “come back to hike this mountain next time”. First glimpses were caught of more uncreatively named, stunning Annapurna peaks (III & IV), as well as Gangapurna and Tilicho. The weather played games with us throughout the day, switching between strong gusts of cold wind to scorching still air.

The sight of sleepy cattle and chubby dogs marked the end of a long 22 km day. That night, the renegades in us pushed bedtime from 8 to 9 pm, with the peaceful knowledge that the next day was to be an easy exercise in altitude acclimatization.

It’s beginning to look like Christmas, and that’s a problem (Yak Kharka ~4050m)

Day 4, Manang to Yak Kharka, was a breeze - just 5 hours of a steady 480m ascent on a rugged, exposed trail that started with a suspension bridge across the Jarsang Khola river, and continued with enthralling views of the Chulu massif.

The air continued to get thinner, yet somehow crisper. The trail was getting more remote, but astonishingly, the facilities along the way continued to get more advanced. Guesthouses with saunas, a tea shop in the middle of an expansive valley, lunch houses with full service menu options, and perhaps the most astounding advancement of them all - cellular service and wifi enabled accommodations even at 4000m above sea level.

As a child who was raised amidst the shiny skyscrapers and glittering shopping malls of the United Arab Emirates, my idea of modernity was once largely skewed, and informed only by a nouveau-riche westernized concept of it.

Travel (and a willing mindset) has fortunately kicked that notion right out of me. The older I get, the more facets I am able to see of this gem we call development:

• Canada has a smooth road network that will allow you to drive the spanse of the country from east to west, and from its southern border to the Arctic - but you’ll be hard pressed to find stable cellphone coverage at a ground level train station in the heart of Vancouver city, let alone remote mountains towns.

• Pharmacies in Bhutan selling essential medication sometimes don’t open until noon (!!) - but I’ll be damned if you can find me another country where cattle, cars, cyclists, buses, and pedestrians all share the same narrow mountain roads sans traffic lights, without any vehicle honking, or people being run over.

• Most retailers in Peru, regardless of their location and scale of business, gladly accept American Express payments - but you’d be down on your luck if you attempted that in India, where the home-grown UPI system (an instant, direct fund transfer supported by virtual IDs) has empowered even the most informal street vendor, and is growingly preferred over any credit card payment.

By that token, it’s a tall order to find a half decent cafe in the forest towns across North America, let alone find one open after 5 pm even in the long days of summer. Yet, Nepal has no qualms transporting professional barista-grade machines to high altitude settlements just so the weary traveler may partake in some mountain magic.

Day 4 drew to a close with casual discussions about tourism-driven economies, modernization, and heartfelt chats about family, with freshly baked cinnamon buns, steaming espresso drinks, and Jenga to boot. A sprinkling of pearly white mountain flurries excited everyone but our guide, who pointed out exactly how we couldnt afford snowfall before our highest ascent. To us, however, that was going to be a day-after-tomorrow problem.

The final countdown (Thorong Phedi ~4540m)

We have woken up to frozen pipes and doors jammed in their frames. There is a fair bit of commotion at the common outdoor sink, where people are attempting to brush their teeth using water from what looks less like a tap, and more of an icicle.

Snowfall from the previous night had lowered temperatures below zero, and most guests (like us) hadn’t thought to leave a faucet on through the night. After the theatrics of calling for hot water and hauling it 2 floors up on rickety metal stairs were over, we walked into the dining hall to the sight of our guide Ashok bouncing on his heels. The forecast was crystal clear.

Two roads diverge in the mountains from Yak Kharka to Thorong Phedi, and four of us took the one more traveled. The 500m gain can be completed either via a longer but safe high route (recommended by Ashok and chosen wisely by most tourists, including my dad), whereas the shorter and low route passed through heavy landslide-prone areas (chosen by most Nepali porters and locals, to reduce their time on foot) . An earlier ETA was a decent tradeoff for a potentially fatal journey, right? Right??

As luck would have it, the sun shone brightly and the valley air was still enough to hear birds cooing the distance. The only risk of a landslide came from a mountain goat playfully scampering away from its friend, sending a trickle of scree and a moment of serious panic my way.

As the sun got lower, the crowds that had descended (ascended?) upon the Phedi guesthouse began to swarm around the fireplace, taking turns being part of the warm inner circle. Watery eyes and a dull headache due to the direct heat and bits of ash from stoking, meant that you couldn’t be warm for too long. Someone’s soft jazz playlist tinkled through the bluetooth speaker in the guesthouse lounge. A few guests played board games and cards. A group of cyclists was animatedly planning their food & ration for the next day. A woman quietly journaled, rubbing her temples frequently. I fidgeted with my camera; my friend Stephanie attempted to knit, and my father tried to medidate without falling asleep. Staying awake was an act of resilience against the powerful regime of freezing cold, rarified air.

I buried myself in 6 layers of clothing and bed linens combined, too exhausted to even be stressed about the day that was to follow.

A new realm (Thorong La Pass ~5400m)

It is 3 am.

Three. Ante. Meridiem. Neither here, nor there.

Everything is just cold; the air, the water, my toothbrush, the toothpaste, my backpack, the sheets, the door knobs, my socks, my shoes, the furniture in the guesthouse, Ashok’s hand as he cheekily greets me with a good morning.

There is no preamble required today - we are way past formalities. We gulp down piping hot tea, refuse breakfast, and dutifully stuff the jam sandwiches in our packs to avoid expending more energy arguing about it.

To cover the ~1000m from Thorong Phedi to Thorong La pass, it is quintessential to begin at the time we did, to ensure that one reaches the pass before or around noon, the high part of the day when wind picks up. The first and only pitstop on this route is Thorong High Camp (~ 4900m), where we were fumbling to via a rocky, uphill zig-zag trail, using only the light of our tiny headlamps.

In the hour it took me to ascend from Phedi to High Camp, I:

• Lost all sensation in my extremities - numb toes & fingers.

• Had frost on my lashes that melted when I blinked, and re-formed in seconds.

• Had a steady stream of snot running down my nose, onto my mask and jacket.

• Worried about my dad, knowing his propensity to the cold.

• Saw a most magnificent sunrise.

Four hours, no food, and countless bright, snowy mountains later, we stood posing for our mandatory photographs amidst the flapping multicoloured prayer flags that adorn the Thorong La Pass.

We’d made it, despite the cold and self-doubt, but there was still a long way to go. Quite literally.

And way down we go (Muktinath ~3700m)

So you got to the highest point - then what? The victory of Thorong La is thrilling but short lived, and the descent to Muktinath is a test of patience and your knee joints.

The 3.5 hours of constant downhill provides respite by way of skittish mountain sheep, spectacular views of the Dhaulagiri range, Nilgiri Himal, and the Kali Gandaki gorge, as well as the prospect of a hot meal and beverage at the end of the day. The shift of scenery from the snowy, high altitude pass, to the barren, rocky landscapes of the Mustang region was a quiet signal of the bulk of our trip being well behind us.

After 10 hours of roughing ourselves up, this particularly long day came to an end with an offering so blessed and pure, even the worshipping throngs at Muktinath temple might not have known the likes of it -

Seven magical words from Ashok: Good job. The rooms have hot showers.

It went by so fast (Tatopani ~1190m to Pokhara ~822m to Kathmandu)

There is a sanctity to being cradled by ancient mountains. It is in the simplistic difficulty of everyday actions - wake up when the first animal decides it’s dawn, eat a wholesome breakfast devoid of any fancy footwork of condiments or plating displays, bring your own sanitation supplies to the bathroom, pack and unpack all your belongings almost everyday, and sleep as soon as the last light escapes the mountain peak. It is in the awareness that although we may be sneaky midnight intruders in the clefts and folds of these massifs, we are to recognize nature’s altruism, and pass it forward.

That aura vanishes with the loss of altitude.

A 6-7 hour car ride the next day took us to Tatopani, named after the the steaming hot water public pools (tato = hot, pani = water), and it frankly needs to come with a strong disclaimer. For anyone who’s been privy to public beaches in pseudo-cultural South Asian countries, the sights of immodest modesty are certainly not surprising. For my very Canadian friend, however, the change of scene was jarring.

A little bit of scouting lead us away from our guesthouse, across a massive suspension bridge, and down into what almost seemed like someone’s back yard, until we reached a pool that boasted a clear view of the Nilgiri mountains in the backdrop, and whose only occupants were a few local kids.

A good night’s rest, a fluffy dog to feed breakfast scraps to, an americano made to perfection - these were the ingredients I chose to gear up for the last car ride of our itinerary.

Pokhara was the perfect cap-off to a trip that had thus far been rooted in purpose, cultural significance, and some spirituality. The westernization of the city, right from its smoothie bars to air conditioned souvenir stores suggested a very different target audience and vibe than that of Thamel Road in Kathmandu, and one that we were happy to enjoy at this point in our vacation.

A lazy paddle on the lake, a last team lunch, souvenir shopping, and a smoothie later, we made our way to Pokhara airport. The weather was slowly turning for the worse but we were allowed one last glance of the Annapurna peaks before the clouds rolled in. I guess this was goodbye.

Ain’t no rest for the wicked

Back in Kathmandu, we were to get on our respective flights - my friend, back to Toronto, while my father and I headed onto the next leg of our trip.

There is plenty to be said for Bhutan and the enthralling experience of flying into Paro, but that’s for another post. Of note here, is the mild commotion in the distal area of the plane that had started right after taking off from Kathmandu. I turned to my left and the reason stuck out like a series of sore thumbs in my line of sight.

I guess… Nepal and I haven’t quite seen the last of each other just yet.

Get over it, and focus. There will be plenty of time to whine about the weather. But there will never again be a celebration of this feat. I look over to my father, nod to check if he’s feeling alright, and proceed to follow Will and the rest of our group into the revered Inca citadel of Machu Picchu.

Let’s just do this already

Hypothetically, my father and I had started hiking the Inca trail to see Machu Picchu at our family dinner table when I was in high school. Realistically, a formal plan was hatched in early 2023. Truthfully, we slugged our way up and down the pilgrimage trail in the Andean transition season of April 2024.

Every minor detail going into planning felt momentous. There were phone calls, Excel spreadsheets, Amazon links, and a near coup d'état of our family’s group text chat (sorry, Mum) with all things Inca trail. I had never camped before, let alone know what to expect from a multi-day trail at high altitude. My father, enriched with a very similar experience from his trip to Mt. Kailash/Lake Mansarovar in Tibet, in fact knew exactly what he was doing and how anticipatory our packing lists needed to be. I guess I should forget about ever being able to one-up him..

As we rolled into the early weeks of January 2024, extra nights at the Lima hotel were finalized. Come February, air tickets were scoured and booked. In March, travel vaccinations were completed and suitcases were packed. On April 1st, we each boarded our respective flights to begin phase one of this long-awaited trip. I complained (as usual) about my 16-hour flight from Vancouver to Lima, while my father boarded flight #1 of a 24-hour airplane journey into Peru.

As excellent planning (and a bit of luck) would have it, we exited Peruvian immigration at the same time, to see each other in the sweltering baggage collection area, and yell in modest excitement as we hugged. We were here; the most boring part of this trip behind us.

Mira, mira las flores concretas de Miraflores

Google will translate that for you. The drive from Jorge Chavez Int’l Airport to the Ibis Budget in the Miraflores district of Lima, was an amusing one. Peruvians in Peru, I observed, like Indians in India, seem to share a general disdain of traffic rules & regulations. The worm-like style of inching forward into an incoherent blob of vehicles and the incessant honking felt disconcertingly familiar. But as we snaked along the oceanside road to Miraflores, the vistas suddenly became expansive, and dare I add, “coastal elite”.

For anyone considering travel to Peru, I would recommend dedicating at least 4 days to the city of Lima, and my father would insist on aimlessly walking around the neighborhoods, soaking in the charm of colonial Spanish architecture mixed with vibrant facades and modern construction. The districts of Miraflores, San Isidro, and Barranco are a one-stop sensory appeal for all the senses.

Without a doubt, the highlight of pre-trail Lima was the day we visited the Centro Historico and a couple of basilicas (one of them had catacombs!), ending our touristy pursuits at the Museo del Pisco. The pisco from the tasting menu and all the cocktails might have had something to do with it, but the giddiness of an endless summer day was apparent as we sat chatting away at that rickety wooden table, feeling the air outside cool as the hours crept on.

Back at the hotel on our last pre-trail night in Lima, it was time to unpack and repack some of our things before we boarded our flights to Cusco the next morning. This was just the first of several un/re pack sessions to come.

It’s Qhozh-qo, not Costco

The two of us, along with 4 more of our group members, got out of our seats, onto the tarmac, and quietly made our way up the gently inclined airport hallway in Cusco, to collect our bags and await our local guide. Nobody wanted to admit it, but we were all thinking it: I’m already struggling to breathe, so this is not off to a great start, is it?

Cusco, once the capital of the Inca empire, is now the first stop for all tourists making the journey to Machu Picchu. It sits at an elevation of 3400 m (~11,155 ft.) and serves as the first test for anyone who wants to know just how fast your heart can race at that altitude by taking 2 steps forward on a flat road (the answer is anywhere between 110-120 bpm, depending on the individual, and by that token, the heart chooses to “rest” at 80-90 bpm).

Will’s first bit of tourist tidbit for us was the pronunciation of the city he calls his home. When he told us it isn’t KoozhCo and that it’s pronounced Qhozh-qo, it was hard not to relate it to our terribly commercial North American frame of reference. Costco did get a chuckle out of him, but soon after came the instructional “please don’t, that’s just...egh”.

During the day’s acclimatization period in this city of gran altura, we toured the Plaza de Armas, ate the most incredible food at Mistura, met the remaining 3 members of our group, discovered fabulous coffee shops, and attended the first real instructional team meeting, where we also met with our second guide, John C. With the effects of altitude already starting to show effects, dinner that night was happily sacrificed.

On that night in Cusco, it was time to re/un-pack for the second time and this one was a more serious challenge. All camping supplies (because let’s face it, everything is an “essential”) had to be gathered, sorted, and split between our day packs and the duffel bags that would go with our ever-resilient porters. Six kilograms fills up faster than you’d think..

Ollantaytambo - how do you say that, again?

O-yan-tay-tambo. Rolls right off the tongue, see? The last stop with creature comforts is the best way to describe this Andean town. After departing Cusco, we got on a bus to tour the Sacred Valley. We spotted vicunas and alpacas by the dozens, visited the Ccaccaccollo women’s weaving workshop where we not only got to feed some chubby alpacas, but also learnt the about the traditional methods with which the women dye alpaca wool (crushed dead red bugs for a deep, rich magenta!). Next stop was the Cuyo Chico pottery workshop, and then an incredible farm-to-table meal at the Parwa community restaurant in Huchuy Qosqo.

The tail end of the day was reserved for yet another round of re/un-pack, but not before a “trial hike” at the Pinkuylluna Incan storehouses. The resulting exhaustion from gaining just 200 m of elevation would have been laughable close to sea level, but not out here. Here, every breath with every step reiterated who you were, and why you were there at all.

Camino Inka

At 6:30 am, a little off ways from the entrance to Hotel Inka Paradise in Ollantaytambo, stood a minivan - our chariot to Kilometer 82. I vividly remember feeling a sense of reluctance I often experience when I know I have signed up for something that is equal parts exciting and intimidating. Roughly an hour later, our group of 9 had successfully traversed a course comprising of the parking lot, a welcome archway, a passport check point, a mini museum, a train station under renovation, a gigantic sign board, and a wooden bridge, to finally set foot on the trail we would call home for the next 3 nights & 4 days.

Kilometer 82 is named so because of its location at 82 km along the railway line from Cusco; the same rail that transports most Machu Picchu tourists directly to the town of Aguas Calientes, from where the famed Inca citadel is only a short bus ride away. For the rest of us who thrive on pain, there is the Camino Inka, of course.

That first day of the trail was a mixed bag of physical demands made of the body. The landscape in this part of the trail is more arid, and we were also blessed with the clearest skies and scorching temperatures in the high 20s (Celsius), which equated to 2600 meters above sea level (hence referred to as m.a.s.l) taking the mickey out of us almost instantly. But a few hours of acclimatization, a hearty lunch, and some rest later, the trail started to feel less arduous, as though the mountains began to usher us in with more and more exciting sights - the meandering Urubamba river, the sleepy dogs in the tiny village settlements we passed along the way, the fresh prickly pears on cacti, the neatly laid out steps of the Llactapata ruins that almost looked like modern day rice plantations, and the loudly silent ‘whoosh’ of the wind as we looked down into the valley from the Huillca Raccay ruins.

11 kilometers later, when we eventually tumbled into our campsite at Wayllabamba (3010 m.a.s.l), feeling flushed and victorious from having made it well in time before sunset, we were a chatty lot - eager to rehash the sights we had seen (nine times over) and unnaturally excited to take off our hiking boots and feel the fresh grass. Tea & snacks were followed by a group yoga session, followed by dinner, a serious briefing about the most difficult day of the trail yet to come, and a scramble to fit all our bulky belongings inside our tents before bed. That first night, we fell asleep to the cool air of the Andes, its silence broken past midnight by rain pattering against the canvas that enveloped us - a perfect Spotify playlist curated by Pacha Mama (Quechua - Mother Earth).

Perfect, that is, until the roosters nearby decided to caw well ahead of dawn. Dude, please STFU and buy a watch.

Is there anyone out there, ‘cause it’s getting harder & harder to breathe

Trail etiquette is important anywhere, but on the Inca trail, it is a downright necessity. The success of an individual’s Inca trail experience grossly depends on a team of extremely able-bodied Andean natives, who act as your luggage transporters, private chefs, trail coordinators, and personal cheerleaders, all rolled into one unimaginably competent being. Our team comprised of men aged 18 through 63 (!), each capable of carrying a pack weighing up to a maximum of 20 kilograms (!!), deftly and gracefully performing a bourrée en couru along the trail’s deadly cliffside.

While formal introductions with our team were made and heartfelt gratitude was expressed on night 1 of camp, the real eye opener came on day 2, as our group began its uphill battle along the steep path to Warmiwañusca, otherwise anglicized as the Dead Woman’s Pass. This pass sits pretty at ~4200 m.a.s.l and while the sea-level proletariat felt their lungs closing in on them, our team of Herculean porters had zoomed past us, set up lunch camps, and cooked a 3-course spread, only to take down all the accoutrements, and repeat the process for night time, much before we made it to the campsite. This was done every single day of the trail, without missing a beat.

Reaching the highest point of the trail is strange - the delirium from lack of oxygen could either conveniently erase the memory of the struggle, or every laboured step in the 6-odd hours could be etched in your mind, minute-for-minute. Is there any way I’m soon forgetting the slow increase in mountain greenery, the distant crashing of a waterfall, the grazing highland cows, the ruins perched precariously on cliffsides, the sight of alpacas and llamas frolicking in the valley, the endless view of the mountains caving down, or the sound of my thickening blood making a thrumming sound at the base of my head? Absolutely not.

If day 2 were a rose, going uphill would be a bud, and hiking downhill to the campsite, the biggest and sharpest thorn. During the ascent, we were yet again fortunate to have clear skies on a hot, dry day scattered with just the oddest drizzle and cool winds close to the top. Once at the top, the weather dropped its dramatic act and soaked us in glorious sunshine. Fifteen minutes and about 10 feet later, the pass decided to turn on its heel and cloak us in thick clouds for the first hour of a descent that seemed to wind on endlessly. Steep, reconstructed steps made of non-uniformly sized rocks that keep leading you down to a campsite that almost feels like a mirage, were hands down, the least exciting part of the Inca trail.

But once again, we’d made it down to camp (3600 m.a.s.l). Once again, this was accomplished before sunset. And once again, it was time to eat, debrief, and sleep off the 12 km of the day; this time, in preparation for the Longest day yet to come. That night at the Pacaymayo campsite was wetter than the one before - not only were we close to a stream, but it had rained prior to our arrival, and so it went on throughout the night. I was out like a light at 7 pm; my father braved it past dinner to 8 pm. The irrational roosters from the night before had been replaced by guttural and croaky frogs. Oh my God, I hope I don’t have to pee in the middle of the night, trying to navigate a frog now.

Haku, Haku!

The Inca trail war cry, so to speak. It’s a Quechua term of encouragement that means “let’s go!” or “come on, you got this!”. It’s perfectly sensible that Will taught this to our group, so that we’d have at least one other thing aside from “¡Hola!” to say to our porters, as they zipped past us. It was far less sensible that our porters said it to us every evening as we stumbled into our campsite, several long hours after they had.

If I had to pick a favourite day of the trail, the third and longest one would have to be it (yes, it’s ironic that Machu Picchu day wouldn’t qualify, but more about that in a second). To traverse the 16 km that would take us up and down through two passes, we were up at 4:30 am, slowly picking at a breakfast of warm, fluffy crêpes stuffed with applesauce. The altitude had been wreaking havoc and diminishing our appetites from the days past, and the guilt of not doing any justice to Porfirio’s (head chef) cooking only intensified further.

We jaunted up the first pass at Runquraqay (3950 m.a.s.l), to catch stellar views of the valley, Laguna Yana Cocha (a high altitude lake), increasingly beautiful flora, and a snow-capped sight of Cordillera de Vilcabamba (a small range within the Andes, and home to the famed Salkantay peak). Runquraqay, believed to be a tambo (resting place) for chasquis (messengers) also answers everyone’s most obvious question - why is the Dead Woman’s Pass named as such? (see images below!)

The next few hours were a toss up between up and downhill till we reached pass #2 at Sayacmarca (Quechua - inaccessible town), a residential complex and observatory for celestial scholars of the Inca empire, located at 3700 m.a.s.l. The journey is often so consuming, that it’s easy to ignore how gradually the colour palette around you is changing. Standing in silence near Sayacmarca, squinting through the clouds and gentle drizzle, I could have counted at least 50 shades of lush had my head been in it. At that moment, however, all I could do was gawp.

Trudging further along the trail, the background score changed from the sound of soft wind and river white noise to that of an even quieter silence, pierced occasionally by faceless chirps and chitters. We were officially in the Andean cloud forest, where every second was a new weather phenomena. The granite through which an Inca tunnel has been carved, felt wet and dry all at once. A plethora of lichen variants covered the mountain side in a colourful and damp velveteen carpet. Orchids more complex and unique than any grocery-store breed, flourishing by the hoards, everywhere we turned.

The last and most eventful trail lunch happened at the Phuyupatamarca break site. It had been a physically eventful day thus far, but appetites were running even lower. As we vehemently declined any dessert, Will encouraged us to reconsider our stance, and after losing that battle, simply invited Porfirio into our lunch tent, who came armed with an entire cake steamed at camp the night before, neatly frosted in lightly sweet icing, topped uniformly with gooey jello, inscribed with icing letters that read: “Well done, Gold Fish team”. Let that sink in for a second. Not only that we’d decided to name our group after a beloved children’s cheesy snack, but that our chefs had effectively baked a cake in the middle-of-nowhere-high-altitude, and our porters had carefully carried it for a whole day to tell us that we had done a good job. I’ve had a lot of fabulous dessert in my life and can boast halfway decent baking skills too, but that cake will likely never be paralleled.

The day seemed to contain infinite hours as we passed through a second Inca tunnel, more stone stairs going downhill (this time, original Inca construction!), and narrow sections of slippery stones with high odds of a risky fall into the abyss of the cloudy valley. By the time we arrived in the vicinity of the Wiñay Wayna campsite (2600 m.a.s.l), the rain had started to beat down incessantly, and my father and I were all but ready to just drop and sleep anywhere on the muddy ground.

Camping by a riverside is only picturesque for the picture. In reality, the ground is eternally slushy, the flies are persistent, the air is stifling inside the tent, and everything is wet to the touch (clothing included). We went to bed on our last night in the Andes, breathing in the petrichor mixed with wafts of sweat as we struggled to fall asleep in the saturated bubble of our tent.

Now you don’t see it, now you still don’t!

‘tis the day. Or night? What do you call this satanic hour, anyway? It is 3 am and my father and I are sitting up in our tent, wordless. In the next 30 minutes, we were still quiet, but all packed up. Breakfast (is that still what you call it, at 3:30 am?) was a cup of coffee, a thin slice of toast, and more silence interspersed with broken attempts at smiling. We all picked up our poles and packs, turned on our headlamps, said our final thank yous & goodbyes to our incredible porters, and set off to join the hundred-odd people in line at the Wiñay Wayna checkpoint.

I have witnessed some spectacular sunrises before - over the British Columbia mountains, the long sunset/sunrise in the Norwegian fjords, the way the Pacific ocean slowly lights up near Camp Pendleton in San Diego - but to be at 2600 m.a.s.l and witness the first golden slivers of sunshine through fine tears in the veil of clouds surrounding us, as highland turkeys and toucans trill sharply? That’s a sight only remiss of Spielberg’s dinosaurs.

45 minutes into savouring the last few sights of the dense Andean rainforest, we reached our second milestone for the day - Intipunku, a.k.a the Sun Gate. This was built as a preliminary fortress to safeguard against anyone coming into the city of Machu Picchu. This is the spot from where every iconic photo of the Inca citadel with the old mountain guarding it, floods the internet. This is the spot where we waited for the clouds to depart. And this is the spot where, after 3 whole days of extremely forgiving weather, Inti (Quechua - Sun God) said, no more.

We continued on the snakelike path that hugged the mountains on one side, and opened up to a grand, almost limitless valley on the other, the Urubamba wildly gushing along its known path of millennia. It would take another cloudy viewpoint for us to accept defeat and carry on descending more stairs through the downpour, to queue up for yet another checkpoint, to ascend the same stairs as before, till we arrived, body and soul, into Machu Picchu.

They did what?!

The lost city of the Incas is easy and difficult to describe at the same time. Yes, they strategically built it on a flat mountain ridge, for maximum defense and least landslide risk. Yes, about 60% of its construction is underground owing to the extensive foundation work required to stabilize the buildings on a mountain side. Yes, it’s divided sensibly into residential and agrarian sectors. Yes, they had developed terraces, drainage, and channel irrigation facilities. Yes, they had constructed every one of those structures with the granite available from the mountains. Yes, they had housing floorplans quite similar to modern-day ones we are familiar with. Yes, they’d built a circular Sun Temple with windows, so that the amount of light filtering in would indicate the time of year and hour of day.

Those are concrete facts that can be found in any book or on a website, so I won’t delve further. But how do you describe what the citadel makes you feel as you stand atop the mountain ridge - wondering who these people were and just how much more of their intelligence might we have seen had the Spanish not decided to do what colonial ingrates knew best (obliterate everything indigenous). What compelled them to find the path of most resistance - one that our group had battled with for 4 long days with all of our 21’st century equipment - just to build a home? How did they efficiently communicate and document what they observed from another mountain peak, without any engineering tools? Sure, they were people of the land, but did they ever fear a misstep along the mountain ridge that would send them to an untimely end down into the thrashing river? Did they wake up everyday in awe of their surroundings, or was it something they took for granted?

Well, that wasn’t so bad

I sat across from my father at lunch and watched him slowly rub his eyes and clean his glasses as he sighed and relished the first sip of the wine he’d ordered. He’d earned it more than the rest of us combined. We’d made it into the town of Aguas Calientes (Spanish - Hot waters) after a rickety bus ride from the Machu Picchu visitor center. At 2040 m.a.s.l, the body suddenly remembered how little it had eaten over the past few days. But the body also remembered how it liked an ice cold beer after a long hike, and boy had this been one long hike.

We got on the Inca rail to ride from Aguas Calientes to Ollantaytambo, and bid the sights of days past, one last adieu. An uncomfortably long minivan journey deposited us back to our hotel in Cusco. Time to un/repack for the fourth time. Then a flight to Lima. Back to our hotel in Lima. Un/repack for the fifth time. To Jorge Chavez Int’l. To the airport lounge, for one last father-daughter Inca trail hurrah. And then we boarded our respective flights to head home, but not before making an unsaid promise to talk about this trip till the cows, nay, the llamas come home.

Footnote

As mentioned in the beginning, doing this trail has been a reckoning of nearly two decades for my father and I. At the time of our trip, I was 32 years old, and my father, double that. The way he has come out on the other side of the Inca trail unscathed makes me feel a little less glum about having forced him to wait this long to see Machu Picchu. Not to mention, quite unbothered about his age and capabilities. I am extremely proud of him; he deserves a medal for not only succeeding on this trail, but also patiently tolerating 5 other talkative and fiercely opinionated women aside from his own daughter, for about 6 days straight, in the most dad way I knew he would. Of him, I only ask one thing - how does Patagonia in 2026 sound?

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