The Chaquicocha campsite was protected by a half-bowl of worn down teeth, the other side spilling out into valley vistas with layered mountains stretching into the horizon. I had hoped to take some pictures by moonlight, but I was too “Newtonian” in my habits. Had the weather cooperated before I went to bed, I would have “remained in motion” taking pictures late into the night. As it was, it must have cleared around 3 am, as that’s when the tent interior started glowing as if caught in a spotlight. But I was now comfortably “at rest”. I couldn’t summon the will to disgorge myself from the sleeping bag, dig out the camera and tripod, and release the warm air from the tent. Fail. It was still exceptionally beautiful when I did get up.
I woke up to this view, a few steps outside my tent
We planned to leave early before the insects became unbearable, but ate another hearty breakfast first. This time, omelets and bagels. The planning that went into this variety of multi-course meals and packing in the right amount of food, plus cooking equipment, utensils, table, and chairs … was very impressive.
This was advertised the “shortest and possibly most beautiful day, hiking authentic Inca trails older than 600 years” to arrive at our next campsite by lunch. As expected, it started with an uphill segment. On one side, we hugged the cliff face, on the other, observed expansive views of mountains in all directions.
Soon we entered the “cloud forest”, more of the ethereal mossy trees we’d seen the night before. A few places, it seemed like the edge of the trail plunged into nowhere, with trees floating on nothing. It really did have an Avatar/Pandora feel.
The “high side” of the trail showcased colorful biodiversity at the macro level. Observing variety of life at different scales makes the world all the more alive and miraculous. As I obsessed with my camera settings and fought with its autofocus, I’m sure many passers-by thought me strange. I guess I’m a little like my dog in this regard, excited about things new and interesting that others find boring, stopping frequently to savor each bouquet. My forays into new places always include the visual equivalent of excited sniffing.
Juan caught up to me, I’m not sure from which direction–he was traveling in both as he checked in on every member of our spread-out group, always striking up a conversation before moving on. Possibly thinking I might be distracted by the scenery/discussion, or feeling a protective responsibility as a guide, or maybe just being a gentleman, he politely insisted I take the high side. I probably wasn’t the most likely of our group to end up hanging off the edge, but the concern was appreciated (if, unwarranted).
This morning’s drive-by vignette was on shamanic beliefs. Since they seem fundamental to Peru’s identity, and Juan had shared some experiences already, I prodded for more. He said his grandmother was struck by lightning three times, and, each time, survived. As so tested and blessed, in a unique relation with a higher power, she might have pursued the path of a shaman. For whatever reason, something involving the Spanish, she hadn’t. In his own childhood, he narrowly missed the same test when he darted into the house to pick up a guinea pig, seconds before a strike. Considering his family history, I was thankful to observe the skies were clear.
When he had started down the shamanic path, he connected to a spirit of animals. I grasped at understanding what this was, how a spirit defines itself, as it seemed an individual dog or butterfly might be an interface, but the spirit was some sort of collective soul. In a same or similar way, a mountain spirit might be the collective of all its individual components. I think maybe I’m too rooted in this plane and how I perceive the boundaries of individual beings to fully appreciate this. It’s hard to think components of an entity may have their own self-awareness, or that our individual selves might be cells of a larger being with its own identity and awareness. But we do things as a society that we would never do as individuals, and maybe that’s part of the idea behind zeitgeist; I just don’t see it having a soul. Regardless, if we are all interconnected, and if God is everywhere, maybe we are a part of a bigger consciousness … and this all becomes a different way to understand and relate to God. If so, maybe I do start to understand how Andean Catholicism can reconcile these two very different religions.
I was also curious how a spirit paired to an individual, was it an exclusive relationship? It didn’t have to be, but for some spirits, maybe it did. For example, if a shaman connected with a mountain spirit, it was prospectively not good for a human love interest. Maybe any entity with a spirit is prone to jealousy, regardless whether there’s a compatible physical presence. Some share, while others react with spite. Just like any other relationship … full of complications, mixed feelings, and compromises.
Whether Juan is still on the shamanic path, lost, or taking a new path, I don’t know. He thought he was on a different path, one of being a guide. And he is a great guide, sharing his love of a rich culture and religion, while making each visitor feel special and unique. But, maybe the paths aren’t mutually exclusive. His love of and compassion for even the smallest members of the animal spirit surely influence everyone that shares the trail. In the brief period individual paths intersect one can nudge another person’s soul. And with all our life journeys, we may think we know where we’re going, but may not know where we are or what’s around the bend, or how it may be shaped by people we meet on the way … we really only know where we’ve been. Thank you, Juan, for introducing us to the animal spirit, helping us understand and care that little bit more.
We came to the first of the Inca tunnels. It may have started with some kind of natural cave, but Incans had cut the rest of the way through, and carved out stairs. Considering what they had to work with, this must have been very labor intensive.
Phuyupatamarka/Puyapatamarca was our meeting point and snack stop. It was a campsite (not ours) overlooking ruins of the same namesake, with a more distant view of the Intipata ruins. It was very exposed, equating to great 360 views. Its name means “cloud level town”. In the evening, clouds congregate just below the site and blanket the valley … I imagine if you camp there, you feel on top of the world.
Descending ancient stairs to the actual ruins, we entered the site. It was another demonstration of the Incan ability to elaborately channel water through stone features, with several fountains or meditative baths at the entrance. It is thought this was a laboratory for shamans pursuing astrology. Not that the Incans had to worry about light pollution, but I picture the site an island poking out of the clouds, with no interference from below. It also blended so well with its surroundings that when we tried to pick it out of the hillside from our next stop, it was hidden in plain sight.
Resuming the knee-testing descent down narrow uneven stairs, somewhat slowly and cautiously, I was frequently passed by porters, on the run, carrying large packs, some wearing sandals. Most stairs were set stones, but some were carved into existing rock. For the most part, they were very stable, just irregular. Another cave tunnel, leading into what seemed like a spiral staircase in stone, and still more stairs later, I arrived at the turnoff for the Intipata site, and proceeded down a long gentle slope.
Periodically we’d seen this site from a distance, but not until I emerged from the tunnel of trees and entered the site mid-terrace did I realize its magnitude. It was bathed in the sun’s full glory.
Impressive staircases and water drainage features cut through the terraces at regular intervals. Rocks jutted out of terrace walls as “floating stairs”, shortcuts to different levels. Or, for more leisurely passage, you could follow the zigzagged slope of the terrace to where it intersected another level, just as the llamas maintaining the grass. We explored for some while before basking in the sun as we waited for the rest of our group.
It is believed the site was used for agricultural experimentation. Considering its size, and the non-industrialized farming techniques, this must have been a colossal operation. Descending one of its staircases gave us an even greater appreciation of its immensity.
Not far beyond this was our campsite, Winaywayna, sharing its name with the neighboring ruins. Lunch was projected about a half hour out, so there wasn’t enough time to explore the ruins first … but this camp was unique in its offerings … a cold shower. The warm sun made it tempting. Alli made a beeline for it before there was a line, while some of us washed hair or clothes in the sink outside. Our site looked like a gypsy camp with clothes and towels hanging off branches or sunning themselves on top of tents.
Feeling slightly cleaner, we rolled up the sides of the dining tent and sat down to another amazing meal. And, having earlier tried the natural freeze-dried potatoes we’d seen in the market, cooked in Robin’s Jetboil, it was nice to sample them as intended, in a soup.
In the distance, the sky got darker, and we could hear rumbles. It looked like it was moving in the opposite direction, but never knowing for sure, we detoured to the ruins immediately.
This site was also extensive, but had served a different purpose than Intipata. It was used for crops instead of experimentation, and included a town. Apparently there are many more terraces in the surrounding forest, left in their natural overgrown state to preserve a balance with the area’s ecology. We didn’t get very far exploring the site before we realized the dark clouds and rumbling were near … what we had seen from the campsite very well was moving away, but what was coming from the other direction was here.
At first a gentle rain, we thought we might wait it out. We took refuge in the protective windows and sheltered walls of an ancient stone tower, thinking it one of those experiences you just don’t trade. We looked out on the ruins and enjoyed the peaceful noise and smell of rain. Juan disappeared for a few minutes, hopefully not tempting fate to test him with lightning, then came back to suggest it wasn’t clearing, we should head back to camp.
We waited out the rest of the day in our tents, listening to the thunder, seeing the occasional flash diffused through the tent material, while waves of the storm, from soothing shower to pounding deluge, passed us by. We heard later, from a couple of British hikers that were caught in it, that it was hail at higher elevations, and the steep irregular stairs were covered in ice. Nice to be at the camp, worried only that our clothes hadn’t dried.
Two of our tents were close enough we could open doors and pass stuff under the protection of the fly (the other was banished to the far side for someone’s snoring). The afternoon’s confinement gave us time to sort out tipping for our porters. Knowing their morning would be chaos, packing up camp to beeline down the trail in the dark in time to meet their train, we planned to do our tips after supper.
The rain finally relented some time before dinner, letting us escape our tents. We assembled in the dining tent, having our tea before dinner (this was every night … they really do think of every modest comfort!), and finished figuring out the whole tip thing. Then, we ate another button-popping dinner, complete with cake. Yes, a cake, baked in field conditions, served on a cutting board. The Food Network really should do a special.
It took a few minutes to corner all the porters and the chef, interrupting their flurry of activity. We expressed heartfelt thanks for the amazing experience, and distributed a tip we hoped gave some indication of our exceeded expectations. But it is so hard to really know, and I think we all second-guessed whether it was stingy. Everyone at least seemed very happy.
We took a group picture. When I went to tuck the camera back in my pocket, I discovered several of the porters actually wanted to see the picture. Up until this point, I thought they were somewhere between indifferent and annoyed toward pictures, so this was a pleasant surprise.
Retreating to our tents, knowing the next morning was an early start, we tried to clear our minds and sleep. Tomorrow, Machu Picchu!
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