Don't look down (part I)

Marcus Aurelius is credited with saying,  "Look well into thyself; there is a source of strength which will always spring up if thou wilt always look there." Although I didn't think of it at the time, I would apply these words to the third day of our trek. 

It begins well: we wake up to one of the most beautiful sunrises I will ever see. After breakfast, we stand together watching the light play and the clouds shift across the Veronica glacier, enjoying the peace of the early morning. There are times when total isolation is a comfort, when it's a relief to know that your frenetic everyday world cannot touch you. This is one of them. There is no phone signal. There is no-one but us. Only a handful of Europeans have ever stood on this spot and allowed this view to administer its healing balm to their aching souls. Now, we are among them.

To the sun gate

We set off at seven and are walking for three hours or so before hunger gets the best of us. By now we've realised that timing goes out the window when you're trekking. If you're hungry, you eat, whether it's usually considered an acceptable time for lunch or not. We sit on a rock looking down at the sun gate and nibble on sandwiches and fruit. Dave seems to be the only one for whom altitude has had no effect on appetite. I pick, eating slowly and saving half my food for later.

This sun gate is not the one that faces Machu Picchu. That one, Elkin explains, is not a 'true' sun gate, as it faces the abandoned city, rather than facing east towards the rising sun. The one that we are heading to frames the Inca goddess, Mount Veronica. The path to the sun gate (or Inti Punku in Quechua) is probably the flattest one we encounter during the whole trek. Reaching the gate itself is another moment where a sense of achievement is mixed with wonder, and the last point at which all three of us feel entirely positive.

The way down

It's after this that things go south. Instead of taking the clear path back from the sun gate and down to the town, Elkin instead leads us across the side of the mountain where there is no real path. To say that we are careful not to look down would be an understatement; we are practically pressing our bodies into the rock wherever possible and fixing our eyes firmly ahead.

Instead of being a ten minute ordeal, the descent turns into an eight hour nightmare as we shuffle and falter and curse our way down an incredibly steep mountain that has no path. There is no room in my brain for fear as I negotiate the slippy ground and sharp rocks, holding tight to a hand when it is offered and otherwise hoping my poles will see me through. My mind and muscles are entirely focused on inching myself down the slope. 

Before long I am out in front of Dave and Amanda, purely, I think, through my eagerness to get off the mountain. The sun is thudding onto my neck, my arms, my face. My toes, pressed against my boots because of the angle, are throbbing dully with every step.

At around 3pm I run out of water. I am sat now, resting for a moment and reapplying sunscreen before I can continue. Suddenly a shout goes up: "Condor, condor, condor!" I look up to see three magnificent birds silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky, wheeling and gliding on the thermals. One approaches, flying close enough for me to see his white collar. For precious seconds I forget my sore feet, my aching legs, my hot skin as I make sure this sight is etched onto my memory. I have seen real, wild condors. It crosses my mind that there are three birds, and three travellers, and I hope it's a sign that we will all arrive safely in camp before too long. 

It's a relief when, at around 4pm, the sun begins to sink behind a mountain, offering some shade. No matter how far I seem to descend, the valley looks a long way off, and I'm beginning to wonder if any of us will make it before nightfall, but I press on, my optimism hanging on with gritted teeth and broken nails, unaware, as yet, that the worst is still to come.