The city and the rainbow

It begins with pancakes and honey. Well, it does for Amanda and me. For Dave it's more the other way round - a lot of honey with a side of pancakes. We are all feeling more rested and chatter over breakfast about how most of Dave's photos so far have been selfies and flowers. Make of that what you will.

We pack up and walk to the station to catch the train to the start of the final day's trek. Waiting for the 7.30 train with us are a few kids in blue uniforms heading to school. Education is really valued in Peru - the schools are easy to spot because they're brightly coloured and clearly cost a lot more to build than the houses. We board the train and gaze out of the window at the Urubamba as we follow it towards Machu Picchu. Thanks to a dodgy table I end up with orange juice in my lap not 15 minutes into the journey, and spend the rest of it mopping up and feeling wet and slightly irritated.

We hop off seemingly in the middle of nowhere and begin to climb again, heading up to join the Inca Trail. We are much lower here, and it's lush with rainforest. We take our minds off our aching limbs by pointing out wild orchids and beautiful butterflies. In Peru, the name for orchids is Winaywayna and means 'forever young'.

We pause at an Inca settlement, an outpost where traders would stop to eat and sleep between Machu Picchu and Cusco. Elkin explains the features of the ruins: where people slept and where the food was stored; what the little niches in the walls were for; how to identify the original stonework from that which has been reconstructed. From there we continue our ascent, which is easier thanks to the past few days' practise and the lower altitude, but still hard going as there are a lot of steps.

We are heading to the second of three Inca farming and storage bases, also named Winaywayna. Each is positioned at a different altitude, enabling the people to cultivate different crops. We cross a bridge where a waterfall tumbles over the rocks and flows out through the forest. Dave and I take the opportunity to dip our fingers into the cold, clear water and snap some photos. It's here that my SD card runs out, and Dave is kind enough to lend me one of his for the rest of the journey.

We arrive at Winaywayna, which to my utter delight has wild llamas pottering about on the stepped terraces. I am so excited that Amanda declares, "Charli's having a llamagasm". I am not ashamed, they're fabulous creatures with their slightly haughty look. I wander onto a terrace to see if one of them is friendly, and Amanda manages, somehow to achieve this photographic gold:

Llama antics over, we head on towards Machu Picchu. The steps are rough on Amanda, whose thighs are still giving her grief, and it's with some sheepishness that I admit we were overtaken by a pack of sprightly American tourists in their seventies as we struggled with the steps. To add insult to injury, we realise too late that we should've been more liberal with the insect repellent - we are covered in black fly bites which itch like crazy. I've also come out in a rotten cold and am blowing my nose every 10 minutes.

We break for something to eat by some more ruins, where there's a long drop into the valley. Dave jokes about me not throwing myself over, to which I respond jovially, "Just cos I'm depressed, doesn't mean I'm suicidal!" It's a light-hearted comment, but a pertinent one. Many people seem to think there's no scale of depression, that having the illness automatically makes you a suicide risk, and it simply isn't true. Even on the worst days I never wanted to kill myself and I am far, far too chicken to try.

Further on, we come to a place where we can see Machu Picchu. As we take our first proper look at the city, a rainbow appears, arcing over the valley to our right. It's a magical moment, standing on a rocky ledge with the end of our journey in sight and a rainbow promising hope. There's an American girl travelling solo who shares it with us and it dawns on me that soon we will be looking at Machu Picchu up close.

The rain has stopped by the time we arrive. We pass the Sungate, but don't stay long as it's thick with tourists and doesn't compare to the one we encountered earlier in the trip. Instead we continue on, descending towards the city.

And then there it is, this magnificent, abandoned realm, nestling in the shadow of Huayna Picchu. We take a minute to take in the sight, and what we have just achieved. I have seen this image so many times on the internet that it seems strange to be looking at it for real. I allow myself to just be, to fully experience this moment before we don our charity T-shirts for some pictures. Standing together with Amanda and Dave for a photo I feel like I'm part of their family - we have been through so many highs and lows together over the past week. And our journey, which has been so much more than these five days of trekking, is finally at an end.

An unexpected day off

I wake up after a deep, exhausted sleep. It is light, the first time I have slept till daylight in several days. It's warm here in the valley, and I can hear a stream running behind my tent. I inspect my scraped legs, gently wiping away the dirt with a wet wipe and then slapping antibacterial gel onto the cuts. It stings like hell but at least they're clean.

Elkin stops by the tent with this morning's tea. I haven't seen him since we watched the condors together the previous day. He places a hand on mine and tells me how sorry he is for yesterday, how I was brave and how he regrets his decision. I guess I learned something in therapy, because I forgive him. It's something I've been practising, because there's been a lot I've needed to forgive myself for these past few months. For sure, he was a bloody idiot, but we're both human, he and I, and sometimes we mess up. Anyways, I'm too tired and too relieved to be pissed off.

I sip my tea and the sound of voices floats over to my tent. They're alive! I wonder if they need some time, but I can't help myself, I have to go see Dave and Amanda. They're holding cups of coffee, still inside their sleeping bags, talking about yesterday. We compare notes on what happened - they took a different route and never made it to camp until 9.45pm, long after I was asleep. Amanda is bearing scars too - cuts on her legs and deep muscle ache in her thighs. Dave's legs are so dirty it looks like he's wearing tights. Both are angry, and I can't really blame them - I think how hard it must have been for them, worrying whether they'd get down in one piece and both with kids at home.

Breakfast is served and I realise I'm famished. Amanda and I eat bacon and eggs, Dave goes for a shower. There's a lot of tension. But there is also bacon. And I like bacon. I eat more than I have eaten in one sitting since we started the trek, and Amanda and I have a good stretch out on the grass.

We're not up to walking to Piscacucho and the camp at the beginning of the Inca Trail, so we agree to get a cab there. The journey is a little hairy - bumpy roads in an ancient car with no seat belts and a couple of near misses on the small village roads. But I for one am kind of glad not to be walking. I'm also very careful not to see this as a failure. After all, today was to be a walk of only a couple of hours, and we certainly put in the extra time yesterday. I'm keen for the others not to see it as a failure either. Turns out I need lots of the lessons I learned in therapy today.

So we're installed on a proper campsite, in a hut with proper beds and - to my ultimate joy - a shower. It's freezing. I wash with no more contact with the water than I can bear, and then I shove my head under and wash my hair. I dry and dress as fast as possible, but I'm not about to complain. I just had a shower!

The campsite is in a beautiful setting, surrounded by mountains and with the Urubamba rushing along its edge. We are brought beer and soft drinks, and we spend the day taking it easy, eating, talking, napping. Amanda and I pop down for a sauna to heat our aching bodies, and I begin to feel a little more human.

We talk a lot about getting down the mountain. How it kind of throws you closer to share something horrible, how we feel about everything. Dave tells me I should feel proud of myself given the past year, and I do - I'm proud that I got through it and I'm still smiling. But I think they should be proud too, to face something that dangerous and scary, to keep their courage and to get down in one piece. And to still want to finish the trek, despite the impossibly aching limbs, the disillusionment of the previous day and the overwhelming tiredness. It takes strength and guts to show that kind of determination. Yes, I'm proud of us all.

Don't look down (part II)

It is later. Maybe minutes, maybe hours, but dusk is beginning to fall. I am shifting myself down a channel of grey slate, one stone at a time. Elkin said I would be able to walk it, but I can't because it's too steep. My butt and my legs are grazed and bleeding, and my progress is beyond slow. I don't know where Amanda and Dave are, because I can't see them anymore, and I hope they're OK, and I worry for them because they both have kids.

How to channel anger

I feel anger well up inside me, and I hold onto it because it will drive me forward and get me down this godforsaken slope. In my head I compose an email of polite, yet firm complaint, and I'm surprised at how detached I can be from the situation when I'm thinking of what I'll say about it after. I think about this blog, and what I will be writing. That today is one of the worst days of my life. That I would probably take a day of rock bottom depression over this.

As the anger builds, I say my thoughts out loud to the slate as it moves and slips under me. Fuck you, Elkin, for putting me here. For putting Amanda and Dave here. For making a really, really dumb decision. And fuck you, Mount Veronica. I don't believe in God, and I don't believe in you. So if you don't mind, I'll have those coca leaves back and you can do one. I believe in me, and I will reach the bottom of this goddamn mountain if it's the last thing I do. But it won't be, because I'm stronger than that and I'm buggered if this is going to defeat me.

A large rock clatters down the slope and misses my head by about a foot. Fabulous. I have to put up with flying rocks now too? Don't you bloody dare.

Mind, you better do something bloody good with that cash I raised. Because this is for the others. This is for the people whose families and friends don't understand, for the people who thought that the way out was at the bottom of a bottle, for the people who think they might not be worthy of their lives. And I can take this hellish slope if it means just one of those people can feel better.

And finally, to the people who didn't sponsor me because they thought I was just going on a jolly, fuck you too. I'd like to see you go through this, and hold it together the way I am. Because if there is anything to learn from this, it's that I am a freaking badass.

Girl, alone

To my left, Joel appears, holding out a hand to pull me up out of the channel. I grip it and tentatively follow in his footsteps. It is almost dark now, and we are picking our way around the mountain by the light of a pocket torch. He stops intermittently to blow a whistle and flash the light into the valley, from where faint shouts are reaching us. He got help.

We get to a path, and he stops facing the valley. After a few more minutes of the whistle and some shouting, he hands me the torch and tells me to wait. I shine the light in the direction he tells me, and he disappears into the night. It's cold now, and I can't see much except for the lights of the houses down below. I want to be there with some soup and a blanket. In a burst of childlike longing, I want my mum.

Joel does not come back. The torch beams in the valley weave about, and one disappears. The other is moving far off to my left, heading (so I think) for Amanda and Dave.

Don't leave me. Please don't forget me. I'm here. Please... The tears come. I'm scared now, scared of being stuck here on my own all night with no protection from the cold, no water and no food. I don't want to be out here alone. Please find me. Please find me.

Superman wears a poncho

It must be 20 minutes later when Agustin appears. He approaches shyly, asks where Elkin is. I don't even know how to say, 'I don't know' in Spanish, so I just shrug and hold out my hands. He heads off up the path and the fear that I'm being left alone again floods over me. But he's back in a couple of minutes, and shoulders Joel's pack, which has been left behind. Then he takes my hand and leads me back the way he has come.

From the moment we set off to the moment we arrive in camp, he has my hand firmly in his, bracing his forearm against mine to guide me along. We hold branches for each other, exchange awkward smiles in the dark, and inside I am close to worshipping him. Forget Henry Cavill. Forget lyrca and capes, and wearing your pants over your leggings. Superman is a chef and wears a poncho. Sweet, shy Agustin who has barely said three words together all trip, is now a giant as far as I'm concerned. Between watching my step and avoiding further scratches from scrubby bushes, I contemplate asking him to marry me when we get to camp. I will make it to camp.

Twelve hours after setting off that morning, we arrive at my tent. I am suddenly exhausted. I put my bag down and throw my arms around his slight frame. Gracias. Muchas gracias. He brings me a bowl of soup that I savour despite my tiredness, partly for its flavour and partly for its warmth, and I climb into bed. For a while I lay, straining my ears for the voices of my companions, but sleep takes me and I know nothing until the following morning.