THE END OF THE INCA TRAIL

Four thirty a.m. and a call outside is the signal to fumble for my torch and wriggle like a sleepy maggot towards the door of our tiny tent. I allow enough of my arm out of the down cocoon of my sleeping bag to tug on the zip. The sky is grey with a billion stars and there on the bare ground stand two orange plastic cups, one each. The damp swirls rising from them draw in the cloud of my breath as I steer them through the narrow opening. We scald our throats with the coca tea, find the rest of our clothes that we have not slept in, and then fold ourselves in half to emerge into the morning. On the other side of the valley the glacier Veronica, worshipped by generations of Incas, stands serene in the moonlight. The porters have laid out a row of polythene bowls, each with its individual bar of Camay soap and perfectly folded towel, as a gesture towards cleanliness. We can hear them in the dining tent, joking in their own Quechua language, punctuated with the clattering of pans that promises breakfast. We distract ourselves by tentative stretches to test whether our sore muscles have recovered from yesterday, when we transcended Dead Woman’s Pass, 13,650 feet above sea level. Our dreams all night have been saturated with images of those thousands of stone steps, each a foot high, and with the heart- thumping breathlessness of altitude. Today should be easier. But we must hurry; there is a check point for the final stage of the trail and a queue to join. Then we are past the gate, following torch beams, silent except for our footfalls and poles tapping on stone.

The tropical dawn breaks with the speed of a slowly released dimmer switch. Within minutes colours feed into the greyness and we become aware of the proximity of the cloud forest with its damp leaves and occasional orchids and begonias, some of which only exist in this moist valley. Other trekkers clatter by, unseeing, obsessed with being first there , where even this supreme journey is just another goal. They barge past, their backpacks knocking us sideways on the narrow path.

High fives and hugs as we reach the Sun Gate, just after six. We struggle to focus through the shifting cloud that fills the valley below, straining, peering. Then a wispy gap reveals a glimpse of stone, gone in a second. Wraiths of mist reveal transient ramparts, now a wall, now a field, then veil them again. Until finally the mighty Sun God ends the strip-tease and the whole of Macchu Pichu lies bare below.

After half an hour’s descent we reach the end of our pilgrimage. We have the ancient city to ourselves, then the bus tourists trickle in. Dishevelled, tired and triumphant, we observe their clean trainers and huge cameras. Our feet have followed the ghosts of Incas to their sacred site. We share their magic.