Machu Picchu is the culmination of the challenging (but not gruelling) Inca Trail. It is also the most popular tourist destination in South America. As such, there is an amazing plentitude of information out there about the trail, and plenty of people who tell pretty much the same story about it. And everyone says that, at the end, Machu Picchu is amazing and breathtaking, which is true. However, because everyone writes about the Inca trail in the day-by-day account format, I will allow those accounts to relay the gory details and I will simply recount some of my fondest (and worst) memories of the trail: the images that are still vivid, and probably will be for several years to come.

In the past year, the rules of the Inca trail have totally changed. You are no longer permitted to hike it alone, and are therefore forced into hiking with a tour group. In a related development, the tour groups have come under slightly stricter regulation. One of the regulations is that the porters are no longer allowed to carry more than 25 kilos on their back. Porters are poor Peruvians who are hired to hike the entire trail, faster than the tourists, carrying all the amenities of modern life on their back in absolute shit packs (or in some cases, in bundles tied together with rope: such porters wrap shirts around the rope to make "straps" for their backpacks).

Twenty-five kilos is a LOT of weight to carry around the mountains, and even more when you see the monstrous size of the bundles these porters carry. The funny thing is: the porters lobbied to be allowed to carry more weight. They get paid by the kilo. Unfortunately, you can't get a sense of the desperation this would require until you see a porter RUNNING down a mountain carrying 25 kilos on his back: a load twice his size.

The loads include the following luxuries for us, the tourists. Huge gas tanks for cooking warm food. Fresh eggs. Five tents for a group of seven (one was for our guide). Plus an eating tent. Nine folding chairs. Lots more. But the moment that really got me was when, part way through the first day, we came to a weight station. Each of the porters had to stop and have their bags weighed to assure compliance with the rules. And here is the thing: about a fifth of a mile before the stop, all the porters are gathered (and EVERY company does it) rearranging their weight and shifting stuff between each other. Right after the weight station they are all doing the exact opposite. I don't know if they were having one person sneak by with extra weight (which would be quite alarming) or whether they were simply evening out loads which the strong were carrying for the weak (which would be touching). Either way, the spectacle of all the porters with their ridiculous packs had an impact. It is almost impossible to hike the Inca trail without feeling horribly guilty for the treatment of the porters. However, as the rules stand now, you don't really have an option.

The second day my shirt got stolen. Now, I need to describe this shirt. I bring it with me when I travel (and even more so, when I hike) precisely because it is so disgusting that I don't mind getting it dirty. A friend gave it to me, because he wouldn't wear it anymore. On the back is a big marijuana leaf. There is also a huge black string of stains where my friend got it all over his bike chain one day. The entire shirt is smeared in general grime. The front has huge, reddish-purple splotches where I spilled wine all over it in Andagua. And it was stolen.

Unlike most groups, we hiked the trail in three days instead of the normal four. As a result, we were at the top of the first ascent (the supposedly miserable one that everyone complains about) before noon on our second day. The climb is difficult and taxing (though what I have read on the internet makes it sound worse than it is. Be acclimatized and just keep your pace steady), and when you reach the top your shirt is soaked in sweat, despite the rather cold air at the top. Consequently, I took off my shirt (and put on a fleece) and left my shirt to dry on a rocky outcrop a little higher up. I happily forgot about it and started talking to the other members of our group as they trickled up. We generally relaxed and lazed about the top of the mountain waiting for everyone to show up (one member of our group tended to take quite a bit longer than the other six of us).

Suddenly I heard Megan say, "Did you take your shirt, Phil?"

So I look up, and sure enough it is gone. My first thought was that it had blown off the mountain, but we were on the non-windy side and there was no sign of my shirt nearby. It seems that someone had walked off with it. And damn was I upset. I mean, I understand stealing things, but a grimy, sweat soaked t-shirt which is totally irreplaceable (as if anyone but me would want to replace it!!)!?!?!?! I just don't get it.

However, there is a happy ending here. I complained to our guide when he caught up to us (he was hiking behind our last person). At lunch it turned out that one of the porters had "found" my shirt. I suspect that isn't exactly what happened, but I didn't ask any questions. I hugged my filthy, sweaty, wonderful shirt to my chest and felt true joy that it had been recovered.

My most memorable moment was later the same day. We climbed the second major ascent (and the only other difficult part of the trail) after lunch (most tours do it the third day), and on the other side of the mountain the fog was thick and heavy. It was in this state that we reached one of the Incan ruins along the way: exhausted from two separate climbs and in a thick pea soup of a fog. It was great. What would have otherwise been a relatively uneventful visit to the ruins became a mystic and serene experience.

We poked around the small city, easily getting lost in the ruins, which the fog had turned into a labyrinthian arrangement that would make Escher proud. We walked to the edges of the Incan terracing at the edge of the city and looked off the side of the mountain but saw nothing but swirling mists amid tiny flashes of green vegetation (far too obfuscated to reveal its identity). I looked into the fog and wondered how many people, over how many years, had lost themselves staring rapturously into these same cloudy mountains.

The area we were in is, in fact, called the cloud forest. We had another half hour to our campsite from the ruins and Megan and I walked it well behind the rest of our group, wading through the mists and enjoying the gorgeous scenery, as twilight descended and the world slowly become hidden by both darkness and fog. The vegetation is magnificent: lush and deep green, it looks like a scene of Michael Crichton's Congo. Giant, exotic trees wrapped in vines poke through the valley's mists into the foreground of your view. The green seems all the more intense for its ability to penetrate the all-encompassing fog. The clouds transform an already beautiful, lush rainforest into a mystical wonderland. You feel as if you are about to be accosted by a gorilla. Or a dragon. And it is lovely.

My next vivid memory is noticeably less pleasant. Early on the third day we had just reached the third and final mountain pass, and were congratulating ourselves and looking forward to the last 2-3 hours, which were expected to be easy. As we sat admiring what we had achieved the weather decided to turn on us. No, it didn't rain. It hailed. Suddenly and fast. One moment we were standing there, and the next moment we were totally surrounded by little white icy attackers. There wasn't even time to get into to rain gear. All we could do was continue plodding along the trail, desperately praying that we reached the lodge where we would be eating lunch (the last stop before Machu Picchu) before freezing to death.

The water cascaded down the stone steps of the trail in a muddy brown, ice-cold waterfall. Rainproof boots didn't keep socks dry because the water poured in over the ankles on the steps. You could barely see the step below you because the muddy flow of water was an inch deep, all the way down. We hiked like this for an hour and a half, absolutely miserable and with my hands paralytically cold. The relief we felt when we hit the lodge was cathartic. We shod most of our clothes and moped around warming ourselves and preparing for our afternoon hike to Machu Picchu, in which we all knew we would be forced to re-clad ourselves in wet boots and clothing.

My next memory should be Machu Picchu, and how it felt to walk through the famous Sun Gate, and suddenly see the hidden city spread out before me. And fair enough, it was quite a sight. But the afternoon's memory for me will be dominated by a rather more unique memory. Though we reached Machu Picchu on that third afternoon, we didn't go into the compound, instead planning on coming back the next day to do so. We would camp for the night in Aguas Calientes, a nearby town with hot springs in which we could soak the trail out of our muscles and minds.

We were queuing up to buy the tickets for the bus that would take us back to the site from Agues Calientes. Megan was complaining about the cold (and the sky had started to drizzle in the meantime). She sat down, miserable and cold, on a bench while I bought tickets. I looked over at her and gave her a goofy smile which she did not respond to. Thinking she was angry with me I walked over to her and told her to smile. She didn't answer: she just stared at me with her mouth slightly open and her eyes a little glazed. I told her to say something. She didn't. Then she started to slip off her bench. I grabbed her and tried to hold her up. She started to shake all over, somewhat violently. Almost immediately, twenty people were there watching. Soon she calmed down, but she was not looking good.

We got her inside and started getting her into fresh, dry, warm clothes. A Peruvian woman working at the station brought cotton soaked in Pisco (the Peruvian national liquor) which I held under Megan's nose trying to keep her awake. She was cold as ice. Slowly but surely she started to warm up, and became decreasingly groggy, though at first I had to fight to keep her awake. She hadn't remembered passing out and had to be told later what happened. It was terrifying. As best we can tell, she suffered from a mild case of hypothermia, and was totally recovered within a few hours. However, the total terror of looking at her, with those glazed eyes: totally unresponsive to my words, followed by the panic of having her convulse in my arms, is not something that will ever leave my mind.

On to happier topics though. The next day, when we returned to Machu Picchu the weather was beautiful: sunny and warm (but not hot). The site is incredible in almost every way. Aesthetically it is amazing, and its integration into the surrounding mountains is sheer architectural genius. The complexity of the architecture and the civilization also serves to amaze. It is a wondrous place.

That day we climbed Huayna Picchu, which is the mountain that towers directly over the site, and is seen in almost any picture of the site (it would be difficult not to include it). The climb is very short, but very steep (about 40 minutes). The views are incredible. Surprisingly, the view of Machu Picchu was not so great: though beautiful, Machu Picchu is best appreciated from closer views in which its size and grandeur are not dwarfed by the mountains. From further away, the place looks less grand: more like a humble stone village. However, the mountain views were amazing.

The unique thing about Huayna Picchu is that it towers above all of the surrounding mountains. Rather than flowing into other nearby mountains, it drops off to the valley floor in every direction, which gives one the uncanny, spiritual, and indescribably powerful feeling that one is standing on top of the world. Seen this way, Machu Picchu feels like a toy settlement: trivial in the seeming God's eye view of the world. And after three hard days of hiking, and standing on that mountain, and looking at the world all around you, sinking into the river far, far below, you do start to feel a bit divine. All around you, the mountains are pulsing with a bright, sun reflected green. Clouds dance about the mountain tops, and far beneath you tourists scurry around Machu Picchu, much like Incans must once have done. No wonder the priests kept places of worship on Huayna Picchu.