MACHU PICCHU

Ascent (2)

Dawn is breaking as we walk across the bridge. We follow a dirt road for about 500m and then we cut upwards, climbing some steep stone steps. The steps are a short cut. The road itself weaves its way up the mountain for 8km. There's a bus (which C will take soon) for those who don't want to walk. The path the walkers take is steeper, a short cut which bisects the road but, as it quickly becomes apparent, requires a considerable use of the thigh muscles.

We start as a group but within minutes the group has dissolved. Edwin, the Frenchman and the Spanish woman are clearly the fittest. They have soon rounded a bend and are out of sight. The Argentine and the Italian, who appear to be having a fling, go at a similar pace to me. The other two Colombians lag behind. We have started at the front, but I'm soon overtaken by some healthy looking Argentines. A group of gringos, kitted out for the march, also surge past. But by the time we get to the first crossing in the road, I've caught up with them.

The jungle all around is coming alive. Birds make their racket. Things are stirring, but the beasts remain undercover. After fifteen minutes I'm starting to blow. I remember having heard about a particularly masochistic sport which is racing to the top of a high rise building, using the stairs. This is the same, only the stairs are uneven and higher than they have any right to be. Across the other side of the valley is another mountain, shaped like an ice-lolly. It acts as an altimeter. Looking over I can see that I'm half way up. It's barely daytime but it already feels unhumanly warm. My shirt is dripping wet. So are my trousers. Everything is sodden, desperate.

The Italian and the Argentine move ahead. A Tilda Swinton lookalike with a backpack and a sensible skirt, clearly British, overtakes me with a jaunty stride. The pauses become longer and the breathing more erratic. This is all happening at 3000 metres. The heart is audibly pounding, The altimeter mountain never seems to get much past the half-way point.

At which point, you enter a phase which might be akin to a philosophical trance. There seems to be no energy left to proceed, but at the same time, there's no option but to proceed. Control over your physical being seems to have all but given way, yet somehow the body puts itself onto auto-pilot and you continue to move. Upwards and onwards. Like evolution.

The only consolation is that I am not the only one. No-one is overtaking me now. Three quarters of the way up and I seem to have found a place of pain which is all my own. A little later I realise with horror that the altimeter has gone off the scale. Which means that the lolly-pop mountain which I assumed, from looking at it, was going to be much higher than Michu Picchu itself, is actually lower. And I am still climbing. Above the clouds.

The trance sustains the body with the mind in a state of suspended animation. There's no indication that the summit will ever be reached. Until, turning the ten millionth bend, I hear a cry of exultation. Someone ahead has reached the end.

Finally I see that end too. I reach a road and in front of me are the steps leading to the main entrance to Macchu Pichu. The steps are half full. Up at the top are the Frenchman, the Spanish woman, Edwin, the Argentine and the Italian. Along with C, who's arrived by bus with the other two members of our party. They cheer me, calling out to 'El Ingles'. I climb this last set of even steps and take my place alongside them at the front of the queue. The gates, which open at 6am, are still closed. I've been climbing for an hour. My heart starts to slow. My shirt starts to dry. I'm primed and ready to visit the mystical Inca town, perched on top of the mountain.

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