Salkantay trek: on the trail to Machu Picchu

Unlike the classic Inca Trail trek, which requires you book a spot at least 4-5 months in advance (in high season, June-August), the Salkantay Trek can be booked in Cusco upon arrival, even the day before, if the whim takes you.

OK, so it wasn't all hard work...

So that's what we did, choosing the harder, quieter trek over the famous one - with less Inca ruins along the way, but with more mountains to gawp at.

Day 1:
Awake at 3.45am, we wiped the sleep from our eyes, rolled out of bed, and layered up in all our clothes to fight the icy breath of early morning air.

Under cover of darkness, we drove to meet our fellow trekkers, Ben, Melissa and Heleni - our group of five for the next five days.

Horses work the mountains

The sky began to brighten as we drove from Cusco to Mollepata, a small pueblo, where we had stocked up on a "Americano" breakfast of bread and eggs with mate de coca (coca tea).

We purchased handmade walking sticks for 5Soles each (about £1.10), adorned with knitted animals - mine was a white llama.

As we set off on the trek upwards, hummingbirds and horses all around, the sun was beating down strong. I was covered in a now-familiar layer of suncream and mosquito repellent.

Mountains by moonlight

After 3 hours of walking through the hills and into the mountains, we stopped for lunch: soup, and a rustic version of pollo saltado (chicken, vegetables and rice).

Gabriel was our grumpy, but lovable cook; Raoul, our beaming, sincere and quite spiritual guide.

After a few more hours of climbing in the shadow of a huge, iced mountain, we arrived to camp at Soraypampa.

Our tents were pitched within a cosy encampment to protect us from the cold night, and we ate dinner by candlelight.

Early morning for our toughest day

The cold was biting, but it was worth standing outside, torches off, to look at the moon-soaked mountains. I craned my neck up and looked at star-filled sky - the kind of bright stars you only see when you take the time to physically remove yourself from the modern world.

We all slept well that night on our inflatable mattresses, buried deep in our feather bolsas de dormir (sleeping bags). Well, until 4.30am at least.

Day 2:
I don't think Med has ever been up so early on his birthday before: 4.30am, and we're woken with a steaming cup of coca tea in our tents from Gabriel.

Blowing coca leaves to Pachamama

By the time we’d eaten breakfast (Med had "Happy Birthday" written on his pancake in dulce de leche), the sun was already reflecting brightly off the glaciers around us.

The highlight of the 4-day Salkantay Trek to Machu Picchu is the opportunity to walk in the shadow of the snow-capped Salkantay peak (6,264 meters).

As we walked up through the valley, Raoul conducted a ceremony to give offerings to Pachamama to guide us on a safe trip - coca leaves and sugar cane rum (just like sambuca). I really dislike sambuca, especially at 7.30am!

Almost at the top!

We shared some coca leaves (used to make cocaine), along with a natural “accelerator” which when combined with the leaves, speeds up the effects.

All local people in South America who are at altitudes over about 1000 metres use them, great wads of them, in their mouths.

Within a minute or two of chewing on the leaves and tucking them inside your cheek, your mouth goes numb. It's like a caffeine shot - we had a spring in our step - and helps you cope with the affects of altitude.

In the shadow of Salkantay

Refocusing on the trail, the views continued to get more and more jaw-dropping as our hearts beat harder and harder. But I was loving every minute. It was as if I was running on pure adrenaline that morning (with a little help from the coca leaves).

The closer we got to the 4,650 meter mountain pass, the clearer we could see a perfect ring around the sun. The landscape had changed dramatically in the 750 meters we’d climbed. Gone were the green grasses, replaced by the rocky, moon-like landscapes often seen above 4,000 meters.

Mountain fashion, in the hail

The lack of other people on the Salkantay was an unexpected surprise, quite different form the 500 people a day on the Inca Trail.

Euphoria struck us all as we took a photo of the sign marking the high point of the trail, and I handed Med his first birthday beer to celebrate!

We then left offerings to Pachamama once again (a strawberry lolly, two chocolates, a cracker, some dregs of beer, an apple, three raisins, coca leaves and a corner of cereal bar - a balanced meal all round).

But the hardest part of the day wasn’t over, it was the following 5 hours it took to descend 1,750 meters that took its toll. While my lungs were happier, my toes didn’t appreciate going down, and within a few hours, I was starting to feel sharp pangs of pain.

Dog-pig romance

As if god's answer was to take my mind of it, there followed a hail storm in the valley, which forced Med and I to don the very stylish, plastic ponchos we had purchased, and not used, in the jungle. When the sun was out again, we saw curly-tailed chinchillas perching on rocks.

When we finally arrived in Chaullay, and I removed my shoes and socks, I was greeted by 3-4 painful blisters on each foot. To ease the pain, we had a few birthday beers for Med, and were kept entertained by a dog and pig who had become best friends in the small settlement where we camped.

Day 3:

Good morning, day 3!

Rising around 6am to coca tea delivered to our tents, we said goodbye to the dog/pig pair, our horseman and horses, and began walking along a dirt road that follows the Lluskamayu River.

A "rustic" version of the cable car

We followed the river for the entire day’s walk in the sunshine, eating freshly-picked passionfruit and being winched across a cable cart to the middle of the rocky river.

It was supposed to be an easy day at just 6-7 hours but it was my toughest due to the sharp, and at times, crippling, pains from my blisters.

Still, the reward for getting this far was a dip in the natural hot springs outside Santa Teresa in the bathing light of the almost-full moon.

Day 4:
Today, I walked 12kms in $2 flip flops. Thankfully not the whole way, as I decided to get a bus with all the plant workers to Hydroelectrica (the dam area) to save my toes for my Machu Picchu pilgrimage the following day.

Shanty town alongside the railway

We followed the train track, twice having to hug the side as a train passed, and sneaking glimpses of Machu Picchu up above and watching people the size of ants walking on the far side of the ruins.

With our excitement about that aside, it was an ethereal landscape of jagged-toothed mountains heaved up around the latte-coloured Urubamba River. Latte, because of the sewage from Aguas Calientes and Cusco, sadly.

It was with a mix of excitement and relief that we finally walked up the road that runs from Machu Picchu’s main entrance to the town of Aguas Calientes.

Machu Picchu somewhere in the distance

Situated along the river, with the train tracks running straight through the centre, it’s a tourist town in the truest sense of the term. But it meant a shower, a bed and a good feed before the pièce de résistance the following day.

I was too excited to sleep.

Border crossings and bicycle bottoms

Being British in Argentina just a few days after the 30 year anniversary of the Falklands/Malvinas war made us nervous.

Seeing images on the BBC News website of your national flag reduced to a smouldering heap on the main street of Buenos Aires is certainly a little irksome, as was the stony face of the man sat behind the customs desk at the border crossing as he read slowly, and sternly: "Ingleterra." Everyone else got a smile.

So if pressed on the matter, we're Australian from here on in.

Our border crossing to Argentina, while spectacular (the customs office is at the foot of Volcan Lanin), has set a precedent for future border crossing in South America.

After our little fracas with the man at the border, I was just nodding my sleep-heavy head when our bus, freshly on Argentinian soil, screeched its breaks to a standstill. People on the bus started walking to the front and stepping outside, all speaking in fast Chileno Spanish that went way over my head, despite the lessons.


There was a protest, for what, I am still not sure. The road had been barricaded with a truck parked horizontally across the bridge and a group of roguish-looking men camping out behind it.

Everyone has heard a South American horror story, and I've listened to more than my fair share. But today we were lucky: the protest was peaceful (less the monster truck parked crudely in the middle of the road) and we were able to walk with all our bags to another bus on the opposite side of the bridge. The protesters even smiled and said "hola" as we passed them - not quite the hysteria I had anticipated.


It was striking to see the contrasts in the west and east sides of the Andes. While lush and green on the Chileno side, it was quite dry on the Argentina side - both tied together by mountains and stunning 'Monkey Puzzle' trees.

As we moved closer to our destination, the landscape changed from arid mountain plains to pine forests, golf courses, a ski resort and holiday homes. This was a playground for wealthy Argentinians, and not what I had imagined at all.

San Martin de los Andes is on the shore of a big and beautiful lake; houses are made of stone and wood; and the streets are lined with hundreds of trees. However, I was relieved to see the tell tale signs that this was still very much South American: stray dogs strutting around everywhere - they are the kings of these streets, but so friendly too.

Having started to feel the effects of meat and cheese, we bit the bullet and rented bikes for a day, up through the mountains and to the shores of Lago Lácar.

It was tough going as a lot of it was uphill up dirt tracks, mostly trodden by goats and cows. We had to pull into the side to let by two huge bulls being led by a local Mapache man, his children and a trail of puppies - it was good to see a slice of authenticity in this European-style town.

Our efforts were rewarded when we arrived at the mirador (viewing point) of the lake and surrounding mountains. It was good to get a bit of a sweat up but it was more fun on the way back, downhill and with the sun on our backs - we stopped only for lunch by the lake and to see the decorative shrines on the side of the road.

The next day I woke up with a very painful, bruised bottom; I should have taken the bull, not the bike, up the rocky, steep path.