“What’s this called again?” Cheryl asked.
“It’s the Sun Gate. It’s where the Inka trail crested the pass, facing East, where the sun is, and travelers could see the city for the first time. But, really, I think it’s the Fog Gate.”
This was the second time I’d climbed the last 300 meters of twisting, slippery rock steps to the pass above Machu Picchu. I’d waited at the top, in the little stone gate house the Inkas had made as a combination resting place/check point. The same eclectic collection of hikers was hanging out, staring at the clouds drifting below, obscuring the view of the 500 year old “ruins”. A group of 8 English speakers, some US, some Anglo. A Japenese father/son, the elder chattering away on his cell phone. A smattering of South Americans, both Portuguese and Spanish. All were waiting for the fog to “lift”, but given that these clouds were created by the moist air swimming up the Urumbamba River from the Amazon (8500 feet in elevation and maybe 60 miles away) meeting the sheer face of the eastern Andes, with a final push up the cliff to the winter home of the the supreme ruler of the empire, it was doubtful they’d get to snap the classic view of the stone city below and Facebook out their selfies.
The discovery by Yale archeology professor Hiram Bingham (model for “Indiana” Jones) in 1911 of this hidden city is the stuff of modern legend. But after he salvaged this massive collection of stone foundations from the jungle, it became apparent nothing here was “ruined” at all, merely missing the straw roofs which had been replaced every two-three years. The buildings themselves, with perfectly married blocks of stone carved from the local rock serving as the walls, remain in almost pristine form. It’s very easy to see where the plants were grown along agricultural terraces. The main entry gate into the city proper could still serve as an effective barrier, missing only the wooden door attached to the round carved stone hinges, and stone lock above. The chambers of the supreme ruler (called The Inka), his porch, chapel, even bathroom, are all intact. And the general living quarters for weavers, stone cutters, priests, sacrifical virgins, and other essential personnel, all look down to the sinuous muddy river roaring 1500 feet below.
I had speed hiked up the 3 km in 50 minutes. After another 15, I ventured back down, hoping to meet up with my companions. Within 300 meters, I found Cheryl, plowing up the final crux of this trail. Most of the way had been along a gently rising road of paving stones, varying from 3 to 10 inches in size, and closely packed. Wide enough so a small jeep could easily navigate that section. Along the way, a few stone cabins had been built. One with several rooms may have housed members of the watch guard. Another, with a large traingular natural rock as the back wall, echoed the Temple of the Condor in the city below.
The final rise clung to the hillside via a series of circular stone staircases. One way only: people at the top had to wait for those ascending before starting down. As we hit the final flatter section, the fog finally lifted. A few quick pictures, then up the last set of steps. By the time we hit the top, clouds blocked the view again. The various national groups were still wandering around the small ancient guardhouse. The walls featured backpack-sized niches about chest level, so we stowed our stuff there while Cheryl recuperated.
Down once more, over the initial tricky part, and … whoa! There are Craig and Leigh, poco a poco hauling themselves up. Craig’s had Parkinson’s for about 4 years now. He is still running a multi-million dollar small business, but has progressively more difficulty walking. He habitually uses a walking stick. Whenever he has to turn a sharp corner, he slows or even halts, shuffling rapidly with tiny steps as he negotiates the curve. Starting up from a standstill requires the same maneuver. And he falls with some regularity, unable to move his feet fast enough to deal with little aberrations in his center of balance. But the day before, he had clambered up and down Machu Picchu’s incessant stone stairways, and was determined to make the hike up the Inca Trail to the Sun Gate.
Still, Cheryl and I were simultaneously flabbergasted and proud to see he’d made it up this far. We had firmly believed they would stop at one of the earlier stone houses part way up. To see him here, not complaining or even appearing tired, was a high point of the trip for us.
I wanted to make sure he fully understood what the remaining 300 meters were like. “Craig, you’re really almost there. About 3 more sections of steep rock staircases left. The clouds lifted once already, maybe they will again by the time we get up there.”
“OK.” Craig nodded with understanding. I turned around and prepared for my third scramble to the summit.
We took maybe thirty minutes to rest and eat our snacks; it was just after noon, and this would be our lunch for the day. For me, a Baker’s Breakfast Cookie, some almonds, peanuts, and M&Ms. We found a sheltered nook where, against park regulation, we did like many others and emptied our bladders. As we loaded up to head back down, the overhead sun finally won the battle with the clouds below us. Machu Picchu spread out before us in all its classic pre-colombian beauty. Selfies, movies, panoramas, and simple scenic snapshots whirred and clicked all around.
An hour later, we merged with the masses smothering the site. Twenty five hundred people are admitted each day, with the hours from noon to three the most crowded. Given the precipitous climbs, the steep and narrow stone stairways, and the advanced age of many tourists, who moved mainly in packs – family, friends, or tour groups – the going became much slower and more difficult for Craig. We caucused, and agreed Cheryl and I would trudge on to the “Inca Bridge”, while Leigh and Craig would head down and then up the 78 steps of the pyramid. There, an in situ rock had been cleverly carved to track the sun’s shadow over the course of a year.
The Inca Bridge is more of a shelf. It’s part of the Inca Trail connecting all the major centers of the Empire. Machu Picchu was only built in 1460-90. A generation later, the Spaniards came, and began not only destroying the Incan cities, but spreading death via disease and firearms. The rulers determined to keep Machu from them. It was already both difficult to get to, but also not visible from the valley floor. So they decamped northeast to Vilaybamba, the “Last City.” They took almost everything of value with them, probably accounting for the relative paucity of artifacts found found 400 years later.
They would have journeyed out of town towards a sheer cliff, nearly 2000 feet above the river. Think of trying to traverse the lower portion of El Capitan in Yosemite, about 200 feet above the valley floor. They built a “bridge” across this precipice by layering a wall of stones, two feet wide, up the rock face from the valley floor. No hand holds, no protective barrier on the exposed side. Needless to say, the authorities today have blocked entrance to the most dangerous portion of the route.
We snapped pictures of the engineering marvel for Leigh and Craig. Cheryl risked vertigo by walking down to the gate to get a closer view. Then we retraced out steps, and navigated through the stone village to the pyramid.
“So tell me about the sun dial,” I asked Leigh.
“First of all, it’s not a sun dial. It’s used to identify the key dates in the agricultural calendar – when to plant, when to harvest, that sort of thing. What do you want to know about it? We’ve learned everything, in English, Spanish, German, Japenese, and probably Portuguese.” Apparently, they’d been there long enough to hear a good dozen tour guides give their spiels.
The Incas had lived in Machu Picchu for about 70 years. During that time, lacking wheels, mechanized tools, or even a written language, the managed to build both a physical city and a functioning community in one of the most inaccessible and awe-inspiring locales imagineable – a cloud forest 2500 meters above sea level, 500 meters up from the floor of a precipitous canyon. Today, people from all over the world come to the little town of Aguas Calientes, accessible only by train, and ascend via 13 switchbacks to pour over and temporarily repopulate the mountain top. Some of them, I hope, come away with an appreciation that our aggressive modern civilization, seven billion strong, is only superficially different from those who have come before us.