ON THE INCA TRAIL

I shouldered my pack and looked out at the path that would lead me to Machu Picchu.

The Urubamba River snaked through the Andes Mountains, showing us the way. Multicolored birds called out from the trees and snow-capped peaks winked through dense clouds. We surveyed it all, eyes squinting into the sun and hands grasping eagerly at the straps of our packs. We were ready to depart on our grand adventure.

Four of us had committed to hiking 28 miles from a checkpoint northwest of Cusco to the abandoned 15th century Inca city of Machu Picchu. While nearly a million tourists visit the UNESCO World Heritage site every year via train and bus, a small contingent choose instead to walk the way of the Incas. Our journey would take us over mountains and past Inca ruins before arriving at the Sun Gate on the fourth day.

Peruvian regulations prevent adventure-seekers from hiking the trail on their own, instead mandating they go with a licensed operator. Thus our band of four swelled to 18, as we were joined by two other tourists, a guide and 11 porters who would carry our gear, cook and set up our campsites each day.

To reach the Inca Trail from the checkpoint, we first had to cross a bridge over the roaring river.

I smiled and stepped confidently onto the wooden planks, leaving the city and all of its distractions behind and marching into the quiet disconnect.

• • •

In order to preserve the trail and avoid overcrowding and erosion, only about 200 trekkers and their accompanying guides and porters are permitted each day.

While we'd occasionally run into other groups, these sightings were rare, allowing us to disappear into a world of our own. Enveloped in the cloud forest, we passed flora and fauna of all kinds, including orchids, parrots and llamas.

We slept in tents at designated campsites, occasionally awakened in the night by a donkey braying or a rooster announcing the sunrise an hour or two early. When it was time to start the day, our porters would rouse us with hot coca tea and boiled water to wash our hands and faces.

Our guide, Fredy Cusi, led us down the path, just as he had done with other tour groups for nearly 10 years. Many Andean people in the surrounding villages make their living through a combination of farming and working as a guide or porter.

As we passed different Inca ruins, we'd gather around Fredy for our history lessons.

"Come here, my family," he'd say, before telling us about Inca rulers, language, culture and human sacrifice.

He showed us which berries had dye that we could use as lipstick and how to pull the fiber from an agave plant to weave into ropes. He taught us the names of the mountain peaks and how to say "hurry" and "cheers" in Quechua, the native Andean language.

And when we got too tired, he'd lie and say there was "no more up" — even though there always was.

• • •

Yes, hiking the Inca Trail is hard. Every day was a challenge, mostly due to the stone steps that jutted out in whatever shape and size they desired. Our group of four ranged in age from 25 to 32 and consisted of two half-marathoners, a Denver adrenaline junkie who regularly climbs 14,000-foot mountains and an avid hiker and kayaker. We're young and fit and found ourselves gasping for breath as we trudged up the jagged steps of Dead Woman's Pass.

Trekkers ascend more than 4,000 feet on this treacherous section of day two, complicated not just by elevation gain and high altitude, but thousands of steps. This was the point in the trip where the trekking poles, which I had rented but stubbornly insisted I didn't need, became a necessity. It's also when our lungs felt most likely to burst. We set our aim on the distant peak and moved upward one step at a time, our slow plodding and glazed eyes reminiscent of zombies.

The joy experienced upon reaching the summit is inexplicable. We gazed out at the crags, in awe of their beauty and the distance we had traveled.

But our sense of accomplishment deflated quickly when we realized traversing down the uneven stones was a challenge unto itself, assaulting our knees and threatening to trip us at any moment.

When we finally reached camp that day, I collapsed in the dirt next to my tent, too tired to unzip the door and crawl inside.

• • •

Day three was as rewarding as day two was punishing.

Despite being the longest day of the hike at 10 miles, it was the most leisurely. We were in the sweet spot: the hardest part of the trek behind us, the glory of Machu Picchu just a day away.

We stopped frequently at Inca sites, nestled along cliffs and atop valleys. The ruins we saw that day, though they paled in size next to Machu Picchu, rivaled the famous site as the most memorable of the trip. Isolated from the influx of tourists who besiege the Lost City, these sacred Inca sites maintain a peace and air of mysticism no longer found at Machu Picchu.

After three days of taking in spectacular views and pushing each other through the pain and exhaustion, we had bonded with our fellow trekkers and Fredy, our guide. If any barriers had existed before, they were long gone by now.

Our favorite topic of conversation? Bowel movements.

This isn't the most endearing subject, but I'd be remiss not to warn future trekkers of the literal intestinal fortitude needed for this adventure.

There are the usual complications brought on by drinking water in a foreign country, though ours was regularly boiled. We were putting our bodies through strenuous activity while also shoveling massive amounts of delicious but foreign food into our stomachs. Food bought before we set out on the trail and carried lovingly by our porters, with no refrigeration that we could see. By day three, we couldn't help but wonder: Why is there still meat?

And when nature called, as it frequently did, there was no running water or standard restroom facility where we could relieve ourselves. We became quite familiar with the designated areas along the trail we affectionately referred to as "squatty potties": small wooden enclosures with a hole in the ground.

Fredy seemed unfazed by our preoccupation. He laughed heartily at our nickname of "Machu Poopchu" and helpfully described our day not by miles traveled but by distance to the nearest restroom. Apparently we weren't the first hikers to have gastrointestinal issues.

• • •

We awoke to darkness on the final day.

The goal was to reach the Sun Gate, where we would catch our first glimpse of Machu Picchu, by sunrise.

But the real reason behind the 3:30 a.m. wakeup call was so the porters could pack up the campsite and race down the mountain in time to catch the early morning train back to Cusco.

The final checkpoint doesn't open until 5:30 a.m., so we queued up with other groggy trekkers and waited. When the time came, we made what can only be described as a mad dash through the last 4 miles between us and the ancient city. Our steps, previously slow and careful, came with a quickness and urgency otherwise unknown on the trail.

After the unforgettable views from the day before, the vista of Machu Picchu from the Sun Gate almost seemed a disappointment. Yet as we continued down the mountain, the city grew before our eyes and the magnitude of it all came into focus.

By the time we reached the iconic rocks above the city, tourists who had taken the bus up the mountain were filling in around us. Despite being cleaner and well rested, they lacked the goofy, euphoric energy we carried with us. As we cracked jokes and quoted wacky YouTube videos, one guide turned to his freshly showered group of tourists and said, "That's what happens when you've been on the trail too long."

In a sense, he was right. Something had happened to us. We were more carefree, but also more reverent. We had spent the last several days surrounded by nature and the peace that comes with it. And now, at the pinnacle of our trip, that calm was shattered by the thousands of tourists jostling for the best picture of the ancient ruin.

While we enjoyed our time exploring the city, there was a shared sense among us that the journey far surpassed the destination. Yes, Machu Picchu is beautiful, impressive both in architecture and history. But the mobs of tourists, the dozens of guides struggling to talk over each other, the pushing and shoving, it was all too much after our days in the wild. We yearned for the serenity we found in the mountains.

Away from our hyperconnected world, we found a tranquility that's increasingly difficult to come by. We learned the quiet moments are where the beauty of the Inca Trail lies.

Contact Caitlin Johnston at cjohnston@tampabay.com or (813) 226-3401. Follow @cljohnst.