The Salkantay Trek Begins

Views are always better when you earn them. Stopping on the side of a highway to look at a scenic overview is nice, but when you climb the mountain to reach the view, it’s just somehow more majestic.

Fran and I at the trek's starting point

When we decided to travel to Machu Picchu, we wanted to earn it. The Inca Trail can fill at least six months in advance, and shockingly when we booked two weeks ago there were no spots available. We did a little research and discovered the “other” hikes to Machu Picchu, including one that gets rave reviews from many people and publications (including National Geographic).

That’s how we decided on the Salkantay Trail. A friend recommended Wayki Treks, a company run by indigenous people and that treats its staff well, along with giving part of each hiker’s fees back to the communities we traversed.

The trip started at 6 a.m., when a van picked up each of the eight hikers. The group was young and energetic – with perhaps the exception of an old man who was many years older than everyone else, including the guide, Ruben.

Old age be damned. I was ready to go.

After a two-hour trip through cloud forests and up to Mollepata, we loaded up our daypacks and started at 2,850 meters.

The first day was only about seven miles, but it was a steep climb up to the base of Salkantay glacier at 4,000 meters, where we would camp for the first night.

One big benefit of this trek over the Inca Trail is that our bags were loaded onto horses, and our tents were ready to go when we arrived at each campsite.

This site was beautiful, in a valley with glaciers rising all around us. There were chinchillas leaping around the rocks across the way. We ventured up boulders to the top of nearby cliff to watch the sunset.

Ruben warned us that we needed warm clothes. He wasn’t lying. The air was cool before the sun began to set, and that’s when the biting cold descended.

I’ve camped in some cold weather, but it got down well below freezing. It was easily in the 20s and may have slipped to the teens.

Camp viewed from above

We huddled in the dining tent, where our cook, Flavio, served up something way too delicious to be eaten while camping (we did not complain). At one point, we decided to head out to look at the stars. They were breathtaking. But we lasted about 30 seconds in those temperatures and called it a night around 8 p.m.

My sleeping bag is good to about zero degrees, but I still stuffed my fleece and several other clothes to the bottom in order to keep my feet warm. And my entire body was wrapped inside the mummy bag without so much as a breathing hole.

We woke to one of the porters offering us coca tea, which is supposed to help altitude sickness and, from what I understand, just about every other malady we might have been suffering. I have no idea if it works, but any warm drink at that moment sounded sublime.

The tents all had a coating of ice in the morning, and the ground was completely frozen. That second part was actually nice because we had hiked in through soggy mud, which was between us and some rocks that served as an ideal restroom. The guides set up a “toilet tent” in camp, which was literally two feet by two feet with a shallow hole in the middle. Let’s just say, I preferred the trip to the rocks, especially on solid ground.

The part of the group that wasn't sick the first day.

As I mentioned yesterday, I was kind enough to give Fran the cold I’d suffered through, and the cold night did not help. The rest of us got at least a little sleep during the 10 hours we were buried in our sleeping bags, but I’m pretty sure Fran suffered through the night, coughing and miserable.

That would not prove ideal for Day 2 of the hike. 

Getting ready for Day 2

Unintentionally Sneaking in Sacred Ruins and Shopping for Animal Snouts

About five days before we left, I got some sort of terrible head cold. I was congested and coughing and all-around miserable for about a week. It really worried me because having that cold on the Salkantay Trek was going to make a challenging five days even harder.

Fortunately for me, I mostly kicked it sometime during the flights to Lima.

Unfortunately for Fran, I gave it to her about that same time. She started feeling it the first morning we woke up in Cusco, but she wasn’t going to let it stop her.

After meeting with our trekking group for an orientation, we headed out to explore the city. Known as the gateway to Machu Picchu, Cusco sits in the Andes Mountains at just over 11,000 feet and has about half a million people. It was the capital of the Inca Empire, but there is an enormous influence from the Spanish who arrived in the 1500s.

At least the cold prevented Fran from smelling the market.

We headed to the market, which is filled with clothing and foods of all types. And I mean all types. Cuy – or cooked guinea pig – is of course a delicacy, and you could see their little snouts poking out from carts just outside the market. The Peruvian people are true believers in nose to tail cooking. We spotted all types of innards, pig heads and cow snouts (they actually looked like donkeys, but we are sticking with cows).

Many booths were set up in the back of the market with people cooking food for lunch. We chose one that had a set menu – a great economical choice at markets and many restaurants in Peru – which consisted of soup followed by rice and trout.

After wandering the city a little more, we make the hike up the hill to Saksaywaman, which are Inca ruins just outside of Cusco (and, yes, most people pronounce it “sexy woman”). Strangely, we ran into our new friends Jerome and Stephanie, who would be doing the Salkantay hike with us the next day, at the entrance.

We had passed multiple guys on the way up who were offering inexpensive horseback rides, but we really weren’t interested. We just wanted to see the ruins. Jerome let us know that the tickets to get in were outrageously expensive, and suddenly the horseback ride sounded better since it was half the price, and they promised we could see Saksaywaman from the top, even if we couldn’t get in.

We rode out through the rural areas surrounding the city to two other Inca sites before heading to the top of Saksaywaman at the end of two hours.

Fran looked exactly like I felt during the second day of the cold. I had just wanted to find a bed and take a long nap. Fran looked a little like she might nap atop the horse and trust that it would get her where she needed to go.

Our guide stopped our horses short of the site and told us to get off: “You can walk this way, and you’ll end up walking straight in the top of Saksaywaman. This way you don’t have to pay.”

He then took our horses and rode back to his barn.

It seemed a little sketchy, but we really weren’t sure how else to get back to our hotels on the other side of the ruins, so we started walking.

We passed a few stray dogs – which are everywhere in Cusco – and Stephanie mentioned how all of them seemed so calm and friendly. Not 30 seconds later, two dogs ran at us barking. The bigger one was drooling blood, and the smaller one was trying to nip our heels.

Neither seemed quite as friendly as Stephanie inferred.

We said a few things in Spanish, and the dogs finally took off.

Saksaywaman

As the guide told us, we walked straight into the top of the ruins. The sun was starting to set, so we only had time to walk through, but they were impressive nonetheless.

We split up at our hotels, and Fran and I headed to dinner so that we could call it an early night.

The van was coming to pick us up for our trek early the next morning.

Who Doesn't Like Extended Travel Days?

This was written on May 24, but internet issues prevented me from posting until now. More blogs will be following soon (or at least as web connectivity allows). 

There is a point in traveling where you realize you have absolutely hit your limit.

For me, that was the 23-hour mark at the Lima Airport. Fran and I had made the conscious decision to book flights to Cusco at 6 a.m. after landing in Lima around midnight. We figured it was better to get the biggest travel day out of the way initially.

And the plan worked fine, as we sat in a food court outside of security and played cards in the glow of Peru’s finest cuisine (which consisted of McDonalds, Papa John’s and Dunkin’ Donuts – I wish I was kidding). Because we booked flights separately from our entry to Peru, we had to check in with Peruvian Airlines, and they would not open until 4 a.m. No problem. There were several other weary travelers doing the same thing – even if all of them appeared to be 21 years old and somewhat used to pulling all-nighters. Fran would probably add that there was a woman of retirement age, sitting a few tables away and speaking to a young Peruvian gentleman, except the “conversation” involved her talking for three-straight hours without a pause, while he made a face that was clearly meant to beg anyone around to help save him

We checked our bags at 4 a.m., reentered the terminal and proceeded to our gate in an area downstairs. For those people who are familiar with Denver International Airport, this was very similar to Gates B80 and higher, which we commonly refer to as Kansas (yes, that’s a compliment but also fairly far removed from the rest of the airport). The area in the Lima Airport consists of six gates and a waiting area that was big enough for one gate.

It was complete chaos, but it was going to be less than two hours. I was longing for the moment I could get on the plane and sleep. That’s what kept me going. At least it kept me going until 5:50 a.m., when the airline announced that our flight would be delayed due to weather in Cusco. As it turned out, that was exactly 23 hours after we got to DIA.

In the States, we have gotten used to airlines providing an estimate on when the delay will end, and we can all continue on our way. We don’t like it – and most of the time they end up changing it several times anyway – but it is a system we are used to, and it prepares us for how long the misery of waiting might last.

In Peru, they don’t do that. They just say it’s delayed, and they promise to give updates in a few minutes.

Three hours later, Fran and I were taking turns napping, knowing that if we slept through the boarding of our flight, we were in trouble. We watched four other flights leave for our same destination (apparently, LAN charges more for its flights because it uses bigger planes and therefore can land in worse weather).

Finally, I got up and approached the counter in my best English asked, “Habla ingles?” It was worth a shot and seemed better than “Una mas cerveza,” which pretty much exhausts the rest of my Spanish vocabulary.

The woman at the counter said she didn’t know much, but I asked for an update while acting out every word (go ahead and try to act out “update”). She said she wasn’t sure when we would take off, but maybe not until that night.

Dejectedly, I went back to report my findings to Fran. Fifteen minutes later, Fran made the same walk to the desk and two minutes later returned to tell me we were about to take off. Obviously, Fran has powers of persuasion that I do not possess. This fact should not surprise anyone.

It was four hours later than expected, but we finally made it to Cusco and checked into our hostel. The plan was to take a shower to wash away 30 hours of airports and airplanes, grab a bite to eat in town and wander. And that was the order of importance.

Cusco is a town full of apologies, and we discovered that fact quickly. When we arrived at the hostel and went to our private room, we discovered the water was not working in our bathroom. I returned to the front desk to find out what was going on, and she told me in the most apologetic way possible, “I am sorry, but the water is out all around this area. It is not just us. I am so very sorry.” I believed her, just as I believed her husband when he explained the same thing to us. Clearly they were not happy with the lack of water because it reflected poorly on them and their establishment.

Let me be clear, though, the Kurumi Hostel is great, and so are the proprietors. We did not blame them for the lack of water, regardless of how much we wanted to shower.

Instead, we headed out to find food. The hostel is an easy walk to Plaza de Armas in the center of town, so there are plenty of restaurants nearby.

Fran has a rule while traveling – one that I quickly adopted as well. She refuses to eat at any restaurant with a person out front pushing menus at everyone who passes.

About a block away from the plaza, we saw a sign for El Jardin Secreto. The door led to a short hallway that opened into a courtyard. We had found our place.

Under the clear awning of the courtyard were a few groups that all looked American, and on the other side under a wooden roof were several locals. We found a table with the locals and asked for the set menu. It’s common for Peruvian restaurants to offer a set menu at a reasonable price (often ridiculously reasonable or flat out cheap), which obviously means you get whatever they might want to serve you.

We got soup, followed by a rice and chicken dish, and we decided to wash it down with a bottle of Pilsen beer, which comes in liter bottles.

After we finished eating, I noticed a man at the next table looking my way with his glass in the air. “Salud, amigo,” I called to him. He smiled, stood up and approached our table.

I moved my backpack from the chair next to us, and motioned for him to sit. That’s when the fun began. His name was Cyrus (although when I asked him again later, he gave me something completely different, and neither of those names matched the ones I happened to see on his license). That’s OK. We’ll stick with Cyrus.

Cyrus: “Where are you from?”

Me: “Colorado.”

Cyrus to Fran: “Where are you from?”

Fran: “I’m from Colorado, too.”

Cyrus back to me: “Where are you from?”

It seems that Cyrus may have had a beer or two before joining us, but I answered again.

Cyrus to me: “I’m sorry.”

Me: “Why are you sorry?”

Cyrus: “I’m sorry.”

Me: Puzzled look, shaking my head slightly.

Cyrus to Fran: “My English is not so good. But you have beautiful, how you say?, eyes.”

Fran, blushing slightly: “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Cyrus to me: “I’m sorry.”

Me: “You don’t need to be sorry. I agree that her eyes are beautiful.”

Cyrus: “I’m sorry.”

To make it up to us, or perhaps just because he was thirsty, Cyrus called the waitress over and ordered another bottle of beer for our table. He filled each of the three, and we all raised our glasses. Cyrus looked at me and clinked his glass on mine, then turned and did the same with Fran. He then turned back to me and clinked my glass, and turned back to Fran and did the same. Finally, after the fourth time, Fran and I took a drink, while Cyrus drained his glass.

Cyrus: “I’m sorry."

Cyrus looks at Fran: “I’m sorry.”

Cyrus looks back at me: “Where are you from?”

Me: “Colorado.”

Cyrus to Fran: “Where are you from?”

Fran: “Colorado.”

Cyrus looks back at me: “Where are you from?”

Me: “Colorado.”

Cyrus: “Are you two a couple?”

Me: “Yes.”

Cyrus: “I’m sorry.”

Me: “Don’t be sorry.”

I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure Cyrus followed that apology by asking if he could take Fran home with him, so that he could “manage her.”

The conversation continued for at least 30 minutes, but I won’t bore you with the details because it would simply be repeating the exact passage from above 2-3 more times (although at one point, Cyrus clinked glasses with Fran 12 times in a row – I counted – before finally realizing he was supposed to take a drink, which in his case was draining his glass).

One of Cyrus’ friends fell while leaving his table. I’m talking full on cartoon character slips on a banana peel moment, splayed out on his back. Another friend attempts to help him up using sort of a bear hug from behind, and both of them fell together like pair of intertwined trees falling in the forest.

That was the moment when Fran and I decided to make our exit. It was about 3 p.m., and we needed a nap. We paid, exited and swiftly made a few quick turns on the street because Cyrus seemed to be tailing us in that ultra-slow, drunk out of his mind sort of way (in other words, it did not take much to lose him).

We considered that a successful first meal in Peru, and headed back to clean up and nap.

Note: When we returned to the hostel after lunch, the water was still not on. However, the fine owner offered to turn on a reserve he kept for emergencies. It seems that the smell permeating from my body was deemed an emergency (Fran clearly does not ever smell bad). The city finally had the water working again around 10 p.m.

Initial Ramblings from a Foreign Land

There’s something exciting about entering a foreign land. Right from the moment you walk off the plane, everything feels different.

The first thing I noticed was the sweltering heat, engulfing me at the plane’s door. After clearing customs, we were enveloped by strange languages and food from lands that once seemed so far away.

That’s when it struck me. The strange language was actually English with every sentence ending in, “Eh?” And the food was sweet and sour chicken, served in the Air Canada lounge.

OK, so maybe the Toronto airport isn’t the most exotic place, but with an airport code like YYZ, it has to have been one of the most remote countries on earth, right?

It also is technically the first time I’ve stepped foot in Canada, the land that my grandfather immigrated from several decades ago. I suppose that you could maybe say I was in the Great White North that time in the Boundary Waters with friends, and we carried our canoes and camping equipment over a two-mile portage before realizing we had misread the map and ventured into Canada. (If INS is reading, please know, we turned back and returned to the U.S. of A. as quickly as our tired bodies would carry us back over the excessively muddy trail.)

Anyway, like most Americans, I don’t know nearly enough about Canada. I know that according to every Canadian I have ever met, hockey is the greatest sport ever invented, and if the rest of us would just give it a chance we would realize that nothing else could possibly come close.

Truth is, I like hockey quite a lot, but the argument has always struck me as being exactly the same one the rest of the world makes about soccer. Excuse me, futbol. It’s the sports world’s equivalent of explaining why a joke is funny.

I also know that Canada has turned out some really good music. And some not so good music (I’m looking at you Celine Dion). Ever since I left the plane, Brian Adams and Rush keep taking their turn in the continuous soundtrack of my mind. And now there’s a little Neil Young.

This all leads us to the question that probably should have crossed our minds long before this moment: Why in the world would one fly from Denver to Toronto en route to Peru? The answer, of course, is frequent flier miles. Not that we wanted to earn more, but that, as any frequent traveler surely knows, airlines make their “free” tickets as inconvenient as possible.

The airlines know what we both decided fairly quickly. A free ticket was worth 3-4 hours in an airport that is completely out of the way.

So, if you ever find yourself with the same option, there are worse places to hang out than the Air Canada Maple Lounge. Just make sure you try the lo mein.

Side note: I once had this exchange with my parents.

Me: Where in Canada did Grandfather grow up?

Mom: It was outside of Toronto.

Dad: What did you just say?

Mom: I said he grew up outside of Toronto.

Dad: Yeah, but it was eight hours outside of Toronto.

The Challenges of Preparation

Hypothetical Situation: You are traveling for the next month. You will be hiking through mountains more than 15,000 feet high, followed by time in the sweltering rainforest working with animals. Don’t forget a few cities, where you may need nicer clothes. And you have a 50-pound limit on luggage in a single bag.

What do you pack, and how the hell do you pack it?

It’s been an awesomely hectic couple of weeks, as Fran and I try to tackle the puzzle mentioned above. There have been trips to REI. To Target. To the outlet stores in Castle Rock. Those shopping excursions, of course, add another challenge to the equation since we are adding more stuff to a very limited amount of space in our bags.

That might be why our eyes lit up every time we saw something that could fold up to next to nothing in size. I have a week’s worth of clothes in a stuff sack, compressed to the size of a football, and I think our rain gear could fit in a tin a Skoal.

Think I can fit my pillow in with my malaria  meds?

I suspect if you check a satellite photo of Machu Picchu next week, you will be able to spot us by the world’s most wrinkly clothing.

It’s been a fun kind of hectic, trying to work out every last tiny detail, like where can we keep our cars and what kind of insurance do we need? Meanwhile, we need to figure out transportation within the countries we’re visiting, and figuring out lodging might not be such a bad idea.

For those of you who might be thinking of doing something like this in the future, here is the strategy I recommend:

1. Make a list of places you are likely to go and when you are likely to be there.

2. Figure out a packing list with only the essentials.

3. Take mimosas out to the balcony and put your feet up for a while.

4. Figure out the rest later. There’s no reason to stress.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to finish packing. Or maybe to drink a mimosa. 

The Runaround is Going International

Life is funny sometimes. OK. Life maybe funny most times, but in certain situations it may take a little more creativity to see the humor.

A few months ago, I was called into the office of my boss’s boss. He informed me that my department was being reorganized.

Soon to be our first stop.

I have been very fortunate. I have gotten my “dream job” twice. But in this situation, my second dream job was disappearing. I was offered what he referred to as an equivalent position, but it was clearly a gigantic step back in my career. It was also clear to me that it was time to say goodbye to the University of Denver. I really wasn’t bitter. It was more like some relationships earlier in my life in which we both looked at each other, shrugged and wished each other good luck (yes, that actually happened).

Realistically, I had been contemplating the answer to a simple question for quite some time: Now that I’ve worked my dream job, what’s next?

I want to be clear. I am not asking for sympathy. Far from it. I look back at the past 15 years and know that I have had some amazing opportunities, and I have worked with a lot of extraordinary people – from athletes to coaches to the extremely talented and hard-working front office/administrative-types that never get the recognition that they deserve.

But nobody likes receiving the news that he is being forced out of his job. 

Not long after my girlfriend, Fran, received similar news.

When I’ve mentioned these facts in everyday conversation, almost everyone has given me a sad, sympathetic, hangdog look. You know the one.

But here’s the thing: I am also extremely fortunate to be with Fran because, simply put, we have very similar outlooks on life.

Shortly after the initial shock, we both looked at each other and realized that we had an amazing opportunity – one that nobody ever seems to have. We are relatively young and don’t have kids or pets, and now we don’t have jobs setting our schedules and controlling our decisions.

It’s especially strange for me. Since April 1, 1999, I have worked in sports. That means for the past 15 years I have not been able to make a single commitment without first checking at least one team’s schedule of games, practices and outside commitments. I have missed weddings, birthday parties and countless other occasions that I would have loved to attend because I had to work a baseball game. Or soccer game. Or basketball game. Or any number of other things.

I’m not knocking the teams at all. I have loved working with the players, coaches and support staffs enough that it made these sacrifices a little easier. However, they were still sacrifices.

So, for the first time since college, I don’t have to worry about games or road trips or team appearances.

Coincidence that Fran's a redhead, too?

That brings me back to one of the many reasons why I’m lucky to be with Fran.

When all of this went down, we looked at each other. And we smiled. I think we both knew at the same time that we shouldn’t wallow in depression. We both knew that we were talented and experienced in our respective fields, and we both had MBAs from top business schools (some might even claim that her school is the best in the world).

There was little debate that we had to take advantage of the situation.

That is why I’m happy to announce that the Runaround is going international. Then domestic again. And then international again.

Fran and I are going to use this opportunity to learn more about the world and more about ourselves. We are going to check things off our bucket lists, and hopefully we are going to try to help some people along the way. We know we are going to help ourselves, because there is nothing that teaches us more and gives us more wisdom than learning how other cultures live.

If you are wondering, we are starting in Peru and Ecuador (departing Denver on May 22) before we return for a month in the Eastern United States. From there, we’ll head to Europe, where I never took the seemingly requisite backpacking trip around Europe right after college.

I don’t know what the future holds for either of us when we return in September, and in many ways (and on many days when we’re not preoccupied with the absolute euphoria of thinking about our trips) it’s a terrifying prospect.

Deep down, both of us know that this is an opportunity that we cannot ignore. A few years ago, I had the great pleasure of chronicling my short time in Egypt. I loved it, and I’m looking forward to doing the same on this trip.

So please feel free to follow us through our adventures and pass the link to the Runaround (http://mikekennedy5280.blogspot.com/) to anyone you think might enjoy it.

Above all, if you’ve got suggestions on where we should go (I know that’s a loaded question) during our journey, please put them in the comment section or shoot me an email.