Your faithful correspondent encounters adversity and perseveres. Or does he…?!

January 17 – 20, 2007

Editors Note: What follows are notes taken from the mummified body of a bald but dashing (in a dorky sort of way) American found frozen in the ice in a high Andean pass. He is identifiable only by the phrase “Walkabout D” tattooed on his forehead. – the Editor

Day 1. We set out from Olyantambo and hike for about six hours on a relatively easy grade, first following the main Urubambo river valley, then turning inland to follow a steeper tributary up into the higher elevations. The only major setback is that the woven indian cloth handle tears on the bamboo walking stick I had purchased in Olyantambo for a dollar. The stick is still functional, and I resist the urge to turn back. I am unsure whether it is under warranty, but just in case I spend my time mentally composing a demand letter in Spanish.

Day 2. I am in my glory. We climb almost 4,000 feet to Dead Woman’s Pass. For the numerically challenged, that is comparable to ascending about three Empire State Buildings (the official measure of elevation of the Walkabout blog). Think of climbing the stairs in your house. Then do it again. And again. For five hours. I am unstoppable. I race ahead of my comrades despite being possessed of more years than they collectively. Rain deluges me but out comes my trusty pancho and I skip not a beat. The sense of triumph on reaching the top at 14,000 feet is indescribable. I have set myself a formidable goal and persevered. I look out toward the awesome view of snowcapped Andes, forests and waterfalls that surround me – where is the next world for me to conquer?

My triumph is hardly dimmed when a beaming seven year old girl from Australia, known to us on the trail as the Amazing Phoebe, reaches the top shortly after I, to considerably more applause. On the way down from the pass on the other side I have a chance to chat with the Amazing P. It seems she is also on a three month voyage of adventure and discovery, without the burden of having worked 20 years only to be canned, while growing old and decrepit. On reflection, that is probably the better way to do it. Why wait? I urge all my seven year old readers to get cracking. Her next stop, by the way, is “America!,” which she pronounces with that adorable exclamation point. She is headed for Disneyworld, and is quite pleased when I mention that I am both an American and a personal friend of Mickey Mouse. So, Mickey, when you check in on this blog please be sure to show my good friend the Amazing Phoebe an especially good time when she comes your way.

Day 2 is an excellent day.

Day 3, not so much. Somewhere around midday my legs decide that they no longer wish to bend. I find this work stoppage inexplicable; they had functioned superbly on Day 2 when the heavy lifting was called for. Now they are letting me down when all I ask of them is to coast me down to the wreath of laurel awaiting me in Machu Picchu. I cannot tell you when I have been as let down by a body part as I was by those legs, at least not in a family blog. Fortunately, I am traveling with a full slate of physiotherapists and – while they prove useless in coaxing my legs back into activity – at least I have no shortage of people professionally obligated to listen to my whining. It seems that there are these tendons in my legs (and your’s too, I would guess if you are as unlucky as me) called ITBs. That stands for ilio tibio bands, though they might well be called “Incan Trail bands” since I’m pretty sure I’ve never used them for anything else. They can and do become inflamed by repetitive actions, such as walking up and down 4,000 feet of Incan steps. I hasten to add that this is considered a sports injury, not a decrepit old man injury, and hence can be worn as a badge of honor.

My on trail physiotherapist is a charming Scott named Ruth. Her main contribution to my treatment is to veto the application of any of my arsenal of high powered pharmaceuticals such as steroids or morphine drips as ineffective and habit forming. I don’t know how they train physiotherapists in Scotland, but they have hearts of stone. When I finally get back to my tour group physiotherapist – Erin – at Machu Picchu she is able to prescribe some stretching exercises which don’t do much other than make me look more dorky. Still, when your ITBs go out under exigent circumstances it is very comforting to know that there is a whole profession charged with humoring you about them. I now place physiotherapists high up on my list of what to pack when traveling, on a par with howler monkeys.

If you are contemplating hiking the Incan Trail, or a similar exertion, let me offer you some of the patronizing and blindingly obvious advice at which this blog excels – be sure that your ITBs are well exercised and in good shape before taking your first step! I cannot state this too emphatically! So I won’t!

For the remainder of Day 3 I am in the curious position of being able to walk uphill with no problem, but downhill only with excruciating agony. This is unfortunate since Day 3 requires descending some 3,000 feet. I experiment with several techniques. The first is a Frankenstein-like gait, keeping the legs rigid while descending. Beyond terrifying local villagers, this has the drawback that I am unable to control my speed and accelerate faster and faster with legs windmilling, sort of like Road Runner in the cartoons – not desirable as I am rounding narrow trails along thousand foot gorges and do not want to end up like Wiley Coyote. (I am reminded of the villain in a classic episode of Get Smart! He is in a wheel chair and can’t walk – however he can run.) The other technique is a crablike sideways two step. This is less perilous, but painfully slow and I limp into camp as the sun is setting to receive the applause of the porters, along with my welcoming cup of refreshing juice. I can tell what they are thinking “Sure he is a decrepit old man, but he has real heart. If only he had better ilio tibio bands…”

Day 4. I limp on in to Machu Picchu, to reunite with my beloved wife Kathy, to bask in the glory of at least having survived, and to encounter the first real bathroom in four days.

Editors Note: As the above text makes clear, Walkabout Dave did actually survive his ordeal on the Inca Trail, and is even now writing this Editors Note. He just used this hackneyed device in a cheap-assed attempt to create a little drama. He is very much looking forward to being able to write future posts in the more comfortable first person, past tense. – the Editor