Two days have passed since I finished the 4 day trek through the Andes to Macchu Picchu. I still haven't gathered my thoughts. Without a doubt, it was the most physically challenging thing I have done in my life and possibly my most amazing travel experience yet.

Hiking the Inca Trail without a tour group and a guide is now illegal, so I booked my trek three weeks before I left home. I had been looking forward to it (with both excitement and fear) ever since. I was a bit unlucky with my tour group - all were experience trekkers while I've never been on more than a day hike. They didn't seem to understand why I would make this trip with so little experience. Later, when I struggled over hills that barely made them sweat, they couldn't understand that I was having a fabulous time. My guide didn't understand either. I even caught him making fun of me in Spanish. His pet name for me was "the little weak one." The expression on his face when I told him I understood was one of the most satisfying moments of the trek. It was then that his attitude toward me changed from derision to respect.

Before I left, I decided that making it through the trek would depend on mental strategies rather than physical ones. If I had thought about 4 days of walking, I would have had a panic attack and given up. Instead, I decided I would focus on each stretch individually - I could handle the idea of walking for 10 steps, for 5 minutes, or for an hour. I also knew I would have to swallow my pride and competitiveness. The Inca Trail would not be a race. I promised myself that I would rest as often as I wanted to, even if it meant that I finished three hours behind everyone else. The trek would be about challenging myself, not being better than everyone else.

The first day is supposed to be the easiest of the trek, but I let myself get dehydrated, and that made it hard. I kept up with the group for an hour, then fell behind. To tell the truth, I didn't mind. The trail was beautiful - verdant green with snow-capped peaks in the background. I could hear the rush of the river below me, and when I closed my eyes, I could believe that the roar of the wind was actually the sound of surf pounding on a far-away shore. The only uphill stretch of the day was short -- about 30 minutes -- but very steep. I counted steps in between rest stops. Sometimes I made it 70, sometimes I made it 10. It doesn't matter, I told myself. I'll get there no matter how long it takes. When I felt extra tired and discouraged, I took a photo. It reminded me that no matter how exhausted I was, I was still in one of the most beautiful places I'd been in my life. It wasn't hard to go on after that. When the guide came to tell me that I was only a 10-minute walk from lunch, I scrambled to the top. At lunch, the cook offered to carry my bag at no extra charge. Traveling has shown me that people are basically kind - any time I've needed help someone has given it to me. After lunch, buoyed by the cook's generosity (and about a liter of water), I practically flew down the 2-hour walk to camp.

At dinner that night, I made friends with the porters. They asked me interesting questions: Why did I have only one sister? Are there thieves in New York City? Do lots of people in America speak Quechua (the native language of Peru)? Where did I get that nice flashlight? The answer to the last question is Wal-Mart, for $3. It was the cheapest I could find. It was a sobering reminder of the vast economic disparity between Peru and America.

The second day is the hardest day of trek. It is almost exclusively uphill and includes a 1500 foot climb over the ominously-named Dead Woman's Pass. In keeping with my promise to take care of myself and not push myself too hard, I hired a porter for the day. It seemed worth the $10 expense. The morning was the hardest. A 1,000 year-old-Inca staircase looped endlessly through a thick forest. I thought every bend must be the last, but there was always more. I walked with a Brazilian girl from another group. Victor, my guide, followed close behind, obnoxiously asking if we were okay everytime we sat down for a rest. I finished an hour behind the rest of the group but didn't care.

Then came the really hard part: the climb to Dead Woman's Pass. I could see it from the top of the stairs. It was almost straight up. There was a rest area, but I decided not to stop. I didn't want my body to relax just yet. Victor, perhaps driven away by my icy glares, sent a porter to walk beside me. I liked the porter better. When I was tired, he sat down to rest with me and told me to take my time. And take my time I did - I made a point of not looking at my watch, but I suspect that I sat down to rest every 3 minutes. Halfway to the top, icy rain began to pour down in sheets. I put on my raincoat and resolved not to think about it. After all, it was supposed to be a hard trip. I was already exhausted, so a little rain couldn't change things that much. The porter offered to carry me, but I wouldn't even give him my water bottle. I knew I would make it to the top. Along the way, I saw porters from cheaper, less scrupulous companies staggering under loads that probably weighed more than they did. Their cheeks were hollow and the bones of their faces stuck out sharply. I knew they had to be hungry, but they smiled at me as they passed. The sight of them continuing up the hill spurred me on and I reached the top not too long after everyone else.

In the lunch tent, I made a surprising discovery: I was having a better time than everyone else. Everyone had something to complain about. The wind was cold. The rain was wet. The toilet smelled like poo (what did they think it would smell like? petunias?). I, on the other hand, sat in my wet clothes feeling jubilant. I had made it over the top of a mountain! Nothing could bring me down, not even the 1,000 stairs (yes, literally, 1,000 stairs) downhill to our campsite.

Day three dawned cold and wet, but I didn't care. I had made it through the hardest day, so I knew I could tackle this one. Our first task was an hour-long climb up yet another original Inca staircase. I kept pace with the rest of the group easily, which didn't stop them from asking the dread question "are you okay?" every time I stopped to rest. People with misplaced maternalistic urges are annoying. Part two of the morning was harder. The so-called stairs were really a jumble of sharp, eroded rocks with a gurgling stream of rainwater through the middle. By some miracle, I made it all the way down with only one minor slip.

By the afternoon, the rain had cleared, leaving the trail shrouded in mist. The slopes were gentle and rolling and I made it through them easily. Predictably, the rest of the group complained that it wasn't sunny enough to see the mountains, but I loved how the fog made the forest and the ruins feel extra-mysterious. Mid-afternoon brought us to more steep staircases. Victor, having decided that I was probably very clumsy, decided to walk right behind me and grab me every time I wobbled. I hope I didn't snicker too loudly when he fell down.

The third campsite was a "luxury" campsite, complete with an enclosed dining area that sold sodas and cookies. I sucked down 3 Fantas and a Coke and went to bed feeling utterly satisfied -- there was only an hour and a half of walking tomorrow morning. I had almost made it!

We arose at 4 the next morning and ate breakfast quickly. Our goal was to reach Macchu Picchu in time for sunrise. I thought it would be scary to hike in the dark, but it was fun. The stars were brilliant and we worked as a team, calling out instructions like "steep stairs!" and "watch out for those tree branches!" As the sky gradually grew lighter, we knew we would miss our goal. I didn't mind though. Sunrise, in my experience, looks a lot like sunset.

The first half of the walk was easy, so I never stopped to rest or take a drink. I sincerely regretted that when I reached the nearly vertical staircase separating me from The Gate of the Sun, the first place from which Macchu Picchu is actually visible. I used my last bit of strength to pull myself up, and then plunked down on the ground for 10 minutes. Victor almost asked me if I was okay, but I think my glare put him off. I took the rest of the walk slowly, oddly reluctant for it to end. When I reached Macchu Picchu, I understood instantly why it was part of the Sacred Valley. Long green and golden grass swept over ancient, perfectly carved stones. Everything was beautiful in the early morning light. There was almost no sound. I remembered Victor saying us that the Incas cared as much about the future as they did about the present and felt chills down my spine when I looked at the perfectly-preserved city. Turning my back on Macchu Picchu was almost as hard as the trek itself. I had worked so hard to get there and I didn't want to leave its beauty and its peace behind. But three hours later, with my body crying out for a bed and a shower, I had no choice. In all my travels, I've never felt like I earned the right to see something, but I definitely deserved to be at Macchu Picchu. In spite of all the difficulty, if I could do it again, I would (though I might spend more time on the stairmaster first).

For more photos from Macchu Picchu, please click here.

~Meredith