Where the Air Gets Thin and the Soul Gets Quiet: Our Trek to Machu Picchu

Where the Air Gets Thin and the Soul Gets Quiet: Our Trek to Machu Picchu

There’s a moment in every big adventure where your body wants to quit—but your heart won’t let you.

For me, that moment came long before our Salkantay Trek even began—on a “warm-up” trip to Rainbow Mountain.

We’d just arrived in Peru, and like any overconfident traveler, I figured I’d be fine at high altitude. After all, I work out, hike regularly, and figured a short trek to a colorful mountain would be no big deal.

I was wrong.

Halfway up the trail, the air got razor-thin. My lungs refused to cooperate. Every 10 steps, I’d have to stop or risk blacking out. My vision tunneled. My head spun. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears.

To top it off, instead of the famous rainbow-colored ridges you see in travel photos, it started snowing—hard. The wind howled. The temperature dropped. Visibility disappeared. The landscape went from “Instagram-perfect” to pure white chaos in minutes.

It was humbling, uncomfortable, and kind of terrifying.
But it also taught me something: the Andes don’t care how fit you think you are.
They demand respect, patience, and humility.

That brutal day became the best possible teacher for the journey ahead. Because 2 days later, when we began the Salkantay Trek to Machu Picchu, I already knew how to listen to my body, slow my pace, and embrace the challenge instead of fighting it, and the challenge beat me the entire time.

The Journey: Five Days That Felt Like a Lifetime

It started like most adventures do—not with a roar, but with a thin mountain breeze and a cup of coca tea in Cusco. Our group gathered early, still half asleep and wrapped in layers, climbing into the van that would take us toward the trailhead.

By the time we reached the mountains above Soraypampa, the world had changed. The air was thinner, the sky sharper, and our boots hit the dirt for the first time. That first hike to Humantay Lake felt like stepping into a painting—turquoise water framed by snowcapped peaks, clouds drifting low enough to touch. It was the kind of beauty that makes you quiet.

The next morning came early, and the real test began: The Salkantay Pass.
At over 15,000 feet, it’s not just the incline that gets you—it’s the altitude. Every step felt like climbing with a backpack full of bricks. My head pounded. My lungs protested. A few of us battled light altitude sickness. But the guides were incredible—encouraging, patient, and always ready with hot tea or a hand on the shoulder and for me, I cheated on the hardest part and rode a horse up to keep me from getting to sick from the altitude. 

When we finally crested the pass, wind tearing at our jackets, it felt like triumph. The glacier loomed massive and ancient before us. The air was so clear it almost burned. I remember laughing—not because it was funny, but because relief and awe collided into something wordless.

From there, everything changed again. The alpine world melted into cloud forest—lush, green, alive with birds and waterfalls. The temperature rose. The oxygen returned. That night, we collapsed into camp, exhausted but proud, over plates of surprisingly amazing food (seriously, how our cooks turned out multi-course meals in the middle of nowhere, I’ll never understand).

The following days blurred into rhythm: walk, eat, laugh, repeat.
We crossed rivers, spotted orchids, met local farmers selling coffee, and shared trail snacks with new friends. By the fourth day, the jungle had swallowed the mountains behind us, and the anticipation of Machu Picchu buzzed through every campsite.

When we finally stood in front of it—after days of sweat, blisters, and laughter—the view didn’t hit all at once. It crept in quietly. The terraces. The stone walls. The mist weaving through the ruins like memory.

We had made it. Not as tourists checking off a list, but as travelers who earned every inch of that trail.

The Real Challenges

The trek wasn’t easy.
The altitude was real—headaches, shortness of breath, restless sleep. Blisters became constant companions. Some mornings, my legs protested every step.

But those challenges bonded us. The laughter at dinner, the shared cups of coca tea, the moments we helped each other over slippery rocks—those are what I remember most. The exhaustion faded, but the connection didn’t.

The Unexpected Joys

There’s something special about the contrasts on the Salkantay Trek.
One day, you’re shivering under a glacier; the next, you’re sweating through the jungle surrounded by butterflies. You eat gourmet-level food cooked on a camp stove. You sleep under a billion stars, listening to rivers rush in the dark.

It was humbling. Beautiful. Spiritual, even.

What I Learned on the Trail

1. Altitude humbles everyone.
   It doesn’t matter how fit you are—nature always gets the last word.
2. Small comforts matter.
   Fresh socks, blister tape, good snacks, and patience will save your spirit.
3. Good guides make great adventures.
   Ours were part Sherpa, part chef, part comedian, and full-time encouragers.
4. Community transforms challenge.
   You start as strangers and end as a tribe.
5. Adventure gives meaning.
   There’s something primal about earning your way to a place like Machu Picchu.

Why Big Adventures Still Matter

Most of what we do at EverTrail Co.™ celebrates microadventures—the everyday hikes, local trails, and spontaneous weekend getaways that help families connect.

But this trek reminded me that every now and then, we need something bigger.
Something that pushes our limits.
Something that reminds us who we are and what we’re capable of.

That’s what Peru gave me.
A wild landscape that demanded my best, friends who gave me strength, and moments that reminded me what it means to feel alive.

Because whether it’s a mountain pass in the Andes or a short trail behind your house, the truth is the same—
Adventure doesn’t just change your surroundings. It changes you.