The Salkantay is One of the World’s Best Treks: Here’s How Not To Hike It

The name of Salkantay Mountain originates from the Quechuan word ‘sallqa’, meaning wild, savage, or invincible. The 64km Salkantay Trek to Machu Picchu – and the daily climbs of over 1400m involved – lived up to all three of these definitions, testing our limits when we least expected it. We certainly didn’t anticipate having to complete the four to five day Salkantay Trek in only two days.

Let’s go back to the beginning.

A Chaotic Colectivo

Whether lugging your gear onto a train, sticking to out-and-back routes or doing a car shuffle (real cars, not the dance move!), the hardest part of any hike is the logistical nightmare of getting to the trailhead. For our Salkantay Trek, our nightmare saw us riding in a colectivo that we spotted near an unassuming servo in the otherwise majestic Cusco.

What’s a colectivo? They’re the shared minibuses that dominate Latin American roads, famous for being overfilled way beyond capacity, having inconveniently-timed flat tyres, and suffocatingly hot interiors. We tried to recoup some much-needed sleep onboard our sauna on wheels with little luck. Instead we sat anxiously, waiting for the seemingly inevitable thump of our loosely-tied packs flying off the top of the vehicle.

The older lady sitting next to me was growing impatient with the never-ending series of stops. ‘Vamos’, she muttered under her breath. Translation: ‘let’s go’.

Vamos, indeed.

See, we had jumped off our overnight bus from La Paz that morning and the wild goose chase to find the colectivo had taken us to 11am. We had just over three days to complete the Salkantay, find tickets for Machu Picchu, climb its steps, and race to Lima in time for our return flight.

Who knew ‘baño’ (bathroom) signs in La Paz could be this scenic?

When our driver had finally packed 18 people into the 14-seater colectivo, it was already 1pm, and all hope for a relaxed, sustainably-paced hike was gone.

Finally, we arrived at Mollepata, paid our entry fee for the nature reserve, and found a taxi to take us down a road almost as sketchy and concerning as the Bolivian Death Road we had survived just last week. 

By the time our packs hit the dusty trailhead at Soraypampa – altitude, 3850m – it was too late to start the climb up Salkantay. We cut our losses and decided to acclimatise to the lower oxygen levels with a hike to Laguna Humantay at an altitude of 4200m.

The Unrelenting Impediment of Horse Shit

We had mentally prepared for a 5:30am wake up the morning after returning from Humantay, but that didn’t make it any easier. There was no electricity in our room and the rotting wooden plank pretending to be a door barely closed, making for a terrifyingly cold night. I miserably fumbled through my pack with numb fingers, searching for my headlamp, gloves, beanie, and as many layers as possible.

Standing in the doorway of our room, Humantay lies straight ahead, while Salkantay peers over its shoulder on the right, offering an even more intimidating challenge.

We both stepped outside and faced the biting air, our breath forming misty clouds in front of our noses. Any other day I would’ve run around pretending to be a steam train, but the anticipation of what lay ahead subdued any childish antics. So, in silence, clipping our hip belts together and tightening the straps, we set off on our journey to the Salkantay Pass.

We soon came face to face with the first of our formidable opponents. Horses and mules trotted alongside us, carrying gear and water for other groups on the trail. Every so often they would break into a determined gallop, forcing us to leap to the side of the trail to avoid a painful hoof to the thigh. However, while the horses behind us watched with eagerness for opportunities to trip us up, we had to keep our eyes to the front to guard ourselves from the products of other horses’ behinds. Dodging the constant patter of horse poop that was tarring the trail, we didn’t even realise how much the altitude was affecting us as we rose.

A steep descent along a gravel trail helped me get used to falling flat on my face

Just Keep Going

Tom and I have very different hiking styles. With a stride double the length of mine, he powers up ascents in short bursts. I, however, like to think of myself as the tortoise from Aesop’s trail running-inspired fable. Slow and steady, taking minimal breaks. While Tom is busy catching his breath, I catch up. But this ascent threw all of our usual hiking strategies out of the window. We only had one goal in mind: get to the top no matter what.

Reaching the breathtaking (quite literally) 4630m apex of Salkantay Pass at 10am was the first step in inflating our egos ever so slightly. Our confidence would cause us some problems down the line, but for now we were flying – flying down the gravel descent to Wayraqmacchay (altitude, 3900m) and flying into the humid rainforest biome that the Machu Picchu Biosphere Reserve is known for.

We reached Challuay at 1pm, in time for a much-awaited lunch. We had walked 22km since leaving Soraypampa, marking the end of the first day for most hikers. 

‘I’m feeling pretty good.’ My overconfidence was starting to show.

‘Yeah, I’m down to keep going. As long as we reach a town to sleep at before sunset.’ 

For better or worse, Tom and I are usually on the same page.

A drop toilet and a small shop in Wayraqmacchay – each Salkantay Trek ‘communidad’ was like an oasis

Should Be Alright

And just like that we flung ourselves deep into the Andean terrain. Descents and ascents with illusory switchbacks tested the integrity of our joints. We hopped between the communidads, weaving in and out of horse traffic and sprawling coffee and avocado plantations. But the warmer conditions brought with it a species that outperforms mosquitos at their own job and leaves bloody spots in their wake – sandflies.

There was nowhere in Sahuayaco for us to sleep so we willed our ankles to hold on a bit longer, limped our way into Lucmabamba and completed our 40th kilometre of the day. As two 19-year-old students we were on a strict budget and had been very restrictive when withdrawing cash for the hike back in Cusco.

But our desperation was as real as it could ever be. And with our combined total of 113 Peruvian soles, we paid for a place to sleep and breakfast the next morning. We had nothing left for water or snacks, but that was a problem for tomorrow.

That night we prioritised relaxation. After prying our shoes and socks off, tearing pieces of skin off in the process, we joined the other hikers staying the night. Two Argentinian hitchhikers told us about their month of joining protests and sleeping under the stars. A videographer from the US recounted his weeks spent filming a documentary in the Amazon.

And then there was us. The slightly loony Australians way out of their depth, battered, bruised, but absolutely loving it.

We had at least 24km to hike today and if I wasn’t going to be able to have enough food, I at least wanted some undisturbed sleep beforehand. Alas, roosters. 

The ascent to Llactapata (altitude, 2700m) and its mysterious Incan ruins was surprisingly breezy, despite the lack of sleep. But our hope for a relatively easy day was shattered as soon as we began our descent. My knees barely survived the two hours and I made a mental note to invest in some trekking poles as soon as we got back to Cusco.

Looking out from the Llactapata Ruins, Machu Picchu is lost in the clouds

You’re Not You When You’re Hungry

When the famous words on the Snickers bar stared back at me, they were truer than I’d like to admit. We were unrecognisable by the time we stumbled and groaned our way into Hidroelectrica.

When we saw that the stores in this town accepted cards, we came back to life and scoffed down as much food as we could. But our journey of self-inflicted pain was far from over. In fact, we had to follow the train tracks for ten more long kilometres, subjecting our ankles to hundreds of twists and turns over the rocky route.

Poetic Endings

As we neared Aguas Calientes (rough translation, ‘hot waters’), it became harder and harder to distract ourselves from the pain and discomfort in our legs. In a miserable effort to at least keep myself preoccupied I challenged Tom to recite random world records. He was halfway through recounting Eliud Kipchoge’s 2022 marathon world record when we realised the floor beneath our tired feet was no longer dirt. We had arrived!

The Salkantay Trek and the more widely known Inca Trail converge at Aguas Calientes, the Machu Picchu Pueblo

But, while the name of the town referred to the neighbouring hot springs, we were definitely in hot water in more ways than one.

There’s not much else to say other than the heartbreaking, but in hindsight, rather amusing, truth. We finally arrived at the Machu Picchu ticket booth, only to find out that it had closed two minutes earlier. There were no tickets available until Saturday and there was no chance that we would make it back in time if we waited.

Instead, we looked around in silence, unwilling to even acknowledge the situation, and made a beeline straight to the pizza shop nearby.

We slumped down in the seats and when we finally tried to get back to our feet, our joints were hit with all 64km of fatigue simultaneously. We sat back down and didn’t get up for hours.

While we never saw Machu Picchu up close, the Salkantay gifted us the adventure of a lifetime.

Want more overseas adventures?

• Italy’s Iron Way: When Via Ferrata Routes Aren’t Quite as Straight Forward as Expected
• Everything You Need to Know About Hiking the Camino de Santiago
• 5 Best Hikes in Vanuatu
• Sake, Snow, and Silent Treks: A Week in Japan’s Central Chūbu Region