I started out this sabbatical year with travel to six countries across three continents. I completed the first phase of this rumspringa of sorts in Peru, where I embarked on a yoga retreat with my dear friends Harlie and Jodi. Our two-week adventure included a hike on the Short Inca Trail to Machu Picchu.
Hiking to Machu Picchu is a long-held dream of mine, so when Jodi suggested it, I leapt without remembering that A) I am 60 years old, and B) some serious training will be required. My best preparation intentions collided with end-of-school year madness, and I wound up having just a few sessions with a personal trainer before our trip. In addition, I only hiked when the Phoenix temps were low enough to keep the rattlesnakes off the trail. Which is, to say, not very often in the month of May.
But I am an experienced long-distance hiker. I hiked the Camino de Santiago in Spain, Portugal, and France six times. I trekked the Dingle Way in Ireland. I went down and up the Grand Canyon in a day. Each time I felt underprepared, and each time I was able to complete the journey. I carried this sense of self-efficacy (read: cockiness) into our Peruvian adventure.
My confidence grew when I met the 15 women and one man who were part of the retreat. The mean age of our group was north of 60, and some were even in their 70s. They were a freakishly fit group - being yogis and all - but still I felt like I could keep up.
On the night before Machu Picchu, we took part in a Pachamanca, a traditional Peruvian meal cooked under the earth. While the food was being prepared, the retreat leaders led us through a fire ceremony. We were asked to write one thing we would like to release from our lives on a small piece of paper and throw it into the fire.
I couldn’t stick to one thing. My list was loooong, and I was hoping no one else could see it. But I settled on one main idea, “Release the perceived judgements of others.” I threw the paper into the fire, where it promptly blew back out - with one small edge hooked to the fire - for everyone to see what I wrote. I just stared at the half-burning paper not knowing quite what to do. I quickly tapped, tapped, tapped the paper back into the flames somehow managing not to burn my fingers as I did.
The Inca gods clearly have a sense of humor.
The next morning, we started off on a train with beautiful glass ceilings to better see the wonder of the Andes. We stopped at KM 104 to begin what would likely be a 5-7 hour hike. We were brimming with excitement as we extended our legs and our hiking poles and set out.
As we began the hike, our lead Inca Trail guide, Antonio, commented that my pack looked heavy. “Oh, I’ve walked 200 miles with a 20-lb pack. This is nothing!” (See above: cockiness; Also: forgetting that I’m now 60.) It is true that my pack was too heavy for a day hike. What was in it? Mostly fear, in the form of too much water, too many snacks, and assorted unnecessary gear.
Due to recent storms, the traditional Short Inca trail had been altered, and our path would include a series of steeper climbs and switchbacks. Before setting out, I calculated that the ascent portion of the hike would take about 2-3 hours. After about the fourth switchback, I knew I was in trouble.
As the climb progressed, Antonio switched places with the “sweeper” who was a second guide assigned to bookend the turtles of our group, and I was the final turtle. Antonio cheerfully chatted me up for a while before saying, bluntly, “I think this will go much better if I carry your pack for you.” This despite the fact that Antonio had a pack of his own.
If you’ve known me for a minute, you would know my automatic response would be to protest, “No - I’ve got it!” But one look at the intensity in Antonio’s eyes, and I realized the decision to hand it over was made for me. I was embarrassed. I felt called out . . . and then the inner beatings commenced.
”I should have trained better.” “Who am I to think I could hike to Machu Picchu at age 60?” “I did it again - made ambitious plans and failed to prepare.” “As usual, I’m the slowest one.”
It didn’t help that the second guide asked me at one point, “Did you not train for this?”
But the worst was yet to come. After hours of grueling, we rounded the corner to where we would stop for lunch, and there facing me all in a row were the other retreat-goers, well into their brown bags and looking quite refreshed. It was then that I saw one of the retreat leader’s jaw drop as she spotted Antonio sporting two packs. The heat rose through my face. Perceived judgment! The thing I tossed into the fire the night before, and yet it’s still there . . .
And then it hit me - this is less about one possibly-judgy yogi and more about the voice that runs through my own head. I teach my positive psychology students about practicing self-compassion, but sometimes I forget to apply it to my own life. I remembered my lessons and talked myself down as we wound our way to the Machu Picchu ruins.
By that time, I had taken my pack back from Antonio. But then we came upon the Monkey Steps (also referred to as the “Gringo Killer”), a steep stone staircase most people need to use both hands and feet to climb. “Do you want me to carry your pack?” Antonio asked, this time with less urgency and with maybe a little challenging smile. I said, “No, I think I’ve got this.”
As I emerged at the top of the Monkey Steps, Antonio shouted, “You are Wonder Woman!” How compassionate is that? The choice is always there to nurture instead of nitpick, to show compassion to others as well as ourselves. Now, sometimes when I am in need of some self-kindness, this wonder woman channels Antonio.
