Salkantay Trek to Machu Picchu: My First Real Taste of the High Andes

I was 19 years old when I packed my bags and headed to South America for three months. Two months in Bolivia, another in Peru, a few Spanish classes, homestays with local families, and a rather ambitious idea that I was going to spend as much time exploring as possible.

At that point in my life, I was just beginning to understand what traveling could offer beyond seeing new places. I was curious about different cultures, interested in learning Spanish, and excited by the prospect of living somewhere unfamiliar for an extended period. I wanted to understand how people lived, eat whatever was put in front of me, and find my way into experiences that weren’t necessarily available through a travel brochure.

I was also beginning to discover the mountains.

I’d always been drawn to wild landscapes, but until that trip, my understanding of trekking was considerably more theoretical than practical. I liked the idea of long days hiking through remote places, surrounded by enormous peaks, carrying everything I needed on my back.

As it turned out, I was particularly enthusiastic about that last part.

I packed far too much.

And Bolivia was about to teach me a few things.

A rather unpleasant introduction to trekking

During my time in Bolivia, I went trekking in the mountains, excited to finally spend several days exploring the Andes on foot. I had the enthusiasm of someone discovering a new passion and the packing abilities of someone preparing to relocate permanently to the wilderness.

My backpack was unnecessarily heavy, and the experience was much harder than I’d anticipated.

It didn’t help that I became seriously ill. I contracted giardia during the trek and then developed typhoid fever later that same week, which made an already demanding experience substantially less enjoyable.

There are few things quite as effective at humbling a nineteen-year-old as getting sick in a foreign country while discovering that carrying excessive weight through the mountains isn’t nearly as romantic as it sounds.

I remember being disappointed by how much I struggled to enjoy the experience. The landscapes were remarkable, and this was exactly the sort of adventure I’d wanted, but I wasn’t in much of a position to appreciate it.

I’d gone into the mountains expecting to feel capable and adventurous. Instead, I was tired, uncomfortable, and becoming familiar with my own limitations much faster than I’d expected.

It wasn’t a particularly graceful beginning.

But it also didn’t put me off the mountains.

If anything, it made me realize how much I still had to learn.

A second chance in Peru

After Bolivia, I continued into Peru, where I eventually took on the Salkantay Trek to Machu Picchu.

The route travels through the Peruvian Andes, crossing a high mountain pass beneath the snow-covered slopes of Salkantay before descending into green valleys and cloud forest on the approach to Machu Picchu.

It’s an extraordinary way to experience this part of Peru because the journey feels like several completely different landscapes woven together.

There are exposed mountain slopes, long switchbacks, enormous peaks, alpine terrain, and eventually an almost unbelievable amount of green.

I remember feeling much more connected to the experience than I had during my earlier trek in Bolivia. It was still physically challenging, and I was hardly an experienced hiker, but this time I was enjoying the process.

There was something deeply satisfying about waking up in the mountains, spending the day on foot, and gradually watching the landscape change around us.

I liked the simplicity of it.

You wake up, pack your things, eat, and walk. The day’s main objective is usually somewhere farther along the trail, and nearly everything else becomes secondary.

At nineteen, that felt like an entirely different way of living.

The long way up

One of the things I remember most clearly about Salkantay is the climbing.

The switchbacks seemed to wind endlessly upward, tracing their way across the mountainsides as we gained elevation. Every turn revealed another stretch of trail, another slope to climb, and another view that made stopping for a moment feel entirely reasonable.

The higher we went, the more dramatic the landscape became.

The green valleys began to fall away behind us, and the mountains took on a harsher appearance. There was more rock, less vegetation, and eventually snow-covered terrain that made the entire environment feel increasingly remote.

I remember looking toward those snowy slopes and feeling a mixture of excitement and disbelief that I was actually there.

Until then, mountains had largely been something I admired from a distance or experienced on shorter adventures. This was different. We were spending days moving through them, gaining elevation slowly, and beginning to understand their scale in a way that photographs never quite communicate.

And the altitude was becoming increasingly noticeable.

For the first time in my life, I was approaching 15,000 feet.

My first time above 15,000 feet

Salkantay Pass sits at approximately 4,630 meters, or 15,190 feet, making it the highest point on the classic trekking route.

Crossing that elevation was a milestone for me.

Not because I had some grand mountaineering ambition at nineteen or understood where the mountains might eventually take me. I simply knew that I’d never been that high before, and I was fascinated by the experience.

The climbing was demanding. The air was thinner, every uphill stretch required more effort, and the mountains surrounding us seemed enormous.

Salkantay itself rises to approximately 6,271 meters, towering above the route with its steep, snow-covered slopes. Standing in that environment, I began to appreciate the difference between looking at a mountain and physically moving through the landscape beneath it.

Everything feels bigger when you’re there.

The distances are deceptive, the weather feels more consequential, and even something as simple as walking requires a little more attention.

I was challenged, certainly, but I was also enjoying myself.

There’s a particular satisfaction that comes from reaching a high point after hours of climbing, turning around, and seeing just how far you’ve traveled on your own two feet.

I remember that feeling from Salkantay.

And it has followed me into nearly every mountain range I’ve explored since.

Trading snow for the cloud forest

If the climb toward Salkantay Pass introduced me to the beauty of high mountain terrain, the descent showed me just how dramatically a landscape could transform over the course of a few days.

We left the rocky, exposed elevations behind and gradually descended into greener valleys. The air became warmer, the vegetation more abundant, and the snow-covered surroundings gave way to mountainsides covered in thick green foliage.

Then came the cloud forest.

I remember being completely captivated by the color.

Everything seemed extraordinarily green. Vegetation grew densely along the trails, moisture hung in the air, and the mountains that had felt cold and severe near the pass were suddenly covered in layers of plant life.

There was a richness to the landscape that felt almost tropical, particularly after spending time in the sparse terrain higher up.

I think that’s one of the most remarkable aspects of trekking in the Andes. You’re not simply walking through one type of scenery for several days. The elevation changes can carry you between entirely different environments, each with its own climate, vegetation, and character.

On Salkantay, that transformation was beautiful.

It also made the journey feel like an adventure in its own right, rather than simply a long approach to Machu Picchu.

And eventually, after days of walking, we reached the mountains beneath one of the most famous archaeological sites in the world.

A night beneath Machu Picchu

We camped below Machu Picchu before making the final ascent the following morning.

There was something special about knowing that the ancient city was somewhere above us, tucked into the mountains we’d spent days traveling through.

I’d been exploring South America for months by then, learning Spanish, staying with local families, and experiencing cultures that were very different from the one I’d grown up in.

And now I was preparing to visit a place that brought together two things I’d become increasingly fascinated by: the history of the people who lived in these mountains and the extraordinary geography surrounding them.

We woke the next morning and began hiking upward.

After several days crossing the Andes, there was a wonderful sense of anticipation about finally reaching Machu Picchu. We’d spent so much time moving through the landscape that arriving on foot felt like a natural continuation of the experience.

And then the city came into view.

Machu Picchu is difficult to explain

There are places in the world that are so heavily photographed that you begin to wonder whether seeing them in person can possibly live up to the expectations.

Machu Picchu isn’t one of those places.

At least, it certainly wasn’t for me.

I remember being struck by the setting before anything else. The ancient stone structures and terraces sit among steep, impossibly green mountains, with valleys dropping away and clouds moving through the surrounding landscape.

The architecture is remarkable, but it’s the relationship between the city and its environment that makes the experience so extraordinary.

You find yourself looking at the stonework, then up at the surrounding peaks, then back at the city, trying to understand how people built something so intricate in such a dramatic location.

After days of walking through the mountains, I felt particularly connected to that geography.

We’d crossed high elevations, descended through cloud forest, and approached Machu Picchu slowly enough to appreciate how varied and challenging the surrounding terrain could be.

And there it was, this extraordinary place that had existed long before any of us arrived to admire it.

It was a beautiful cultural experience and one of the most memorable moments from those three months in South America.

Apparently, though, I still had some energy left.

Because we decided to climb Huayna Picchu.

One more mountain: Huayna Picchu

Huayna Picchu is the steep mountain rising behind Machu Picchu in so many of its famous photographs.

Climbing it offered a completely different perspective on the archaeological site.

The trail rises steeply above the ruins, with stone steps and exposed sections that demand attention. As we climbed, Machu Picchu gradually became smaller beneath us, and the surrounding mountains and valleys seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction.

From above, you begin to appreciate just how extraordinary the location really is.

The city sits within this dramatic mountain landscape, surrounded by steep slopes and dense vegetation. It’s difficult to imagine somewhere more visually striking to build a settlement.

For me, the climb was a fitting conclusion to the trek.

After days spent crossing the Andes, reaching the high pass, and descending through cloud forest, we were now looking down over the very place we’d traveled so far to see.

I was nineteen, thousands of miles from home, and beginning to realize how much I enjoyed being in the mountains.

The beginning of something much bigger

It’s interesting to look back on that journey now.

Since those early experiences in Bolivia and Peru, the mountains have become a significant part of my life. I’ve climbed Kilimanjaro, Aconcagua, Denali, and Mount Rainier, trekked through the Himalayas, and spent weeks exploring the Karakoram on the way to K2 Base Camp and over Gondogoro La.

I’ve experienced considerably higher elevations, more demanding expeditions, and mountain environments that require a level of preparation my nineteen-year-old self wouldn’t have known where to begin with.

But there’s something about Salkantay that still stands out.

It was one of the first times I genuinely enjoyed the process of moving through the mountains over several days. I wasn’t simply trying to reach a destination or prove something to myself. I was discovering how much I appreciated being immersed in those landscapes.

The long climbs, the early starts, the sense of anticipation around the next bend, and the way the scenery changes as you move through different elevations.

All of those things became part of what I would eventually come to love about mountaineering.

And in a funny way, I think the experience in Bolivia made Salkantay even more meaningful.

My first attempt had been difficult. I’d gotten sick, carried far too much weight, and struggled to enjoy much of the experience. It would have been easy to decide that trekking simply wasn’t for me.

Instead, I tried again.

And discovered an entirely different side of the mountains.

I’m not sure I appreciated the significance of that at nineteen. I was simply enjoying an extraordinary trip through Peru.

But looking back, I can see that those early experiences began shaping something that would continue to evolve over the following years.

Not necessarily a desire to stand on the highest summits or chase increasingly difficult objectives, although I’ve certainly developed an appetite for both.

It was a fascination with what happens when you place yourself in an unfamiliar environment, take on something challenging, and discover a little more about the world and your own capabilities along the way.

That’s what the mountains continue to offer me.

And Salkantay was one of the first places where I began to understand it.

Still discovering the mountains

I sometimes think about how differently I approach the mountains today compared with that first trip through South America.

I’ve become more intentional about preparation, equipment, acclimatization, and understanding the risks involved. I have a much better appreciation for what can go wrong, and a great deal more respect for the people whose knowledge and experience make these journeys possible.

I also understand that the most meaningful part of a mountain adventure isn’t always the highest point.

Sometimes it’s the people you meet, the landscapes you move through, or the simple experience of spending several days completely removed from your ordinary routine.

At nineteen, I was discovering all of that for the first time.

And while I’ve been fortunate enough to experience extraordinary mountains since then, I still recognize the curiosity that took me into the Andes all those years ago.

There’s always another mountain, another landscape, another part of the world I want to understand.

But I’m grateful that somewhere in the middle of those first three months in South America, after a rather unfortunate introduction to trekking in Bolivia, I gave the mountains another chance.

They’ve been part of my life ever since.