Where Pachamama Said “Stay Longer” (and My Boots Said “Absolutely Not”)
I wasn’t about to come all the way to Peru and not hike at least part of the Inca Trail. That just felt like showing up to Paris and skipping bread. So when I saw that Backroads had a hiking trip starting the day after my yoga retreat ended, I took it as a very clear message from Pachamama: you are not done here yet. Extend the trip. Keep going.
My friend Della needed very little convincing (the sign was apparently sent to her too), so she flew in Saturday and we met in Cusco. It felt like a full-circle moment because Barb and Jonah were still there, and the four of us reunited at the monastery hotel like two separate weeks of my life colliding in the best possible way.
We kicked things off with a late lunch at Chicha—great atmosphere, full menu, and yes… cuy. Guinea pig. Before you panic, this was not the full situation with head and feet staring back at you. This was more of a “small, polite introduction to guinea pig,” and honestly? It was good. If you didn’t know what it was, you’d just think, “Oh, nice little protein moment.”
Back at the Monastery Hotel (which is exactly as fancy as it sounds), I was reunited with something I had missed deeply: a truly fluffy bed. The kind that makes you briefly consider canceling all future plans.
They also had cultural demonstrations on property, including a young woman weaving and selling her goods. Naturally, we found a hat that was absolutely meant for Della. Some things in life just present themselves.
The hotel offers an art and history tour across their two properties, so we signed up. We saw original Inca walls, learned about the convent next door, and even peeked at a “lazy Susan” style window where nuns used to sell goods without ever making eye contact—which, frankly, feels like a system we should consider bringing back.
Our guide was incredibly knowledgeable. Enthusiastic. Thorough. Possibly… too thorough.
About an hour in, we turned a corner and were met with a hallway lined—floor to ceiling—with paintings. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. And it became clear she was planning to stop at each one like we were on a very sacred episode of Antiques Roadshow: Colonial Peru Edition.
To be fair, the history was fascinating. Spanish artists had come over to teach local painters how to depict Mary, Christ, and biblical scenes—but since no one had actually seen the Middle East, they improvised. So Mary started looking a little like Pachamama, angels had wings inspired by local birds, and at the Last Supper… they were serving guinea pig. Which honestly tracks.
But at some point, Della and I locked eyes and silently agreed: we were not going to survive this hallway.
She tried subtle cues—foot tapping, gently redirecting questions toward “what’s next”—but our guide was committed. And then… the guide touched a painting. Just… reached out and touched it. As the daughter of an art teacher, I felt my entire upbringing leave my body.
So we did what any reasonable people would do—we fabricated a dinner reservation and made a polite but urgent escape. The reservation, for the record, required us to be in pajamas in our room.
Sunday we officially started the Backroads portion of the trip, meeting our group in the courtyard along with our guides—Connor (New England calm) and Volker (German efficiency with a side of tarantula curiosity).
We set out on our first hike, and somewhere along the trail I looked down and realized my hiking boots—faithful, well-loved, freshly waterproofed—were disintegrating. Just… falling apart mid-step.
If you’ve read my past adventures, you’ll know this is not my first footwear betrayal. And yes, I now keep duct tape in every car I own. But apparently not in my hiking bag, which feels like a personal oversight.
Enter Connor, hero of the Andes, who casually produced duct tape and rebuilt my boots on the spot. We wrapped them like a roadside emergency project, and I continued on looking like someone who had lost a bet—but at least I could walk.
We had a beautiful lunch and then visited the Maras salt pans—these incredible terraced pools fed by natural springs where salt is harvested once the dry season hits. Even in the rainy season, it was stunning. And watching people carry heavy loads of salt up those steep hills really put our “light hiking day” into perspective.
At that point, we were asked to walk down into the valley to our hotel. I took one look at my taped-together shoes and made a very mature decision: I would be taking the bus. Sometimes growth looks like knowing when to sit down.
We arrived at Hotel Sol y Luna, which may have been the most charming place of the entire trip. Della described it as having “White Lotus vibes,” which felt accurate—minus the impending doom.
That night we had dinner near the horse stables, a Pisco sour demonstration (important life skill), and a cooking demo where I somehow ended up participating, learning how to make the soup we were about to eat like I was auditioning for Peruvian Top Chef.
Strong start to the hiking portion. Only one pair of boots down.
The next morning we headed to Ollantaytambo with JJ—Juan José Vilcas—our local guide and now one of my favorite humans.
On the drive, I noticed many buildings looked unfinished—rebar sticking out the top, extra levels half-built. Connor explained this is sometimes jokingly called “Peruvian Impressionism Architecture.” If the house isn’t technically finished, you don’t pay taxes. Plus, there’s this hopeful idea that the next generation will keep building upward. It’s both practical and oddly poetic.
When we arrived, it happened to be the first day of school, and the town was alive with kids in uniforms, parents taking photos, and a full-on parade. It felt so universal—first-day excitement looks the same everywhere.
Then we climbed the ruins. This was our first real introduction to altitude + stairs, which is a humbling combination. But the views were incredible, and afterward we hiked along the river to a picnic lunch that can only be described as “Backroads picnic on steroids.” Beautiful, abundant, and slightly excessive in the best way.
As we walked through town, JJ pointed out what was original Inca construction versus Spanish additions, summing it up perfectly as: “Incas versus Incapables.” I will never forget that.
Meanwhile, Volker was intermittently flipping rocks in search of tarantulas. I personally preferred that they remain theoretical creatures, but I was fully prepared to document one—from a safe and respectful distance.
After lunch, we drove up to the high Andean village of Huilloc to meet Dolores and her family. They showed us traditional weaving techniques and introduced us to their way of life—and their guinea pigs, which were undeniably adorable… and also clearly part of the future menu. It’s a complicated emotional experience.
There was an optional visit to a pottery studio afterward, and I’m fairly certain my mother would have wanted me to go. But I was tired in a way that only altitude and hiking can produce, and the idea of returning to that cozy room—possibly sitting in a hot tub before dinner—won by a landslide.
Sometimes culture is saying yes to the pottery. And sometimes culture is knowing when you are the pottery… and you need to be placed gently back on the shelf.