Stepping off the bus in the dusty Andean village of Cachora, I hoist my bulging backpack and immediately feel the weight of my overzealous snack stash. Months of dreaming about Choquequirao, the legendary “lost” Inca citadel, had led me to pack enough trail mix, protein bars, and chocolate to feed a small expedition.
Now, as I tighten my hip straps, I regret every extra snack adding pounds to my load. With the sun barely up, I set off on the trail, brimming with excitement and self-deprecating humor about my poor packing choices. I was about to learn step by aching step that in the Andes, every gram counts.
Into the Apurímac Canyon
The first day’s route leads to the edge of the Apurímac Canyon, where a panorama of towering mountains and a river glinting far below greets me. At Capuliyoc mirador (around 2,900 m elevation), I pause to take in the view and my stomach drops – not from the sheer cliff’s edge, but at the realization that the trail now plunges 1,500 vertical meters down to that distant river.
That means every step I descend today, I’ll have to climb back up tomorrow – with interest. My knees already ache in anticipation.
The path switches back and forth in a relentless zigzag, dust puffing up with each footfall. As morning passes, the pleasant cool air gives way to a scorching canyon heat. By late morning the sun is high and temperatures shoot up quickly as I descend deeper toward the Apurímac River.
The walls of the canyon seem to trap the heat; I’m drenched in sweat, and my shirt clings to me. I start to envy the lightweight daypacks of the few trekkers I meet – most have hired mules to haul their gear, while I stubbornly carry my world on my back.
Each extra granola bar in my pack feels like a brick. “What was I thinking?” I mutter as I rest in the sparse shade of a coca plant, cursing the kilos of trail mix I thought I couldn’t live without.
After several hours, I reach the suspension bridge across the Apurímac River (1,450 m). The roaring water below is a lifeline and a temptress – I dunk my hat and face in the river to cool off, nearly convincing myself to toss a bag of trail mix into the current as an offering (and to lighten my pack). On the far side is Playa Rosalina, a small riverside campground.
Many hikers stop here or at the small hamlet of Chiquisqa (1,900 m) to camp. I trudge into camp with wobbly legs and set down my backpack with a thud of relief. My shoulders are groaning and my knees are jelly from the 1,500 m descent – roughly equivalent to walking down the Empire State Building four times over.
That night, I fall asleep under a sky spilling over with stars, the distant rush of the river lulling me – but not before I gobble an extra chocolate bar in the tent, hoping to eat away some pack weight for tomorrow.
Climbing to the Cradle of Gold
At dawn on day two, I’m already dreading the climb ahead. The goal is to reach Choquequirao, which sits on a ridge 3,050 m above sea level – meaning I have to gain all the altitude I lost yesterday, and then some. I break camp at first light to beat the notorious midday heat and punishing sun.
Even so, within an hour of uphill trekking my calf muscles are burning and I’m gasping for breath in the thin mountain air. This section of trail is a 13-kilometer ascent of unending switchbacks and cruel false summits. Each time I crest what I hope is the top, another steep section reveals itself, laughing at my optimism.
I take frequent breaks, bent over my trekking poles as my heart thumps. With every pause, I’m tempted to jettison some weight – perhaps bury a cache of snacks by a trail marker for my return journey. If a hungry trekker finds them, they’ll think the mountain gods have blessed them!
One particularly steep stretch is nicknamed “the thigh-breaker,” and I understand why. My thighs and lungs are on fire. Altitude adds to the challenge – though Choquequirao’s altitude isn’t extreme by Andean standards, topping out just over 3,000 m, the constant elevation loss and gain makes it feel brutally harder.
Somewhere around midday, the sun directly overhead, I find myself utterly exhausted and drenched. This is the moment the self-doubt creeps in. Why am I doing this? Who in their right mind carries this much stuff up a mountain? I recall reading that the Choquequirao Trek is considered one of the most difficult in Peru – and now I believe it.
To keep my spirits up, I resort to humor: I start composing an imaginary apology letter to my legs and an ode to my overpacked bag. “Dear Knees, I’m sorry for the peanut butter I brought. Sincerely, Me.” A pair of nimble-footed locals leading mules passes me with friendly holas.
They have fresh supplies and empty-handed clients up ahead, and I realize I could have spared myself the misery by hiring a mule. (Later I learn you can arrange a mule in Cachora for about 100 soles per day, muleteer included – money well spent for my next trip!)
By early afternoon, I stagger into Marampata (2,900 m), a tiny farming village perched on a ledge overlooking the canyon. Marampata is the last stop before the ruins. Here, a local family offers basic meals and drinks; I nearly cry with joy at the ice-cold Coca-Cola they sell me for a few soles.
Sitting on a rocky terrace, sipping that soda, I gaze out at the vast canyon I just climbed and feel a swell of pride. I did it! The hardest part is over. With renewed energy (and a lighter pack, courtesy of the many snacks I’d already scarfed down), I press on for the final push to Choquequirao, just under two hours further through undulating terrain.
The Lost City of Choquequirao
When I finally step foot onto the terraces of Choquequirao, I almost forget the agony of getting here. The view is simply breathtaking – and not just because I’m still catching my breath. I am standing in an ancient Inca city clinging to a mountain ridge high above the Apurímac Valley, with clouds swirling around distant snowcaps.
Choquequirao means “Cradle of Gold” in Quechua, and as the afternoon sun gilds the stonework with a soft glow, the name feels apt. This site is often dubbed the “sister city” of Machu Picchu due to its similar layout and significance. Spread across a cleared hilltop and adjacent slopes are plazas, ritual structures, and agricultural terraces – many still entangled in jungle, since only about 30–40% of the complex has been excavated. It’s roughly the same size as Machu Picchu, yet here I am virtually alone to experience it.
I drop my pack (no need to lug it around the ruins, thank goodness) and wander in awe. A few resident llamas regard me quietly as I explore. In the main plaza, I sit on a stone wall once occupied by Inca nobility and try to imagine the scene 500 years ago.
Choquequirao was one of the last strongholds of Inca resistance – after the Spanish conquered Cusco, the retreating Inca forces under Manco Inca used this remote city as a refuge and checkpoint guarding the Vilcabamba region. Knowing this, every carved rock and terrace around me feels poignant. I’m moved by the history seeping from the earth here – a mix of triumph and tragedy in these stones.
One of the most famous features of Choquequirao are the llama terraces. I hike a short, steep path to the west terraces and suddenly spot them: a line of white stone llamas in profile, inlaid into the terrace walls. These playful yet sacred designs, possibly built to honor the llama (important in Inca culture), are unlike anything at Machu Picchu.
As I descend a bit further, I find another set of terraces said to form the shape of a guinea pig when seen from afar – evidence of the Inca’s quirky artistry on these slopes. And all around, silence. I have the entire site to myself except for one or two other trekkers and a couple of archaeologists working in the distance.
It’s astounding to think that fewer than a dozen visitors reach Choquequirao each day, whereas Machu Picchu sees thousands. The solitude amplifies the sense of discovery. I feel like a true adventurer stumbling on a hidden gem, a place time forgot.
Of course, I’m not the first to “discover” Choquequirao – locals knew of it for centuries, and explorers like Hiram Bingham (of Machu Picchu fame) visited in the 20th century. But the site still flies under the radar due to its isolation. Plans for a cable car have been in the works for years, which could whisk tourists to the ruins in mere minutes, but thankfully (for now) the project is stalled.
I can’t help feeling grateful that the only way here today is to earn it with sweat. As I sit on a terrace looking out at condors riding the thermals above the canyon, munching – yes – a snack (one of the many I lugged up here), I realize this journey’s pain makes the reward infinitely sweeter.
Campfires, Stars, and a Humbling Night
I camp near the ruins that night, pitching my tent on a designated flat spot at the edge of the archaeological zone (camping is allowed just outside the main ruins). The air at 3,000 m is cold and thin. I put on all my layers and enjoy a simple hot meal cooked on my tiny camp stove.
My leg muscles protest any movement, so I mostly stay put, gazing up. Above me spreads an astonishing tapestry of stars, unmarred by light pollution. The Milky Way arcs overhead, and I recall that the Incas read their own constellations in these stars – llamas, pumas, serpents.
Here I am, a modern traveler, utterly worn out, feeling a kinship with those ancients who once watched these same stars from this very mountain.
I chuckle in the darkness as I inventory my remaining snacks. Despite my best efforts to binge-eat my pack weight down, I still have more than I needed. Classic overpacking. My campsite neighbor – one of the only other hikers here – complains of having run low on food, so I gladly play trail Santa and hand over a couple of energy bars.
Sharing feels good (and my shoulders will thank me tomorrow). We swap stories by a small campfire: he had hired a mule and breezed through the trek with a lighter load, while I relay my comic misadventures carrying the equivalent of a grocery store up the canyon.
We both marvel at Choquequirao’s majesty under the moonlight. In that moment, I feel a profound humility and camaraderie. The Andes have a way of cutting your ego down to size – whether by altitude or altitude adjustment (aka attitude adjustment). As I crawl into my sleeping bag, every muscle aching, I whisper a promise to myself: next time, pack lighter, you fool.
The Long Way Back and Lessons Learned
Morning at Choquequirao is mystical – wisps of cloud float through the terraces, and the rising sun paints the peaks in pink and gold. It’s hard to leave, but the snacks won’t carry themselves back out.
The return trek retraces the route: which means I face that bone-crunching descent and ascent again in reverse. Some trekkers opt to extend the journey, continuing on an even longer route toward Machu Picchu (a 8–9 day epic), but I head back toward Cachora the way I came.
The euphoria of the ruins fuels me for a while – or maybe it’s the lighter pack – and I practically skip down to the river in record time. But what goes down must go up: the last big climb out of the canyon tests me one final time.
It’s amazing (and slightly cruel) how the trail saves a steep uphill for the very end, when your legs are Jell-O. By the time I crest Capuliyoc again, I’m running on fumes and sheer willpower (and okay, one last Snickers bar).
When I finally hobble back into Cachora, I drop my pack on the ground. I feel exhausted, triumphant, and wiser. A stray dog sniffs disinterestedly at my pack – even he’s not enticed by the remaining crushed granola at the bottom. I grin to myself, thinking how this trek not only delivered an unforgettable adventure, but also some hard-won wisdom about preparation and humility.
Choquequirao taught me that carrying unnecessary weight (literal or figurative) is a folly best shed quickly. In the thin air of the Andes, I shed my arrogance and over-preparation, and gained respect for the mountains.
What I Learned
- Pack Light, Pack Right: I cannot stress this enough. The Choquequirao trail is demanding, so every gram counts. Carrying 18 kg of gear made me miserable – I should have aimed for under 10 kg. Only bring essentials: a good tent, sleeping bag, sleeping mat, minimal clothing layers, waterproofs, a headlamp, first aid kit, and just enough food. Ditch the “just-in-case” extras and excessive snacks. (If you think you need five chocolate bars a day, you’re wrong – two is plenty!) Trekking poles are lifesavers for the steep sections, taking pressure off your knees. And don’t forget blister care – your feet will thank you.
- Acclimatize Beforehand: The trek ranges from 1,450 m at the river to over 3,000 m at the ruins , so altitude isn’t extreme but it’s significant. Crucially, you’ll likely start from Cusco (3,400 m); spend a couple of days in Cusco or another high town to acclimatize. This helps prevent altitude sickness and gives you a chance to prepare. In Cusco you can also stash luggage (most hotels will store extra bags for free) and buy last-minute supplies.
- Plan 4–5 Days for the Trek: The standard Choquequirao trek is 4 days, 3 nights out-and-back, though many choose 5 days to have an extra day exploring the site. My itinerary was 4 days: two arduous days in, one afternoon at the ruins, and two days back. In hindsight, a fifth day to rest and fully explore would have been nice. Don’t rush – the trail is tough, and pushing too fast can lead to injury (or just misery). Budget 6–10 hours of hiking per day.
- Best Time to Go: Aim for the dry season (May through October) for the best trail conditions. During these months, days are generally clear (and can be very hot in the canyon) and nights are cold but dry. I went in June and had sunny skies. The shoulder months of April and November might have some rain but also fewer trekkers. Avoid the peak of the wet season (Jan–Feb) – heavy rains can make the steep trails dangerously slippery and may cause landslides.
- Guide or Independent? If you’re an experienced backpacker, you can tackle Choquequirao independently – the trail is well-marked, no special permit needed (just pay a modest entrance fee on-site). I went solo, which was an adventure (and led to my overpacking woes). However, hiring a guide and/or mule can vastly improve your experience. Local muleteers can be arranged in Cachora to carry heavy gear (for a fee) , allowing you to hike with just a daypack containing water, sunscreen, and essentials. A guide can enrich the journey with cultural and natural insights , handle cooking and camp logistics, and provide peace of mind on this remote trail. Many travelers choose a guided trek for these reasons – though it’s pricier, it can be worth it if you’re not confident going it alone.
- Camping Logistics: There are established campgrounds at convenient points: e.g. Chiquisqa/Playa Rosalina, Santa Rosa, Marampata, and near the ruins. These sites typically charge a small fee (around 5–10 Peruvian soles per tent) and offer flat ground, rudimentary toilets, and sometimes cold showers or meals. I found the local families who run the camps friendly and helpful – at Marampata, you can even buy a cold beer or meal. Carry enough cash (in soles) to pay for camps and snacks. And always pack out all your trash to keep this pristine environment beautiful.
- Water and Food: Water is available from streams and at campsites along the trail, but always treat or filter it. I used purification tablets for river water. You’ll need to carry a few liters, especially in the heat of day. As for food, bring high-energy, lightweight snacks and meals. Instant noodles, dehydrated meals, nuts, and dried fruits are popular choices. (I clearly brought too much, but at least I never went hungry!) Note that at certain camps (like Santa Rosa or Marampata) locals may sell simple hot meals – a nice break from granola bars. And yes, bring some chocolate or your preferred treat; you’ll crave a morale boost during those grueling climbs.
- Trail Conditions and Hazards: The path is steep and can be slippery with gravel, especially on the descent to the river. Good boots with ankle support are important, and I highly recommend gaiters to keep stones out and trekking poles for stability. Be prepared for bugs – lower elevations have mosquitoes and sandflies (wear long sleeves/pants or use repellent, as I learned while itching all night). The sun is intense, so a wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, and strong sunscreen are mandatory. Finally, nights get very cold (near freezing at the higher camps), so a warm sleeping bag (comfort rated to at least -5°C or 20°F) is essential.
- Physical & Mental Preparation: Choquequirao is not a casual walk in the park. It’s often described as a trek that “has no easy day,” and I found that to be true. Being in good shape will make it far more enjoyable. Train with cardio and leg workouts – think stair climbs, hill hikes with a loaded backpack, and long day hikes. If you can, do some hikes at altitude before tackling this. Mentally, be ready for a challenge. There were moments I wanted to quit – and moments of euphoria right after. Keeping a positive, flexible attitude (and perhaps a sense of humor) was as important as my physical training.
Final Reflections
In the end, the hike to Choquequirao was equal parts punishing and profoundly rewarding. I learned the hard way about the folly of overpacking and I’ll never look at a snack aisle the same way again. But I also gained something weightless yet invaluable: a humbling respect for the mountains and for my own limits. Choquequirao tested me physically and emotionally, and in doing so, it stripped away my ego (along with a few pounds of trail mix).
Would I do it again? In a heartbeat, but next time with half the snacks and twice the wisdom. The Cradle of Gold cradled me in lessons of resilience, preparation, and the joy of traveling light. As I finally boarded the return bus to Cusco, dusty and triumphant, I allowed myself one last chocolate bar from my pack.
This time, it wasn’t an act of desperation to reduce weight, but a sweet celebration of a journey that I know will nourish my soul for years to come. Choquequirao, you won – and I couldn’t be more grateful.