We sat eighteen strangers around the table on the terrace of our hotel in Santa Marta, Colombia, people coming from all walks of life, from all parts of the planet, spanning more than forty years in age. We introduce ourselves and I try to commit names to memory.
Our guides were native Colombians, Felipe coming from Bogota and Jose from one of the indigenous tribes, the Wiwa. We would place our lives in their hands this week.
Over the course of the next five days we would be trekking to The Lost City (Ciudad Perdida) in the Sierra Nevadas de Santa Marta in Colombia. (Note: it is Colombia, not Columbia!). The Lost City is the ancient ruins of the Tairona people, a city that was constructed around 700 BC and inhabited by up to 10,000 people at any time until the 16th century. While some of the indigenous people knew of its existence over the centuries, it was unknown to the outside world until the 1970s when looters discovered it. Treks to see the Lost City began to be offered in the 1990’s, and the only way to get to the ruins continues to be to trek through the jungle.
Since we would be carrying our gear, Felipe emphasized that taking the minimum was critical. No more than the equivalent of 10% of your body weight. One outfit to trek in (yes, the same outfit for five straight days), one to sleep in. A long sleeve shirt in case the evenings were cool. A pair of long pants. Sunscreen, deet, after-bite for the inevitable bug and mosquito bites, medication, personal hygiene products, and the essential toilet paper. Water to start the trek and something to carry it in. A sleep sack or sleep sheet. Sandals for water crossings. That’s it. Even still, it’s a lot when you’re carrying it on your back and it doesn’t take much to hit that 10% limit!
I left the table feeling that warm rush of adrenalin, so excited and curious about what was ahead.
My roomie and I woke at 5:40 a.m. on Monday morning and grabbed our bags for our 6 a.m. departure. We checked our phones one last time before we lost electronic access to the rest of the world. Yes, truly disconnected! A short while later we loaded into two 4X4 vans, backpacks strapped to the top. We flew along the paved road, our driver slamming the pedal to the metal as he passed on yellow lines, hurtled around the curves, navigating amongst the many motorcycles and vehicles on the road. We transitioned to a dirt path and the vans rocked and lumbered over the potholes, dips, and mounds on the road while we clutched anything we could in an effort to stay in our seats. And then we reach Machete, where we would have a quick breakfast before strapping on our backpacks to begin the adventure!
We started the trek shortly after 8 a.m. I was concerned that I may not be strong enough, may not be able to stay with the group. I think many shared this feeling; you never really know what you’re getting into until you’re there. As we started trekking, I consciously positioned myself right in the middle. Like position #8. I didn’t need to be the fastest, but I also wanted to ensure I didn’t hold up anyone in the group. That lasted about ten minutes and I came to my senses. I decided to just hike at a good pace for me, put reasonable pressure on myself to keep up, but not rush. I fell into a good rhythm.
The only way to get supplies up and down the mountain was via mule; when one or more were approaching, trekkers would call “Mula!” and pass the warning along the trail. Felipe had cautioned us to get to the mountain side of the trail as a fully loaded mule could easily push you over the edge just by brushing you with their load. I always got a slight rush of adrenalin when I saw a mule approaching as I knew that no one could really control them as they made their way. But other than one slight brush that caused me to scamper backward, the mules were just that . . . mules on the trail.
While there were brief flat sections of the trail that weren’t laden with boulders and rocks, the vast majority was challenging terrain. Rocks, roots, carved clay, and of course the regular sprinkling of mule droppings. Sharp inclines and declines were the norm. There were countless times when we would approach a rise in the trail – perhaps a boulder, a ledge cut in the clay, a tree trunk – that was two or more feet high – and we had to figure out how to smoothly transfer up or down these with the least effort and without falling. Ahhh, the burn in the quads, the exploding of the lungs! But more importantly, it was beautiful. Just absolutely beautiful, this jungle world that was so alive with nature. Really, think about that! Who gets to do this, go tramping through the jungle like this?! So incredibly cool!
A few samples of the trail.
Temperatures rose to the mid-nineties by mid-day. We were often in full sun and of course there was the high humidity that goes with the jungle. It was HOT, and we sweat, sweat, sweat! Sweat like never before in our lives.
This was our longest day. Our tour company said it was 14 km, but my tracker showed 19 km, or 12 miles hiked. I cannot even begin to guess at elevation gain and loss – but it was A LOT. I felt as though there were hours that I panted to catch my breath, hours that I could feel my heart pounding, exploding in my head. I don’t know when I’ve ever worked this hard!
While I saw virtually no wild animals (mammals) in the forest, there were occasional farms animals here and there, no doubt tended by one of the farmers in the indigenous tribes. Often, the pigs would be leashed, an odd sight for this Ohio farm girl!
We reached the Buritaca River that day, a river that we would follow and often cross – both by footbridge as well as by wading across. I never lost the thrill at seeing the Buritaca!
Finally, after ten long hours on the trail, we arrived at camp at 6:30 p.m. We were sweat soaked, tired, and hungry. It was a really tough day, far more challenging than most of us anticipated. But we made it.
Showers and laundry followed. Showering, of course, meant standing in a stream of icy water and gasping for your breath as you washed away the sweat and grime of the day. It was absolutely awesome, it really was. And laundering meant that you peeled your sweat soaked clothes off in the shower and washed them and wrung them out the best you could. And then you did the one-legged dance as you attempted to pull on your sleep clothes without them touching the floor. I never really perfected any of this and always felt like I was just bringing out previously damp clothes that were now completely wet, and just as dirty!
Laundered clothes were hung on the lines that were strung outside with hopes that they would dry, but we quickly learned that while the temperatures were high the humidity was equally so and despite our best efforts, we would be pulling on wet clothing in the morning. But it was all good and after a short while on the trail, I became oblivious to whether my clothes were clean, dirty, wet or dry. It just didn’t matter.
Monday night was spent in an open bunk draped with a mosquito net. A bottom sheet, blanket, and pillow were included. I had read that “usually sheets are washed daily” and prior to the trip, the “usually” troubled me a bit. But once I was out there, I could have cared less whether the sheet or the pillow were clean. I was just plain tired and crashed at 7:30 p.m. amongst the clanging of the pots and plates and the chatter and laughter of other trekkers.
Day One of the trek to The Lost City was complete. It was an absolutely amazing day.
This Journey I Take... 
This sounds like a hard journey, but I suspect that the Lost City will be a fabulous reward!
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