After the best sleep we had thus far we woke to the sound of small streams flanking our camp feeding into a river that rushed white through the center of the Great Valley. For any doubters, Mel could be seen carrying out the cooking AND cleaning duties this Thanksgiving morning giving me reason to be grateful from the get-go. Twas a Thanksgiving miracle.

We washed up and turned back trail-side, gathering small yellow flowers Mel wanted to research upon returning home. After a short climb we arrived at Huayracmachay, an outpost of about six homes widely dispersed along the route. We stopped into a small tienda in search of Thanksgiving-worthy snacks, but left with a couple of candy bars due to a lack of options. Still, the treats put a smile on our faces as we hiked the slowly descending valley.

The next inhabited zone, Waynaye, stood on the near side of a deep ravine which assembled all antecedent streams into a swollen Río Salkantay. There was a beautiful lodge on one of the cliffs complete with waterfalls running over an enormous boulder into a grotto, as well as a pigpen that, save the falls, mirrored the kingly cavern. To my surprise  Mel passed the grotto with cool disinterest to gaze in giddy wonderment over the conditions granted these happiest of hogs.

The more we dropped in altitude, the more the landscape began to remind us of our time in Colombia. Trees grew taller and leaves grew broader as orchids and wild flowers began to take shape on an abundance of trailing plants and bushes. The humidity steadily increased and it began to rain lightly as we passed one of the first officially marked Incan ruins along the trail. Despite a hidden entrance guarded with animal skulls and obstructed by a large pile of logs and intersecting branches we decided to climb over to appease our curiosity.

Stone terraces spanning over sixty yards stepped the lush landscape down to a building overgrown with wild flowers with an envy evoking view the river. Foundations of other structures that once stood grew up as rectilinear grass mounds in the surrounding area. It would have been a perfect place to make camp, but the day was young so we decided to move on.

In a later attempt to descend to the river we diverted through a darkened jungle replete with fallen trees and thick moss covered vines. After stumbling into a dilapidated shelter, surely the hideout for Kasinky’s cloistered cousin, we turned about-face to follow our original course for Chaullay.

 

The Salkantay river valley slowly unraveled through the Andes now blanketed by deep emerald jungle like the one we had just explored. A misty haze rose from their heights distorting distant scenery and condensing into droplets dripping from every surface. As a result, we arrived in Chaullay soggy, but thankful for the shade as it saved us from a feverish heat which could have just as easily been our fate.

We paced the small town evaluating the offertas of various forms of shelter, finally settling on a plot with some quiet campers, and a couple of wild turkeys roaming a thick carpet of grass out front; surely a good omen on Turkey Day.

After brief discussions with fellow tenants, we set camp just in time to welcome the arrival of a rowdy group that had taken mules most of the way, and planned to ride a collectivo to Machu Picchu the next day. They were primed to celebrate their triumph, pilfering the peaceful parcel in search of whiskey and rum. “Those turkeys did us dirty,” we thought as we ducked back inside our tent anticipating a long and loud night. “But,” we conceded, “It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without a celebration.” So we arranged a feast and ate happily to our fill as the party got started. Fortunately, we were so satisfied after our first real meal in days that we easily drifted off to sleep despite the raucous revelry and ramblings of the group.