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We walked out of town, past a a combo basketball/soccer court

and down a hillside stairway

to the Urubamba River.  Here, the notorious Rope Bridge awaited us.  Natalie's description had left a good number of us believing that this would literally consist of two ropes, one above the other, with the top one for your hands to grab and the bottom one for you to walk across.  Tammy's friends had called this one of the scariest things they'd ever done.  The reality (thankfully) was a lot more innocuous.  What awaited us was a cleverly designed pulley system, with a small crate -- big enough for three or four people with bags -- going back and forth between the riverbanks.  All you had to do was sit and enjoy the ride as you were reeled in.  The height of the ropes was not even that scary, and the distance to the raging river below not great enough to be obviously fatal.

After a long wait in line -- extended by hordes of harried-looking locals rushing past to the front -- it was our group's turn.

I crossed over with a couple of the French.  All in all, it took about six or seven trips to get our whole group across, and -- including the wait -- something like an hour's time.

Since we had taken a little longer than expected to cross the river, we were apparently a bit behind schedule.  So, instead of a three-hour trek, we boarded yet another truck -- except this one was the most crowded and uncomfortable of any we'd seen over the last day.  Both my feet squeezed into the only available square inches of space on the truck bed, contorting my ankles into awkward, painful positions.  Jarred between Mercedes and a few other crammed-on-board passengers, I was stuck facing backward as the truck rattled on its way down the bumpy dirt road.

I could not have been happier or more thankful (for my ankles) when 45 minutes or so of driving brought this fourth and final truck ride to its conclusion.

We were dropped off by a set of railroad tracks, a short walk from a place called Pata Wasi Restaurant.  Because we had trucked instead of walked, we had about an hour to spend as we pleased.  I wrote in my journal and awaited lunch. 

Pata Wasi's quaint decor included Gatorade bottles artfully used as vases.

After lunch, it was time to load our bags onto a train and then walk the final stretch to Aguas Calientes.  To do this, we simply needed to follow the train tracks --

and fend off trains in the process.

From this vantage point, we got our first glimpse of Machu Picchu itself.  Perched high atop the mountain, the faintest hint of human civilization is visible:

The train tracks led us into more jungle

giving us plenty of mosquitoes and a passing storm to contend with. 

After about three hours of hiking, we finally arrived in Aguas Calientes, at the doorstep of Machu Picchu.  We convened in a restaurant to await our bags.  After having been cautioned not to drink as a precaution against altitude sickness, I finally enjoyed my first drinks of the trip -- a couple glasses of Cusqueña, Cusco's locally produced beer (which, as Nir perceptively observed, tastes strikingly similar to Stella Artois).

As our second round of drinks wound down, Pio brought news that our bags had arrived.  We lugged them up the road to our hostel and checked in.  We had another break before dinner, so I took care of some loose ends.  I hadn't taken a proper shower in nearly four days, so that was the first order of business (as was the case with virtually every hostel in Peru, all we got was cold water).  I also had been meaning to email Victoria for several days, so after my cold shower was done, I took the opportunity to do so.

Once the emailing was done, I returned to the hotel and waited in the lobby with Nir, Nya, and company.  Nir passed around some Chizitos, the delicious South American cheesy poof that melts in your mouth.  More on this later in the trip.  For now, though, I had my share of cheesy poofs, and then we had dinner (trout) for the final time as a group.  After the meal, we thanked and tipped our chefs, who would be departing the following morning.  Considering the challenging circumstances -- preparing food for fifteen while themselves being on the trail, loading/guiding the horses, etc. -- they'd done a yeoman's job. 

After dinner, the group had the rest of the night to spend as it pleased.  A dessert expedition was begun, consisting of the French, Tammy, Mercedes and Mariano, Ken, Dana, and myself; this group got split up, though, when all but the latter three wandered away.  Ken, Dana, and I got amazing alfajores from a bakery.  Nir and Nya ran into us, then left in search of the others.  When Ken and Dana decided to call it a night (we were to get up at 4 AM), I went off to track down Nir and Nya, whom I found buying mate.  Once they'd gotten their mate, we walked down to find our group -- who we found seated at a restaurant by the Plaza de Armas, eating alfajores that were later described as subpar.  At this restaurant, I got my first pisco sour (Peru's national cocktail), which I can only describe as tasting like a mediocre margarita (though we couldn't argue with the four-for-1 happy hour special, which set us back a total of 10 soles (US$3)). 

Finally, it was time to call it a night.  After the group spent some time haggling over the bill, we headed back to the hotel -- running into Ken and Dana again, who were burning their South America photos to CD next door.  After a little more chitchat, we all headed to our rooms for some shuteye.

Map of Peru