Deep breathing. Step after gigantic step. Pausing for a second to survey the Sacred Valley as seen from Pisac. Back to climbing. Steep. Land terraced 2000 years ago for farming to my left and right. Ascending 600 meters just shy of an hour. Cresting the top and realizing there are three more peaks filled with ruins behind this one. I clamber around the remnants of a temple. Plop down on a stone wall as the same sun that spurred growth in Incan crops warms my back.
Grass now grows in perfectly cut stone walls. Wind pushes through stone passage ways and carries seeds in search of little dirt deposits to call home. Whispers of clouds pass over head, teasing us with cool shadows. The wet season brings rain and cooler temperatures. Those seeds take root, grab all the soil they can and push little rootlings between precision cut Incan stones.
I see all this. Giant stones shifting as wind, water, sun and plants take back the space once occupied by the Incans. Those stones will become dust and memories of this place will exist in words and stories. Un dia nos va a tocar a la misma. What will be said about us in stories? What will be remembered?
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