This trip was one for the record books. Friends Geraldine and Ellen and sister Amy and I set out to hike the Inca Trail. When we landed in Cusco, which sits just under 12K feet, we were told to relax and not do anything.

We didn’t listen to this good advice, and I got altitude sickness while we were wandering around the small ruins and open markets.

Our hotel had one oxygen tank, as apparently this is common and medical supervision isn’t needed to give it out. The tank gave out in the middle of the night, and they did not have another and I became dangerously ill.

Amy wheeled me to a hospital nearby, and I spent the night on IV fluids and oxygen. Had my body not responded to this treatment, the next step would have been a helicopter ride to Lima.

Thankfully, the airlift wasn’t needed. But in the morning, I was dreading a talk with the doctor, as I was sure he was going to tell me not to hike. To my surprise, he gave me some meds and said if I spend some time at 8K feet first, and the meds were working, I could go for it.

I struggled a lot on the hike, and that was difficult emotionally as I love strenuous hikes and am often out front. In the pictures you can see how swollen my face was, from retaining water. (One of the meds the doc gave me was a diuretic to help prevent this).

On the second day, summiting Dead Woman’s Pass, at nearly 14K feet, I was more than a little nervous that I would add to the body count this pass was surely named for. But the meds were working and I made it.

It was a hard lesson to learn. I had grown up backpacking and had many safe and happy experiences in high mountain areas. But I had lived in Florida, at sea level, for too long. While I was experiencing early symptoms, I ignored them as I figured it was just jet lag or some other form of travel tiredness. I also ignored the conventional wisdom about resting on the first day, thinking I was going to be fine.