here are at least a dozen ways to visit Machu Picchu, and I chose the hardest. I don't know why I chose the hardest, or why -- after choosing the hardest -- I actually followed through. Maybe I'd had one too many conversations with tougher-than-thou backpackers. Maybe I needed to prove something to myself. Maybe I'm just stubborn. (I am really stubborn.)

So last Monday, the day after I turned 27, I got on a bus with 17 well-outfitted strangers and my friend Kim for a four-day, 45 km trek down the Inca Trail to South America's most famous ruins, Machu Picchu.

Now, have I ever taken a four-day hike? Only if by "hike" you mean "nap." Have I ever camped for three nights? Sure, on the couch. See, I haven't always been the most active person. But after hearing all the epic travel stories, Machu Picchu had begun to take on mythic healing properties for me. And like so many of the other twenty- and thirtysomething travelers in my group, I thought a four-day trek there would clear my mind, soothe my soul, reconnect me to nature and God and the little, woodland animals who really are our friends. It would, at least, tone my calves.

Of course, none of this happened. Not really. By the time I sat on the cliffs of Machu Picchu, waiting for the morning fog to lift like I was waiting for Foley's Red Apple Day Sale to begin, nothing had changed but my underwear. Like the rest of the 200 backpackers, swinging their hiking boots along the cliff's edge, stinky and impatient, I was the same person who had started out three days before, plus a few blisters. Which is not to say that Machu Picchu isn't spectacular. Or that the hike isn't tough and beautiful and rewarding. It is just to say that for people like me, expectations will always be a problem. I am always anticipating everything.

To be perfectly honest, I can hardly remember Machu Picchu. It was big. It was made of stones. It was like the world's biggest Stairmaster.

Instead, I remember the third day on the trail. We had the grueling second day behind us, all cruel stone stairs and uphill climbs. We were sore and tired, but the third day was so quiet and unexpected. Sometimes, on the Inca Trail, the path can be like a highway of good-looking backpackers, jostling past each other to get there first. It feels like a high school hallway. But on the third day, I walked slowly by myself, listening to music on my Walkman, and it was like walking along certain stretches of the Pacific Coast Highway where the road twists along the mountainside and you can't look but you have to look, and you are close enough to grab everything with two fists.

I came home two nights ago so tired and dirty. And taking a hot shower was like falling in love.