Success
“Best week of my life,” remarked 20 year-old Steve Broomhead of Auckland, New Zealand, reflecting on his experience as a member of Team Insulindependence 2006. A moment of silence seized the rest of the group—for each could relate to the depth of his statement. After months of training, preparation, correspondence and boundless excitement, our Team sat bewildered at what we had finally achieved. Enveloped in a mystical fog, we rested. Behind us were 84 kilometers of rugged trail, approaching altitudes of 5,000 meters. Among us was a peculiar assembly of llamas. Beneath us were some of world’s most enchanting and timeless ruins. Within us was a sense of warmth and community that lay beyond human language.
Indeed, it was nothing short of a successful journey. Together we grew as a team, as individuals, and perhaps most importantly, as diabetics. As we look forward to a promising future, we take a moment to reflect on the power of Insulindependence. Perhaps it is best captured in the words of Rose Scales, mother of Kelsey, our 16 year-old Canadian team member:
“[We] cannot express our gratitude to you . . . enough, in making this expedition to Peru such a positive experience for Kelsey. We are fast approaching a week since she and Chris returned and Kelsey is still pumped and cannot stop talking about the trip . . .
I am so pleased with Kelsey’s attitude towards her diabetes and her attitude of gratitude about all that has transpired over the past few weeks. Without and all the work you put into this, this change in Kelsey may not have happened. We are forever grateful to you and cannot thank you enough . . . Good luck with all your future endeavors and especially with Insulindependence . . .”
The Journey Begins
It was 2:00 a.m. when we first met as a team. Chris and Kelsey had just arrived on flight from Toronto, while the Americans were busy feeding coffee grounds to the New Zealanders (Kiwis), who’d been traveling for nearly two days. Having been a cyber-team for five months, it wasn’t five minutes before we felt like a family. And if that wasn’t enough to bring us together, a night spent on the Lima International airport floor most certainly was.
Our flight to Cuzco rose with the sun. To those who managed to keep their eyes open, a first glimpse of Andean majesty was revealed. Of course the sleepers needn’t have been concerned; we’d each get our fill in the days to come.
By 9:00 a.m. we’d settled in to our Cuzco hotel. We broke bread and consented to a well-deserved nap time.
The abrupt change in altitude had clouded our thoughts, but a few hours’ rest sufficed to clear them—enough so that we might have our first diabetes pow-wow, anyway. Following dinner, our team shared its respective histories. It was an introduction of individual and cultural idiosyncrasies that would have us laughing for the rest of our time together. We took time, finally, to discuss strategies for glucose control during high level activity; Tomorrow the fun would begin.
(Mountain Biking Adventure) “Extreme Downhill . . .”
. . . A phrase often used by our biking tour guide. It turned out he wasn’t joking. Of the Insulindependence curriculum, this turned out to be—quite literally—the crash course.
We were all very happy to have had such a great opportunity to refine our communication skills and insulin awareness before the trek. And forty miles of stop-and-go, high-and-low terrain couldn’t have been a better practice field. For the first time, we began to develop a sense of each others’ individual needs. Accustomed to living in their “own diabetic worlds,” people started to recognize the common bond they had between them, and the strength of a team whose shared experience with diabetes was exponentially richer than their own.
  
(Captions: Chris, always one for a tougher workout; Our translator Hannah winning the hearts of the locals, Chris and Steve during a lunch break, captivated by an agricultural history lesson.)
For many, this was a first chance to take part in proper downhill mountain biking. There were some bumps and bruises, but everyone agreed that was among the best days of the trip. The scenery was breathtaking, and more than any other day, this afforded a chance for us to witness an authentic Peru, outside the realm of modern tourism.
Recovery
With one day before our seven-day trek, our group was advised to relax so that we might acclimatize properly. Cuzco stands at three thousand meters, about two thousand less than our highest forthcoming pass. This in mind, we took to a more leisurely pace. A morning hike found us at Sacsayhuaman, the legendary fortress overlooking the city of Cuzco.
  
(Kelsey and Kelly on a “rockslide”; Chris setting the tone for our caving adventure; Steve and Hannah getting a closer look at the marvels of Incan Engineering”)
By lunch it was time to settle in. With a week of wilderness on the horizon, the team needed be sure that the stage was set for success. This equated to several hours of packing and re-packing the essentials, visualizing insulin strategies, and planning for low blood-sugars. Soon all was in place, and there remained a bit of time to enjoy a last morsel of civilization. We devoured the local market, then a satiating dinner. At last the time was upon us.
The Trek
The start of our first trail day was much less glamorous then the finish. Cuzco to Mollepata (the trail head) meant 4½ hours on a bus, as it zigzagged its way up narrow and dusty roads. The scenery improved with every minute, however, and there was time to stretch our legs at the first of many Incan ruins.
Upon our arrival we were introduced to our guides, cook, horsemen, and porters. Before long they had us collected around a small table, piled high with fried salmon, made-from-scratch soup, boiled potatoes, bread and butter, fried rice, coffee, hot chocolate, an assortment of teas, and more dessert than we could handle.
( Teatime with Kelly, Kelsey and Peter)
Thankfully, we were all equipped with our own diabetes trip logbook, not to mention a sound group of friends. Most everyone agreed that, under normal circumstances, this type of meal might be overwhelming to a carb-counter—especially with a half-day’s hike on the way. Yet with each course we were able to break things down, communicate with each other, and formulate our respective plans for success, which would carry us throughout the day. We would record as we ate (blood-sugars, insulin dosages and food intake) to stay cognizant of our plan, and continue to update them throughout the day. Thanks to regular team meetings, everyone would be in tune with other team members’ daily plan by the end of the hike. A diverse collection of thoughtful perspectives would always available to an individual with discouraging numbers.
Finally we were on our way. The first segment was mild, a slight two-hour ascent through “valleys filled with flowering shrubs [and] buzzing with hummingbirds, across streams and past isolated houses.”
Day two was much less merciful. It required a team of flatlanders to cover more than a thousand meters before dinner. The affects of altitude were relentless. We labored for breaths, stumbling our way up to camp. Everyone had splitting headaches, few could stomach any food. Some were in bed by 4:00 p.m. Nobody would make it past 8:00.
(Chris takes a moment to discuss insulin strategies during a group blood-check in the shadow of Mt. Salkantay, the second highest peak in the Cuzco Region. An hour later we would witness an avalanche on the same peak.)
On a positive note, we covered more ground than just topographical. With two days behind us, we were able to pinpoint specific explanations for unwelcome blood-sugar trends. We had all come with habits—habits which might never have been exposed without the help of seven sets of diabetic eyes. To all of us, the complications of life as a diabetic didn’t seem so complicated anymore.
A long night’s sleep helped shake off some of the altitude sickness. It had dropped below freezing through the night, enough so insulin, meters, and flashlights had to be stored in sleeping bags. When we emerged from our tents, we noticed that they were blanketed with a sheet of ice.
Hot Coco and breakfast was inviting to a group who had regained their appetites. We would need the energy on this day, the highest of all.
The Incachirisaska pass lies just shy of 5,000 meters (>16,400 feet). The enthusiastic stride of our first day had slowed to a shuffle, yet spirits soared the closer we came. Our native guide Marcello explained the sacred nature of our position. The glacial snows of Mt. Salkantay, now to our immediate left, were regarded as divine in Incan times. As a result, the pass we were about to reach had been a place of profound reverence for trekkers throughout history.
 
(Team Insulindependence takes a moment to rest at Incachirisaka pass ( Mt. Salkantay in background); Rob scoffs at the elements, demonstrating great control at over 16,000 feet)
From here the character of our hike changed dramatically. For the next day-and-a-half, it would be strictly downhill en route to the village of Wayllabamba. The most difficult challenge was behind us, and all eyes were fixed on our ultimate goal: Machu Picchu.
(Josh takes a moment to test his blood before a fresh change of scenery)
Wayllabamba provided a great opportunity for recovery. We were rewarded with cold showers (the first in 5 days), diet cola, and a much needed half-day of rest. Some of the boys found their way into a game of soccer with the locals, others strolled about in sandals, taking in the lush green surroundings. Considered part of the “high jungle,” it was home to guinea pigs, parrots and tarantulas (though we never saw the latter). Because the level of diabetic maturity had risen so high since we left, everyone took part in a special snack time outside the village store, featuring chocolate, lollies and Inca Cola, the Peruvian equivalent of Mountain Dew. (We planned insulin accordingly, of course.)
On day five we said farewell to our horsemen and hello to twelve new porters, who would take their place for the remaining days of our trek. We were now on the Inca Trail, whose stone-paved trail remains impassible to beasts of burden. Ruins were bountifully scattered along the way. Lush green foliage refreshed our senses, accustomed by now to granite and snow.
  
(Josh meets a new friend; Hannah taking time for a mid-morning nap; Typical landscape en route to Machu Picchu)
We passed through Sayacmarca (“ Inaccessible Town”) before descending “into [a] magnificent cloud forest full of orchids, hanging mosses, free ferns and flowers.” Just beyond our final pass lay Phuyupatamarca, the most impressive Inca ruin we had yet seen. Its name, meaning, “Town in the Clouds,” had us salivating at the thought of Machu Picchu’s prestige. In a campsite called Wiñay Wayna, we were nestled in our tents before we knew it, just two hours from our final destination.
Breakfast was served on the last day at 4:00 a.m. A sunrise at Machu Picchu awaited us. By 6:30 the trail, contouring the mountainside, dropped into a blinding cloud forest before reaching an almost vertical flight of fifty steps, which lead to the heralded Intipunku (Sun Gate). Our child-like anticipation was at last rewarded with one of the most stunning sensory experiences one can imagine—the mystical city of Machu Picchu.
  
( Machu Picchu city in the midst of its trademark clouds; (no caption); A Machu Picchu Llama grazes on one of many terraces as Insulindependence passes by)
Though the history, culture and landscape made for an unforgettable two weeks, it was an expedition defined by relationships, team-building and diabetic maturity. “Some of the things that a lot of doctors don’t teach . . . we’ve been able to [coach each other on] in this group environment,” said Chris. “We’re learning together.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what Insulindependence is all about.
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