I returned a few weeks ago from a bucket list trip to Peru, where I hiked the Inca Trail with one of my sons in celebration of his college graduation. We were delayed over a year due to the Covid pandemic, but we finally made it before our airplane ticket credits expired.
I was in good shape for walking almost 30 miles over the course of four days, but not necessarily at the altitude we were required to trek. The section of the Inca Trail we walked begins at an elevation of about 8,500 feet, climbs as high as 13,780 feet and ends at Machu Picchu at about 7,500 feet. Our third day was the hardest, beginning at 12,600 feet, climbing to Dead Woman’s Pass at 13,780, going back down to 10,900, going over another pass at 13,035 feet, and ending the day at 11,975 feet. It was literally and figuratively breathtaking.
The lack of oxygen at that elevation was nothing we could easily train for in lowland Baltimore. We were also climbing steep stone steps much of the time which is hard on the knees. On the morning of Day Three, when our first two hours would be ascending to the high point, our guide Vannia taught us one phrase to get us to the top: “Lento y seguro”—slow and steady. It would be a mantra I repeated many times.
Between the steep steps and the lack of oxygen, my routine followed this rhythm: plant my trekking poles two steps up, take two steps, take two rest breaths, and repeat. It took almost two hours to ascend over a thousand feet to the pass that morning, followed by about nine more miles after that.
At the end of that day, as we made camp, I was completely spent. My muscles weren’t sore, but I was fatigued. My energy reserves were depleted. I experienced mild nausea for the second evening in a row and had to make myself eat dinner. I was grateful for making it that far.
The last day was almost all downhill, but much of it on more steep stone steps which are knee crushers. I hadn’t been sleeping well anyway, and that morning we had to hit the trail at 3:20 am, hiking the first three hours in the dark (that’s a different story). When we walked through the Sun Gate at Machu Picchu at 9 am, I was excited and also greatly relieved. My body was glad it was mostly over, even though we would spend the next few hours exploring the ruins and logging at least another four miles before boarding the train to return us to the comfort of our hotel room in Cusco. As we rode back, double masked and donning the required face shields, I felt like I had just run two marathons in a row.
During the previous 18 months of this pandemic, we have heard the expression “Zoom fatigue” a lot, the phenomenon of being in front of a computer screen all day, not just writing and checking email, but meeting over and over again remotely with others from the safety of our Covid cocoon.
We clergy have also learned during this pandemic about “compassion fatigue,” the effects of being pastorally present to so much communal exhaustion and anxiety caused by the pandemic. It can sometimes be too easy to absorb the fatigue of others as well as ignore the very real fatigue we are experiencing on our own.
I also realized recently that I am likewise feeling responsibility fatigue. I have lots of responsibilities for various things in my work life, but then I’ve also been doing more at home the last month or so: a spouse who is recovering from surgery, a son that needed help buying a new car, a dog that needs washing, a lawn that needs mowing. Normally these things wouldn’t seem like such a big deal, but I have had moments of pandemic insight where I’m just tired of having to exercise responsibility so much. If I had a responsibility pedometer, I’d have no trouble logging my 10,000 steps.
Lento y seguro—slow and steady. That’s what got me over the pass, up the steps, and down the trail. Pacing myself, listening intently to my body, allowing myself to be guided and supported by Vannia, our cooks and our porters—all there to ensure our success.
This pandemic, for many of us, has felt like running two marathons in a row, or worse. We are fatigued on so many levels. If it were not for the support we offer to one another, I’m not sure we could make it. It still feels at times that we have yet another marathon ahead of us. That may be true, but if we pace ourselves, listen to our bodies and seek the support of those that journey with us, we will make it, one slow and steady step at a time.