Mother Nature Doesn’t Care How Much You Weigh
What happens when a group of plus-size women take on Peru’s Salkantay trail to Machu Picchu? This NYC-based fat babe went to find out.
Illustration by Lucila Perini
Photographs courtesy of WHOA Travel
Editor’s note: This piece is part of a collection of stories on fat travel, curated by guest editor, author and activist Virgie Tovar. It’s the first in a series at the intersection of travel and inclusion, published by Airbnb Magazine.
I’ve always loved the great outdoors. I love camping without a tent and sleeping under the stars, just like my dad. But I’ve always hesitated to call myself outdoorsy, because the word conjures images in my mind of an athletic (read: not fat) white guy who dives into a lake by climbing a tree and swinging from a rope — things I could never do because neither the tree nor the rope swing would support my weight.
Living without a car in New York City for the last eight years, I was eternally craving nature — and not the kind you find in Central Park. Upon speaking with my fellow New Yorkers about my desires to escape to the mountains, I learned that my passion wasn’t exactly shared with most city dwellers. I discovered just how few of my cosmopolitan friends had ever roasted a marshmallow or even learned how to swim.
So I turned to the internet, dreaming about trips into the woods and trying to figure out how to take public transportation to reach a hiking trail. That’s when I discovered the Curvy Kili Crew on social media, a group of women with bodies shaped like mine who were the epitome of outdoorsy. These 20 fat women were planning to climb Mount Kilimanjaro together. I became obsessed. Working at my day job, creating digital content for a plus-size fashion brand, I did everything in my power to convince my bosses to sponsor this group. While I was pitching just how inspirational it would be for our customers to see fat women trekking up the world’s tallest stand-alone mountain, I became inspired myself and began to ask, “If these fat women can climb Kilimanjaro, couldn’t I do something like that, too?”
Suddenly, all I wanted to do was go on a backpacking adventure with a bunch of fat babes just like me. I told everyone how inspired I was. Then WHOA Travel, the company the Curvy Kili Crew was traveling with, launched WHOA+, its plus-size division. When WHOA+ announced its next trip was planned for Machu Picchu in Peru, I knew I had to go. I had been working with WHOA to cover the Curvy Kili Crew’s trek and told them just how badly I wanted to go to Peru with them. When WHOA contacted me about covering this trip on my company’s channels, I was thrilled. I screamed so loud in what I believed was a soundproof phone booth that people outside of it reached out to me in concern for my safety.
I started to fantasize about being surrounded by nothing but nature for days on end with fellow fat women who’d accept me and never leave me behind. I wouldn’t have to pretend not to be tired in hopes that no one thinks I’m out of shape. I wouldn’t have to worry that I would slow the group down.
My excitement turned to nerves as the trip approached. Could I really do this? The Salkantay is a physically strenuous trail that crests at 15,090 feet on the way to Machu Picchu. Was I actually prepared for a daunting five-day trek? Me, a city girl who loves pretty skirts and statement earrings? Was I in good enough shape to handle it?
After spending hours at home going through my packing checklist, then stressing about the trip during my flight, unwisely choosing to watch the Reese Witherspoon backpacking movie Wild instead of sleeping and therefore getting even more nervous, I finally landed. My nerves were calmed when I arrived in Cusco and met the women I’d be hiking with. We were already laughing at the fact that we were a big group of big girls traipsing through a city where we towered over most of the locals. We ate at an intimate, long, and narrow restaurant, and my new friend Andrea asked me to scoot in my chair so she could fit her body behind me as she walked to the bathroom. We all noted how great it was to ask for the accommodations we needed instead of sucking it in and squeezing through. We even stopped to catch our breath when we were walking uphill to our hotel.
The next morning, we piled into a van to drive up an extremely windy dirt road to the trailhead to begin our backpacking adventure. Before we even arrived, I got sick. I’m often a victim of carsickness, but this was much more extreme. As we rose in altitude, I threw up on the sides of mountains and in plastic bags in the van. Despite the Dramamine, ginger chews, sea bands, and saltines my tentmate Megan gave me, I could not seem to stop throwing up. All of my nerves and doubts instantly came back. Was I too sick to hike? Would I have to go back to Cusco right away? Was I being ridiculous, thinking I could take this on? The white-knuckle ride on a dirt road would be enough to give just about anyone second thoughts, but because I had to stop to throw up on mountain cliffs along the way, I was full of doubt.
After I threw up a few more times, the nausea subsided. I put a cute scrunchie in my hair and strapped on my backpack. I was ready to do this. I was feeling so much better. I could breathe deeply again. I mustered all of my strength, picked up my hiking poles, and we took off.
After a morning of throwing up in a van, moving my body felt incredible. We set out slowly, hiking together. I wasn’t chasing the group or falling behind; I was able to adjust to the pace. It made me feel accomplished and strong, and incredibly grateful to be with an understanding group of women. Our guide shouted to us that we were all strong goddesses and I truly believed her, until we reached a higher elevation, and altitude sickness struck me again.
While stumbling along the trail and receiving countless words of encouragement from my fellow hikers, my altitude sickness eventually passed. I felt so weak, but Andrea reminded me that I was incredibly strong, and that no one as sick as I was would want to be anywhere but curled up on the couch, but here I was, still hiking. Hearing those kind words gave me the motivation to continue. After sleeping a night at high altitude, I was feeling strong and capable again.
Our group wore the same clothes most days because it was too cold to change. When I was in need of another layer, Megan offered me her heavy jacket and said, “It might be too big.” I laughed and hugged her, because I never get the chance to borrow someone’s clothing. It’s usually so small that I question why they even offered, and I have to find a clever way of gently telling them that it won’t fit my fat body, and thanks but no thanks.
Later on the trail, I heard Megan breathing heavily. With my recent sickness on my mind, I asked her if she was feeling okay. She quickly retorted, “I’m fat — this is just how I breathe!” I laughed so hard at her response that then I was the one who needed to catch her breath. That was how the rest of the trip went: full of giggles and heavy breathing.
We hiked in a valley surrounded by jagged mountains, with a glacier off in the distance. Llamas and alpacas roamed the steepest mountains I had ever laid eyes on, and horses carrying the packs of fellow backpackers shared the trail with us. The stars at night were spectacular, and made the New York City night skyline look completely unremarkable. The thin, cold air had all of us sleeping in as many layers as possible.
On the second day, after making it through the rocky and treacherous stretch of switchbacks known as the “Siete Culebras” (Seven Snakes) and the “Gringo Killer,” and walking near chinchillas scurrying through the Andes, we reached the pass. We were 15,090 feet above sea level. Before embarking on the Salkantay, I had only done hikes at an elevation of around 7,000 feet; this was more than double that altitude, and I wasn’t sure if I could even hike after not being able to keep any food down the day before.
When I made it over the pass I cried. The same girl who couldn’t keep down a single bite of food just the day before had made it. All of the worry, doubt, packing, and training that I had done in preparation was worth it. My fat body didn’t get in the way of my hike like I thought it would — in fact, my fat body is what took me to the pass.
The Salkantay glacier was behind us now. The peaks of the mountains around us showed themselves, and a majestic condor circled overhead. I kept crying as I watched every fat babe reach the summit. Not just some of us, but every single one of us. Together we smiled and took countless photos to celebrate our accomplishments.
For the next few days we hiked back down the mountain. Some of us got terrible blisters, others had bug bites swell up to big red welts, others got bad sunburns, but no one had any serious injuries. We laughed, we whined, and we celebrated when we made it to camp and got one day closer to a shower. For the most part, we didn’t have internet access, so we hadn’t been inundated with images of thin supermodels and weight-loss ads the way we were in our everyday lives.
For a while, on a mountain in Peru, I forgot that we were all fat girls. I was pleasantly reminded every time someone mentioned chub rub or boob sweat, but our size didn’t really matter to the trail. Being fat doesn’t matter when you’re crossing waterfalls. The trail doesn’t care if you’re thick or thin; people of all sizes are just as likely to sprain an ankle on the rocky terrain. Mother Nature was just as kind — and ruthless — to us as she was to everyone else.
As it turns out, the great outdoors is a fantastic place to be fat. The Salkantay was an unbelievable sight to take in. But, truth be told, so were we.
About the author: Ashby Vose is an advocate for plus-size women and body positivity. She is passionate about plus-size fashion, ending fatphobia, and snuggling kitty cats.
About the artist: Lucila Perini is a freelance illustrator based in Buenos Aires. She graduated from the University of Buenos Aires with a degree in Graphic Design, and now works as a designer and illustrator for leading brands in fashion, gastronomy, and lifestyle.
