Machu Impossible
A Five-Pound Dog, a Forbidden City, and the Confidence to Belong
As we left the train station and navigated the maze of merchants separating us from Machu Picchu’s town square, Twinkles—the five-pound Chihuahua strapped into my backpack—was ready to add another entry to her already lengthy CV of unlikely Latin American accomplishments.
Approaching the square, she began to wrestle ever so slightly, her head peeking out of the backpack.
“Good dogs get to do fun things, tiny one.”
She had heard the phrase hundreds of times. It was her motivation.
Right on cue, she relaxed. This was just another aventura—going places and doing things nobody imagined a dog could do, especially one whose breed was practically synonymous with bad behavior.
Tickets purchased, we had only one piece of business to handle before boarding the bus for the 25-minute ride up the mountain to the sacred city.
“Twinkles, go pee.”
She casually climbed out of the backpack and, off-leash as usual, found the only patch of grass in the tiny town square. She squatted.
And declared squatter’s rights.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a Mucuchíes—a mighty local dog with a legendary lineage—strolled onto the scene. He wasn’t looking for a turf war. He simply seemed curious about the tiny, fearless furball who had just claimed his territory.
Twinkles responded by striking her full matador pose.
The square was crowded with tourists preparing to witness one spectacle, the Sacred City. Instead, they found themselves watching another.
One tourist took in the enormous dog, the tiny but utterly confident Twinkles, and panicked.
“Hey, aren’t you nervous?”
I glanced at the peaceful, curious encounter unfolding before us, then turned to the crowd.
“Nope. She’s just fine.”
Confidence is Cultivated
As the bus climbed 1,300-feet from Machu Picchu town square to the Sacred City, most people were thinking, “How in the hell did the Incans haul those rocks up this hill?”
I took the time to reflect.
“How in the hell did a tiny lapdog, once terrified of the outside world, get this good?”
Good God, this pooch had a process.
WANT → CAN → DO
To achieve such a miraculous metamorphosis—to overcome the gravity of taking her very first walk at age six—she first had to see the benefit of taking what, to her, was an enormous risk.
She had to move from being forced to do things I thought she might enjoy to wanting to do things she never knew were possible.
Life beyond the sterile confinement of a king-sized bed—with its pee pads, food and water at the foot—an entire world had been waiting for her.
Wow, these smells are great. Chasing squirrels is fun!
Oh, wow, I’m popular. Twinkles? Those days are over. I want to be La Princesa!
Then each adventure gave her evidence that she could do it. Slowly, experience by experience, her confidence was cultivated.
This wasn’t the product of a few trips to the dog park. It took thousands of interactions and repeated exposure to unfamiliar environments, each one making the next new experience possible.
WANT. CAN.
Only after passing those first two tests could she break barriers. Step by step, she showed that belonging isn’t about permission. It’s about presence, proof, and the courage to climb.
Do things she never imagined she could do.
Do things others said she couldn’t do.
Tiny Dog, HUGE Pawprints
Exiting the bus, she willing jumped into her backpack.
Her “bullet” backpack fit her body perfectly. I could adjust the zipper so her head peeked out the top while her butt rested comfortably at the bottom.
“Okay, Twinkles. Backpack. FULL ZIP!”
The fully zipped drill was claustrophobic, confining. It was reserved only for the most rare of accomplishemts.
We had executed it only once or twice, for no more than 45 seconds. But with all the commotion surrounding her, Twinkles could sense that this mission was different. The stakes were high.
Still, she complied—no doubt remembering her motivation:
Good dogs get to do fun things.
It was prime entry time. Hundreds of people were pouring off buses and making the short walk toward the entrance.
About 20 meters from the gate, I stopped and let the human wave flow past me.
“Good. They’re not checking backpacks.”
The entry risk was all but eliminated. I just needed to choose the most chaotic lane, preferably one with a gatekeeper who appeared notably lax.
“Tranquilo, Twink. Almost there. No fuckin’ wrestling around.”
What happened next was a blur. It happened so fast. Unconsciously.
I walked as quickly as I could, putting distance between us and any threat of immediate expulsion.
Fifty meters beyond the entrance, the simple path opened—and there it was.
“Ho-lee-fuk, Twinkle!”
I unzipped the backpack, secured her leash and released her from confinement.
The first thing she saw was Huayna Picchu. Within moments, we were standing before the magnificent panorama of one of the New Seven Wonders of the World.
The day was perfect: cool, damp air and a few light clouds circling the mountain peak. I had feared the site would be overrun with tourists. Not that day. It never once felt crowded.
Visitors politely exchanged cameras, taking turns capturing one another’s dream photographs. All my energy was focused on getting ours. After all, our dream day was fragile, could be terminated at any moment.
I was shaking as a kind Korean tourist handed back my camera.
“Twinkles, these pictures are perfect! No guards in sight. We’ve got an endless number of paths in front of us.”
Twinkles looked toward two strange animals roaming in the distance.
“Yup Twink. Llamas it is.”
The five-pound Chihuahua scaled the irregular stone terraces with the determination of a mountain goat. She dug her paws into the loose pebbles and bounded up the steps with ease.
That tiny dog was beginning to leave some HUGE PAWPRINTS on this legendary site.
We bent down right between the two furry beasts. Click!
When the photographer handed back my camera, I stared at the image in astonishment. Either she had gotten extremely lucky, or she was a master at capturing not merely the subjects, but the entire scene.
At the edge of the photograph stood a group of visitors. They weren’t simply astonished by the sight of a dog showing she belonged. They were genuinely delighted by her.
She brought an emotion rarely experienced in this historic site: JOY!
For the rest of the day, the aura of Twinkles glowed as brightly as the Temple of the Sun.
With the trails surprisingly untrafficked, we explored every path we could find—even the perilous route to the Inca Bridge, where they recorded your passport number before letting you proceed.
Because there was always a chance you might not return.
Risky. But we had been testing another kind of risk all day just as big. The old man and his small dog enjoying this true wonder.
Wondering if we could get through the gate. Wondering whether fellow tourists would accept her. And still hanging over us, wonder whether a ranger would throw us out.
In the heart of that day, we stopped for a sandwich overlooking the Citadel. Twinkles, leading the way, seemingly recognized the accents of fellow Colombians and settled among them—the perfect company with whom to celebrate.
Then she growled under her breath.
She didn’t overreact. It was simply her cue to alert me to a potential threat.
Sure enough, a ranger stood about a few hundred feet away.
This dream could have evaporated into nightmare, just like that.
But nobody panicked. We kept our cool—especially the dog.
The ranger could have thrown the rulebook at us. Instead, he looked at Twinkles, then at the small congregation gathered around her. He saw the joy. The positive energy. She wasn’t disrupting anything. She wasn’t a threat.
He didn’t glare. He didn’t approach.
He simply walked away.
The rules made no distinction: dogs didn’t belong there.
The ranger did. He saw Twinkles—and, without saying a word, affirmed she belonged.
From Fugitive to Royalty
When we returned to Machu Picchu Pueblo at the base of the Citadel, all I remember is the calm.
After a day of nonstop adrenaline, I could finally breathe—finally process what I thought was the end of one of the greatest days of my life.
“WE DID IT, TWINKLE! MACHU IMPOSSIBLE!”
Exhausted, we walked slowly toward the train station.
My phone rang. It was our hotel—the people who, even during our short stay, had come to know and love Twinkles.
“Mr. Corr, you and Twinkles—your train has been changed.”
In my travel experience, that is rarely a promising start.
“You have been upgraded to... THE HIRAM BINGHAM for your journey home. It leaves in, um... 30 minutes. Just go to the lounge. They will be ready for you.”
I
I nearly dropped the phone.
“¿Qué? The fucking Orient Express of South America? Named after the dude who introduced the Sacred City to the world? Christ, Twinkle, this reserved for the world’s elite!”
What had begun as a frivolous, bootstrapped aventura would end in the lap of luxury: white tablecloths, spacious seating—even a bar car alive with a brass band.
Aboard the Hiram Bingham, we were no longer suspects on the run.
We were ROYALTY.The waiter approached.
“Mr. Corr—and Twinkles—we are proudly serving duck as tonight’s main course.”
As he presented the plate, Twinkles emerged from the backpack.
“¿Qué? Duck?!”
“I love chasing them. Finally, I get to EAT one!”
“Disfruta, La Princesa. You earned it.”
Twinkles had never needed an invitation to know she belonged.
Now, at last, the invitation had caught up with her.
But now, in the rarefied air of the Hiram Bingham, she finally had one.
