Mission Impossible: Machu Picchu

You know that moment …

In every Mission Impossible movie when the plan is a little... sketchy? Yet so full of hubris, attitude of general disregard, the heroes do it anyway … and succeed!

This is a tale about ambition, divine mischief, and one very determined chihuahua named Twinkles. The true story of how I smuggled a four-pound pup into Machu Picchu using nothing but guile, charm, a backpack, and a complete disregard for UNESCO regulations

Two Bored Dare-Devils? A Devil’s Workshop!

Twinkles may be four pounds soaking wet, but she’s got the confidence of a bullfighter, the flair of a Broadway diva, and cuter than a baby duck.

We’ve been living in Medellin, Colombia for two years. We like variability, surprises, which have been running low lately.

Boy and his dog just sitting there looking at each other more bored than an old married couple. “Twink, I have an idea. We’re going to a new parque.”

All she heard was ‘parque.’ Ears up. Tail twitching. Anxiously looked at her favorite park in the distance.

“No, no. This one is 500 years old, two-day trip from here. Seat of ancient Incan empire, one of 7-Wonders of the Modern World, Machu Picchu.”

On the trip down to Peru, “Twink, I’m reading this condescending blog by a so-called “dog travel expert” who declared: You can’t bring a dog into Machu Picchu.”

A High Stakes Challenge

We looked at each other with resolve, “Watch us.”

“Twink, you’re gonna be the first dog in this 500-year-old park!”

We arrived, started preparing for Mission Impossible Machu.

“Tiny One, Mission Impossible Rule #1: Have a plan.

For us, it was full stealth mode backpack, deceive, and run fast, just like we’ve done so many times back home in Colombia.

But the stakes are MUCH higher here. “Look dog, long journey. Lotta money. The whole ‘Sacred’ thing. We cannot have any goal line fumbles. Claro!”

As I zipped the backpack, she was claustrophobic, anxious but confident.

We crossed the checkpoint. Nobody blinked. We were in.

After a full-scale sprint, I unzipped the bag. She emerged like a tiny Indiana Jones. It was pure drama.

The Majestic Payoff

She surveyed the ruins and whispered, “I. Am. The. First.”

Did the whole smear. Alpaca, tricky trails, hiking acrophobic cliffs, simply a majestic thrill show. Four hours later, we broke for lunch.

“Twink,” I whispered. “Mission Impossible Rule #2: Never get too comfortable.”

Almost on cue, a ripple in the universe.

She barked under breath, on the horizon was Peruvian Park Ranger Smith with a look of intent.

Before I could blink, she LAUNCHED herself into the arms of a fellow Colombian tourist wearing our red, yellow, and blue national colors like a superhero cape.

The amigas reared up, ready to deliver the Jedi mind trick: “This is not the dog you’re looking for.”

And then—something unexpected.

‘THE FORCE!” (GranColombia-Style)

The Peruvian ranger paused. He had every right to ask us to leave. Every protocol told him to.

But he looked at Twinkles. At the tourist now grinning ear to ear. At the crowd of strangers-turned-friends marveling at the scene.

And with a quiet nod, he became the true guardian of the Sacred City—not just its stones, but its spirit.

He allowed us to stay.

Because reverence isn’t about rules. It’s about recognizing joy, connection, and the power of a ‘twinkling’ presence.

‘This Can’t Be Happening,’ Again?

Exhausted, triumphant, we walked back to the train station. The hotel calls. “Mr. Thomas, your train has been upgraded. You’ll now be riding... the Hiram Bingham.”

Hiram Bingham? Like the guy who discovered Sacred City? “Twink, it’s basically the Peruvian Orient Express. Velvet seats. Live music. Duck on the menu.”

Twinkles licked her chops. “I usually chase ducks. Tonight, I dine on them.”

As the train departed, she crept out of her backpack and reclined like royalty. “Today, I am crowned La Princesa. I belong.”

Me? I was still processing that we’d broken sacred tourism laws and landed in luxury dining with a dog who thinks she’s Cleopatra.

Lapping up Perrier from a wine glass, she nodded solemnly. “The Twinkle: crafty, agile, and most important, fabulous.”

Reflecting on this miraculous accomplishment. I said, “Helps when you pack light, puppy” and began serenading her with the Glenn Campbell classic, “She’s not heavy, she’s my puppy ...”

And that’s how one stubborn man and one self-important chihuahua turned a no-dogs-allowed zone into their personal victory lap.

From backpack to bar car. From outlaw to legend.