Chimborazo: Redress

The day after Cotopaxi had refused us, our climbing crew dissipated, and we went our separate ways. I was still pretty beat when I woke that morning, but I wasn't about to hang about that place any longer than I had to, so I packed up my things, settled-up, wandered down to the Panamericana, and flagged a bus headed South. I would not be trying Cotopaxi again, I'd decided, but I hadn't given up on the idea of having a go at another mountain, I just needed some time to recuperate and let myself build up some steam again.

I disembarked in the bustling little hub of Latacunga, and nabbed another bus headed West up through the lush hills of Ecuador's central highlands, which wound to and fro along innumerable switchbacks, and passed through all manner of tiny little mountain towns, until eventually we came to the end of the line at one such town by the name of Zumbahua. The end of the bus line anyway. From here I hopped into a truck with a half-dozen wind-blown Ecuadorian mountain folk and we shuttled up the dirt road to the real end of the line, just approaching the cusp of what I'd heard was an incredibly beautiful crater lake by the name of Laguna Quilotoa. A good place to flop for a day or so and consider my options.

It was a bit late arriving however, so rather than make the walk down to the lake right away, I opted to find a place to stay and settle - a comfy little hostel run by a local family, and outfitted with wood-burning stoves, warm sleeping bags, and home-cooked meals. It was getting cold quick, so I wasted little time finding a spot just next to the stove. There was an old beat-up guitar hanging on the wall which I appropriated, and once my fingers warmed up some, sat and played with great pleasure as the children of the house fiddled with their homework books. Supper was served presently - warm vegetable soup, and plain rice with scrambled eggs - and once a fire had been built up in my room, I retired to read some, and was down for the count in no time.

Up with the light of day the next morning, my own breath was one of the first things I saw. It's a pleasant feeling, I noted, waking up in a room once warmed by open fire but slowly grown chilled throughout the night, and snuggled a while in my still-warm sleeping bag before shuffling downstairs for a breakfast that looked an awful lot like supper last night. I gobbled it up, bought myself one of the wooly alpaca knit-sweaters they were selling out of a back room along with all kinds of other arts and crafts type items, and made for the lake. It was a grey morning, but that did little to conceal the incredible majesty of the place, I thought, as I made my way around the last little bend, and passed through the stony corridor that opened out open a view of the lake.

There it sat some hundred feet below, a steely-blue-green swath of shimmering water, edged on all sides by the steep ridges of the surrounding caldera. In my customary manner, I set about making the rounds of the thing, and found, to my great delight, that there was virtually no one around save for a few shepherd-type folks marching a lone cow or ass along the path, and from whom I received pleasant morning greetings. One small boy was kind enough to ask if I intended to walk the whole way round the lake, and when I told him yes, let me know that it would take me some four hours to do so. This was a stroke of luck, for I had arranged a ride into town that morning, and did not have four hours to spare. I didn't believe him at first, but kept my eye on my watch as I went, and sure enough by the time I had reached what seemed to me to be about the quarter-way-mark, I was already an hour in. Damn lake was bigger than it looked.

So rather than go on, I scraggled up to the highest point I could find nearby, and sat quietly for a time, feeling the cool mountain air on my face, overlooking the lake below, and perhaps trying to tune in to the voices of the mountains, in hopes of finding some way to set right the sense of defeat that had been sitting heavy in my guts since we'd turned back those few nights ago on the flanks of Cotopaxi. I don't recall if it came to me just then, or at some point in the coming hours, as I walked back down to my hostel, but by the end of the day, I knew what I had to do. We drove back down the winding road to Zumbahua, where I lunched, perused a local Saturday morning market, and caught the next bus back toward Latacunga. From there it was a quick transfer, and soon enough I was headed southward to Riobamba, from whence I could get a run at my next mountain.

Chimborazo its name, and nothing less than the highest summit in Ecuador, at 6310m (roughly 20702 ft) above sea level. Moreover, because of our planet's equatorial bulge - in case you didn't know, we're a little thick around the middle - Chimborazo's summit is actually the furthest point from the center of the Earth, or put otherwise, the closest you can get to the sun while still standing with your feet on the ground. I don't know about you, but I thought that was quite sufficently badass to basically forbid driving by without so much as an attempt at the sucker.

Furthermore, I figured since I've already failed once trying to achieve Andean mountain adventure awesomeness, if I was going to try again, it might as well be on a mountain that would be worth my while. In truth, I had actually been looking at Chimborazo all along, but in the half-hearted way of one who is not quite sure if he's biting off more than he can chew. But like I say, I had little to lose now in the way of pride (and a little to show in the way of experience) so I figured I may as well have at it. I rolled into Riobamba late that night and took a decent room to rest up. I'd start my guide-search in the morning.

Or so I thought. As it happened, I actually had a good sleep-in that morning, and wound up spending the day occupied with other things, i.e. wandering about town, gawking at old buildings. It was Sunday, and the better part of the shops were closed anyway. But the day wasn't a total loss; earlier, asking around at some hostels, I'd managed to come across the name and number of a fellow representing a supposedly cheap and reliable guide operator here in town. I'd start by calling him in the morning, I thought, but right now, I had to find something to eat. I took to the streets and started looking around, passing by several totally acceptable seeming places, which, for some reason didn't catch my fancy that night. On and on I went, until, now way downtown near the train station, I noticed a little hole-in-the-wall place, and went out of my way to cross a busy street and sit therein.

The kindly fellow who ran the place showed me to my table and took my order. While I waited we made some light chit-chat which somehow made it's way round to Chimborazo. "I'm a guide, you know" you told me. "Really?" I replied, and asked which operator he was with. "Alto Montana." he replied, the very same operator I'd been referred to today, and planned on calling tomorrow. "Oh," I said, "Well then you must know Joel Quinllin." I took out the piece of paper with the name and number on it and handed it to him. He scrutinized the latter for a moment, raised his eyes to me with a funny look in them, and then returned them to the paper. When he raised his gaze again he had a quizical smile on his face. "That's me." he said.

You could call it a coincidence, but it makes for a slightly better story to imagine instead that the voices of the mountains, having heard my anguished reflections yesterday as I sat atop the great sloping hills surrounding Quilotoa, had taken pity on me and guided me down the cold streets of Riobamba that night, past this restaurant and that burger stand, and into the modest eatery of Joel Quillin, the selfsame man I'd been looking for in this city of over 100,000 people. Whatever you call it, we had a deal set by the end of my meal, and he was waiting outside my hotel the following morning to drive me overtown to meet the actual guide who would be taking me up Chimborazo. Solo this time.

Eloy was his name, and he was a hearty fellow, a touch older than my prior guides at 38, but he exuded a certain relaxed air of experience that the former had soemhow lacked in their youth. We tried out gear, talked timing and money, and were on our way out of town by car that afternoon. I'd been throught his before now, there was no point in beating around the bush. The road to Chimborazo was far superior to that leading up to Cotopaxi, as was the weather, and we had a good clear view of the beast as we approached the base around late afternoon.

At Chimborazo you can drive right up to the climber's refuge situated at around 4800m, and we did so and unpacked our few provisions and gear. Unlike Cotopaxi, which had been crawling with climbers, the refuge here was basically empty. Apart from the one fellow who worked at the lodge, my guide and I, there were only four other people hoping to make the climb, one man from Isreal and his guide and a young Austrian couple. While the former would be leaving tonight, like us, the latter were just there to acclimatize, and would have their go the following evening.

Eloy set to work making supper while I put on my warm clothes and made some light chat with the young man from Israel. He was nervous for the climb. He'd made a number of climbs in preparation, he said, and had summitted Cotopaxi a few days ago, but still felt unprepared. His preparation was purely physical, he said, but the tough part of the climb was the mental aspect, and he felt shaky. I didn't know what he was worried about, if I'd made it up Cotopaxi, I'd feel like a million bucks getting ready to head up this sucker. Strangely, his anxiety only seemed to make me more confident, and I had a little stretch before the fire as we chatted, until Eloy called me over to super. We would wake at 10:30PM or so, and try to be out the door by 11, he told me. He ate quickly and went up to rest. I wanted to do the same, but my excitement kept me up a little chatting with the Austrians. Eventually, however, I took to my bunk and fell swiftly asleep.

I recall waking to the shuffling preparations of the Israeli - evidently they would be leaving a touch earlier than us - and laying awake until they were gone and Eloy came over to roust me. We had a quick bite to eat and a warm drink as is the custom, and were underway in no time at all. Our pace was swift - Eloy evidently wanted to make good time. The weather was good, no wind, silence all around, but boy were we moving. After maybe a half-hour or forty-five minutes of this, I had to stop. I felt wretched. My arms and legs ached at the joints, and my back and shoulders sagged under the weight of my pack. I had the taste of blood in my mouth as though I had been running at top speed, and my head was swimming. I had started to sweat and the air had gotten up under my clothes and was freezing me. I shook like a leaf. I felt dizzy.

Eloy was shocked. I'd explained to him earlier how I'd made it to around 5500m on Cotopaxi feeling strong, and here we were only sitting around 4900m at most, and in perfect weather. I didn't look good, he said. "I think it's the pace," I told him feebly, "can we slow down a touch?" He said we were already going slow, and that this is the pace we'd need to summit on time. Besides, the type of sympotms I was exhibiting had nothing to do with pace, he assured me. Taste of blood in the throat, excess sweating, aching joints, and all the rest, "That's all indicative of a physiological problem of yours - with your arteries. I've seen it before." he said.

Then his face grew serious, and told me how he'd known one client who had exhibited some of these symptoms, and had insisted on continuing up the mountain anyway, where the client had begun to cough up blood. At that point, they'd turned back immediately. Later when they'd seen a doctor, the latter had said that if they'd been three more hours up there, this man could have died. "I don't want to take any risks." he told me.

Now, I tried to be sensible, Eloy seemed one hell of a guide - he'd been at it for 17 years afterall, and had made the summit of this mountain 431 times before - but I didn't buy this talk of a problem with my arteries. I'd made it up Cotopaxi just fine, and had wanted to go on even when the wind was half blowing me over. Surely if I'd had some crazy artery problem it would have shown itself before now? Either way, I wasn't ready to turn back just yet, and after a bit more talk, we agreed to go a little further, and see how I felt. I promised him I'd tell him straightaway if any of my symptoms persisted or got worse - I had no interest in deceiving him afterall, only in making sure we didn't turn back prematurely. And so on we went, little by little.

Sure enough, I started to get better. Eloy's increased concern coupled with my increased awareness of my body slowed our pace some, and we stopped every so often to talk about how I was feeling. The taste of blood had left me, and I no longer had the shakes. The steady walking had helped my limbs warm up and my body temperature to find a level where I was plenty warm inside, but no longer sweating. The cold air therefore could no longer freeze me. Also, my dizziness was gone, and my breathing deepened. I felt good, I told him. Eloy, however, was still a bit nervous, and so we continued to proceed with caution. Just a little further, and we'll see - there was no talk of the summit.

But by the time we reached the foot of the glacier at around 5500m I was feeling golden, and Eloy could tell, I was cracking jokes, and keeping step with him - there was no mistaking it. As far as I was concerned, my initial response had just been a result of our basically having rolled out of bed in the middle of the night, slammed a tea and proceeded to run up the side of a glaciated mountain at 4800m. It was just my body's way of saying "Hey, whoa, no warm-up?" Even cars need to idle a minute or two in winter. Anyway, once my body had begun to cope with the reality of the climb, we were good to go, and go we did. Crampons on, and a slug of water, and it was up and up and up.

While Cotopaxi may be known for bad weather, as far as the climb itself is concerned, it's relatively simple - just walking basically, albeit steep walking in places. Chimborazo on the other hand, is slightly more technical - there are patches where it is impossible to walk, and one must scale nearly verticle ice walls. At these points Eloy would go ahead of me, and securing his ice axe in the glacier, would belay me as I scraggled up the wall. It was easier than I'd expected, to be honest, and we husteld along upward, not pausing to talk about what getting down these same patches might me like later.

After we'd been climging pretty steadily for what felt to me like ages, Eloy turned suddenly and told me it was time for a break. We had come, he told me, to the height of Cotopaxi, roughly 5900m. I smiled, and when I could catch some breath, let go with as big a whoop as I could muster, and sat heavily for a drink of water and a cookie or two. Coming this far had been difficult, the rough start had put us behind schedule, and the going had been slow the past few stretches of glacier, but to be sure, the real climb came after 6000m.

Eloy was still in peak form, but I was starting to lose it. It wasn't any of the symptoms from before, I told him. Nor was it elevation sickness - I had no dizziness, no nausea, no light-headedness. I was just wasted. I was breathing like a sprinter, and basically crawling up the mountain. At one point Eloy had to call me up off all fours and insist that I walk bipedally - it was actually easier, and better for my climbing in the long run. I complied.

When we would stop for breaks I would feel fine after a moment. Refreshed and ready to go. But we'd start again, and only a few minutes onward and I'd be huffing and puffing like mad, and need another break to catch my breath. Eloy was very good about indulging me in these breaks, but made a point of sressing that if we didn't make it to the summit in time, our descent would be all the more treacherous, for the same reasons I'd been told when climbing Cotopaxi. I tried to hustle up and keep on. Ever since 5900m Eloy had been telling me each time we passed a new waypoint. 5950m. 6000m. 6050m. Up until about 6100m our breaks had been getting more and more frequent, as were his announcements, and then, it seemed I didn't hear from him for a while, and my requests for breaks seemed to float on past him. I knew we must be getting close.

I put my head down and slogged. I needed a break, desperately, but breathed as deeply as I could and kept my stride up the steepening mountainside. When I could bear it no longer I looked up and thought I saw the slope of the mountain rounding off. It was a bit hazy, so I couldn't be sure, but again I put my head down and trode on. It had looked so close. After a time I looked again, and once more the rounding off seemed visible, although no closer. I decided to give up on looking, and swallowing my breaths like gulps from a garden hose in summertime, I put my hands on my thighs and pushed my own legs on beneath me. Suddenly, just as I was about to give a yank on the rope and demand a break, I felt the ground that had so long been in front of me give way and curve slowly into the ground beneath me. I straightened and looked up, and there was nothing more, and we were there.

Eloy gave a cry and began spouting praise to the lord for giving him his 432nd summit. Scarecely able to stop my legs from moving, I wobbled around in a daze laughing like a little boy who'd had too much sugar. I felt the tears well up in my eyes, and then seconds later felt the wind splay them out and weld them to my cheeks.

The sun was rising - we had made it on time, amazingly, since there had been a point early on where we had been over an hour behind schedule - and in its dim light, I looked down at the tops of the clouds surrounding the summit, and turning to Eloy, hugged him and thanked him. I never - never - could have made it without him, and I told him so. I pulled off my gloves to snap a few photos, and quickly regretted it, for the wind was stronger here on the summit, and in seconds my hands were aching brutally with cold. We took one last look around and headed back down the side a ways to sit out of the wind and have a break.

The view from this little perch was even more stunning than the view from the top, for out of the wind you could relax some and enjoy it. I snapped a few more shots, and we enjoyed a little snack of chocolate chip cookies and cold tea. Soon, I knew, it would be time to start the long journey back down to the refuge, but surely that would be nothing, I thought to myself, still elated at having stood with arms outstretched at the extremity of the world, and felt the rising sun on my face from as close a grounded stance as I likely ever would again.

(I feel compelled to point out here that the main summit of Chimborazo, which Eloy and I reached that day, is actually only 6275m above sea level. About a kilometer or so away - and roughly one hour's hike - stands the glacial giant's true summit, a little peak extending some thiry-five meters higher than the main summit, at 6310m. It's this second peak, therfore, that is rightfully termed the furthest point from the center of the Earth, and not where we stood that fateful morning. But I'll tell you, 6275m was plenty enough for me at that moment, and I was hardly displeased when there was no talk of our setting out for the second peak. So, if you want to pick nits, I didn't really stand as close to the sun as humanly posssible, I was roughly 115 feet shy. I figure you've got to leave something for next time, haven't you?)

As it happens, I was wrong. I won't get into the details of it here - OK, maybe I will - but our descent down the steep face of Chimborazo over the course of the next few hours counts as one of the most excrutiating exertions of my life to date - I feel like I'm saying that a lot lately, no? Coming up we had cut switchbacks across the face of the glacier to break the incline, but coming down we blazed a straight path, and my legs, which had done their best to carry me this far now burned at having to hold my weight once more. It had taken nearly all of my steam to reach the summit, and now, as we started down, I found precious little energy remaining. It is a funny thing to feel yourself barely able to move your own body. You say go, and things don't go. It's nuts. Thank goodness gravity was now on my side, for without her constant encouragement, I don't know that I would have been able to proceed.

A few hours into our descent I was already beginning to moan with every step. This was despite myself, mind you, for I did not want to seem a beansprout before my great guide. You'd better believe I tried to squelch my whimperings, but they came nonetheless. My legs felt like two sledgehammers fastened heads-down to my hips, and it was all I could do to try and keep them swinging, and my weight level overtop of them. My back felt as though someone had taken scissors and snipped all but a few of the sinews that held it together, and the whole works was just one false step away from snapping loose and springing apart. I was sore all over really, and soon develped a headache to boot, for all my grinding of teeth, and clenching of jaws.

Eloy was a good sport, doling out advice here and there - "Why not walk a little faster, it will hurt less." - and even offered to carry some of my gear when it became safe for him to do so. The few portions of the route that had involved verticle climbs on the way up presented particularly trying problems now. For coming down they had to be descended backwards, Eloy belyaing me down, his knuckles firm around the rope. We had more than one close call, I'll tell you, where poor timing, exhaustion, and all the other problematic aspects of climbing down a vertical wall backwards converged and resulted in a slip, or even a partial fall. But Eloy was on his game, and always caught my slack, and talked me - dangling there - through the business of regaining myself. What could I do but laugh? Eloy, however, did not laugh.

Once off the glacier, we took a slightly different path down to the refuge, scrambling over some bouldery areas where all four limbs were often necessary to gain ground, and other regions
where the sand was soft and steep and slid out beneath your feet, such that you almost had to ski down to keep from falling. It would have been fun, I'm sure, if I hadn't been so physically and mentally depleted. Eventually however, by some miracle - that is how it felt, truly - I found myself walking down toward the doors of the refuge, and felt my bum falling gracelessly into a seat. There were other people around, and they were asking me things. I answered, I recall, although I am not sure just what I said. Joel Quinllin was there to pick us up, and he put food before me which I gladly ate. I shook hands with people, and smiled, and packed my things, and got in the car and promptly fell asleep.

Joel woke me up when it was time for Eloy to leave, and I thanked him profusely, appologized for all my moaning and groaning, and shook his hand goodbye. Next thing I knew I was being dropped back at my hostel where I said a warm goodbye to Joel, thanking him for all his help as well, and carted my scrambled things to my room. Somehow, I stripped, showered, and made my way into bed. It was maybe noon, I noticed. The climb had taken about 11 hours, all told.

I didn't wake until well after dark that evening, and when I did, I felt like I had been beaten without reserve, and at all angles, by a entire team of people. Only now, roughly a week later, am I beginning to feel myself return to full strength once more. But the pain has also been sweet, make no mistake about it. A consistent if slowly-waning reminder of the fact that I had acheived my goal of summiting this most unique of equatorial Andean peaks. Every lingering ache, every muscle straining to regain itself, whispers "You did it." There are, I take it, few sweeter salves to an injured body than that flavor of psychological satisfaction. What a trip.

At the moment I am in the lovely little town of Loja, in the southern part of Ecuador, preparing to make my transition into Peru tomorrow morning. As it happens, a good friend of mine has informed me recently that he will be flying into Lima on the 5th of July. That gives me some twelve days or so to cut down the sunny coast of Peru and meet with him there in the country's capital. From there we will head back Northward to explore the country's sizable slice of the Amazon rainforest, before looping back down through the central highlands on our way south toward Cuzco, Machu Picchu, Lake Titicaca, and beyond. More information on those plans as they develop.

I continue to miss you all very much, and look forward to checking in again soon. Thanks again to those of you kind enough to send me mail - may it arrive swiftly and without incident! Lots of love from little Loja.

Cotopaxi: Defeat

If there was ever a place to recuperate from the big sail, Quito was it for me, boy. When I wasn't sleeping it off, I would fill a cafe chair, and soak up the vibrant street life encouraging the odd sandwich and coffee into my face. This was nice while it lasted, but soon enough I was hungry for adventure once more, and having had quite enough of the sea for a while, I knew this time it would be mountains.

I'd heard about a few biggies around these parts, and although I was excited to get into the real climbing, I knew - and was being repeatedly told - that elevations like these (5000m-6000m plus) are not to be taken lightly. I had no interest in doing anything stupid, only something awesome, so I heeded this advice and started with a trek up Rucu Pichincha (4700m), which, as I mentioned earlier, went swimmingly. Only a mildly difficult climb, my little group and I scraggled up to the summit over the course of a few hours, sans guide, and were home in time for supper. We were pretty beat, I'll admit, but it felt like little more than a hard day's work to me.

Having knocked that off, I thought I was ready for the big stuff, so I left town headed southward toward my next goal - Volcan Cotopaxi - a beautifully cone-shaped stratovolcano sitting smack dab in the midst of a high Andean plain. At 5981m - that's 19,347 ft - Cotopaxi is the second tallest mountain in Ecuador, and one of the highest active volcanoes in the world. It also has one of the few equatorial glaciers in the world, which starts at around 5000m and continues on to it's pointed summit. Among other things, that all means no more casual guideless afternoon climbs in hiking boots for me. Making it to the top of this mother would take much planning, and gear and expertise, none of which I had, although I had a few ideas where to find it.

After poking around some of the smaller cities south of Quito and talking to locals about independant guides and solo climbing options, I began to realize that the prices I was coming up with were not all that much better than the costs of some of the package climb-deals put out by several local hostels - plus it was more work for me. So I decided to have a closer look at the latter, and made my way over to one such lovely countryside hostel to inquire. There I met with the owner to discuss my chances at getting up Cotopaxi in the coming days.

Asking about my acclimatization, he showed some concern, and suggested I take part in one of the resorts all-inclusive, six-day, elevation-acclimatization programs, featuring full meals, several progressively difficult climbs in the area, trips to nearby lakes to recoup, yadda, yadda. Sounded real fine until he dropped the price tag on me. I was all for acclimatizing, I said, but I don't have $500 to spend on it. "Is there no way I can get up there sooner... and cheaper?" I ask him. "Well, we recommend the package," says he. "Well, I'll think about it then," say I.

That night, I'm turning over my options in the sitting room, and I happen into a conversation with some pleasant folks from Australia/New Zealand. Turns out they're headed up Cotopaxi tomorrow night, three of them, with two guides - park regulations say two clients maximum per guide - and are looking for a fourth person to fill out their team. "Wanna come?" they ask me. I tell them yes, but I'm worried about the acclimatization, and ask if they've done other climbs in preparation. They've done Rucu Pichincha, like me, they say, but haven't got the time or money for a big multi-day package, they just want to have a go at Cotopaxi. This convergence of intention refreshes me - I'm at least as stupid as these people, I figure - and so after chatting with them and considering things a bit more, I decide I want to go for it. We approach the organizers and tell them our desires, and they have little choice but to accept our request to make the climb as a foursome. We shook on it, and went to bed early to save energy for the big day - or rather the big night - tomorrow.

The following morning we woke early, broke fast, and met with our guides around 10 AM. Two youngish Ecuadorian men - one 26 the other a mere 20, both of whom seemed pretty keen - and set about doling-out and trying on our equipment. The latter consisted of: hard-plastic climbing boots, spiked crampons, warm fleece pants and sweater, water-proof outer pants and jacket, gaiters (protective garments worn around the ankles), thermal gloves, toque and headlamp, waist-harness (for belaying, and safety in steep areas), and ice axe. Made you feel like a damn pioneer to walk around with all that stuff on, and we started to get excited. Once we got all our gear sorted we drove into the nearby town of Machachi to stock up on food and have lunch. Then it was off to the mountain.

The terrain in and around the park within which Cotopaxi is situated is a bit rough, and we were bobble-heading a bit as we wound our way along the dirt road up to her base, which only served to make the beast seem even more imposing, as she sat, perfect and unflinching on the horizon. We parked to don our warm-weather gear, and snap a photo or two before driving the final stretch up to the parking area some 200m below the little traveller's refuge at around 4800m, where we would later sup, and try to steal a few hours sleep before the big climb.

On mountains of this size, where it takes some 6-8 hours to make the summit, it is customary to depart around 11PM or midnight, and climb through the wee morning hours (hence the need for headlamps) when the weather tends to be calmest, ideally arriving at the summit around dawn. Another reason for the nocturnal ascent is that in the daytime, when the sun comes out and heats us the surface of the mountain, parts of the glacier can soften, making passage both more difficult and more dangerous.

Anyway, this short trek up to the refuge was not too taxing, but neither was it easy, considering we had the better part of our gear on and full packs on our backs. It took us maybe an hour or so, and was a nice introduction to the reality of climbing a mountain in the wind. Because of Cotopaxi's more or less lonely location in the midst of an otherwise mountainless plain, it has hardly any protection from the elements, and so is notorious for bad weather, especially at higher elevations. This day, unfortunately, was no exception, and even as we made our ascent to the refuge, pelted by cold winds and light snow, our guides hinted that conditions were looking less than ideal.

We arrived however, on time, settled our things in our bunks, and had a quick chat about safety equipment, and emergency procedures - we had originally planned to have a kind of training session regarding these matters, but weather at the refuge was too severe to go outside and practice, we'd just get all our gear wet prematurely. Afterwards our guides cooked us up a lovely and filling dinner, which we huddled around graciously in our toques and fleeces, expelling clouds of steamy breath, and talking pep. Shortly after sundown it was time to get some rest so we shuffled up to our bunks and hit the cocoons.

It's a funny thing trying to rest at altitude. We had been warned that we may have trouble getting to sleep, but no one warns you about the other effects it has on people. For one thing, there's the wind, and I don't mean the wind outside now, I mean the kind of wind you pass. I don't know the science of it, but the elevation must do something to the body's ability to hold gases, because I'll tell you, that whole roomfull of dozing hopefuls - there must have been thirty or forty of us in the place, most stacked up on stainless-steel bunkbeds piled three high - were farting and belching with a fervor and frequency far exceeding anything that might be conceived of as the normal rate.

It was a curious moment, lying there in the midst of this veritable symphony, broken only by the occasional hacking coughs and dejected sniffling of those who had already had their crack at the summit, and were taking a rest before their ultimate descent. Good encouragement, I thought. It was cold too, damn cold, but I must have eventually managed to find a few hours sleep, I suppose, for the next thing I recall is being woken up into the cool darkness of the midnight, and falling into file with the rest of the zombified folk, putting on boots, and packing up gear, eyes still glazed over. We had a quick snack and a warm drink to wake ourselves up, and once we'd sorted our gear, we set out, and up.

Our pace, at first, was incredibly slow. Tiny steps, slowly, slowly, and often separated by exaggerated pauses, with plenty of actual stop-and-talk breaks as well. Say what you will about our guides, they certainly wanted us to start slow, and work up to the harder stuff later on. We could see the logic in this and so suffered the gruelingly slow pace for as long as it lasted. The weather at the outset was actually decent; little wind, quiet and cool. After a few hours of steady climbing, we reached the glacier, and took a short pause to strap on our crampons and thread the climbing rope through our harnesses - we'd be travelling bound into two groups of three from here on out. So far so good, it seemed, weather looked to be holding off, and everyone seemed strong and excited.

Suffice it to say that over the course of the next few hours, as we made our ascent from the edge of the glacier at about 5000m, things went from good, to not-so good, and then to downright nasty. The biggest thing was the wind. Shortly after our pause to group-off, it came on with a vengeance, and started cutting down the side of the mountain and across our squinting faces at a furious clip. It burned your cheeks hot, and there was a dastardly dash of snow in it too that sliced at you, and made you double over as you walked. It didn't take long for our two groups to separate into the blur of white haze. Around the 5400m mark, our group's pace was still good, as was our morale, but both were stepped down when again the wind stepped up.

Somewhere around this point, we came to a little icen cave, and crawled all three of us inside to take a pause and assess the situation. Our guide was concerned, and asked us repeatedly how we were doing. Our clothing and backpacks were all crusted thickly with ice, and I, for one, had icicles shooting sideways off my frozen beard, but we looked at each other and back at him, and confessed to feeling good - we wanted to summit we told him. He said, he personally didn't like this wind one bit, too dangerous, he thought, but said we'd keep on a little longer and see how it looked. Good enough. A drink of water, and a cookie or two for energy, and we were off once more with renewed vigor.

Unfortunately, the wind had also redoubled its efforts, and we weren't at it another half-hour before we could hardly stand up for fear of being blown over. The terrain was also steeper now, and great icicled chasms opening up along the side of our trailways were becoming more and more common. Our guide asked us again if we wanted to continue, and again we confirmed. Despite the conditions, and the elevation, I was feeling strong, and happy about it. I still wanted to summit. Visibly frustrated by our stubbornness, he obilged us another few tens of meters, until, somewhere around the 5500m mark, the wind and snow grew to a viciousness too much for him, and he tunred to us with an ultimatum. "Friends," he said, " I have decided that it is not safe for us to continue. I am sorry, but I am the guide, and it is my decision. We are going back."

What could we do? We had already pushed him further than he had wanted to take us - we weren't about to stage some kind of mutiny here on the mountainside - and truth be told, it was getting rather difficult to proceed for the strength of the wind and snow. And so, slowly, hesitatingly, begrudgingly, we turned about and headed for home, stopping once more in the ice cave for a brief talk about how this was the best - the safest - course of action, and that we oughtn't feel bad for turning back. Yeah, yeah, safety first and all the rest, but I was pissed. I didn't make a fuss, but it was clear that I felt more than a little miffed at having come all this way, and dropped this dough only to turn back because my guide had a personal problem with the weather.

As I mentioned, our sister team had broken away from us some time ago, and so we had no means of knowing where they were in the climb, or if they had also turned back, or what have you - we would just have to wait and find out later. The climb down was hard too, but soon the light of day began to creep over the mountain, and before long the sloppy tromp downhill became more of a bummer than anything else. Back at the refuge, we did our best to smash the ice off our gear, had a quick snack, and hit the bunks again to rest-up and wait for the other half of our group. Had they made the summit? They'd better not have, we thought, angrily.

Well, as it happened, they did not make it, no. Although they did make it a ways further than we did, up to about 5700m or so - very near the summit. At that point, one among them could go no further, and the weather had grown so beligerent that they too were forced to turn back. Indeed, of the twenty some climb teams that tried for the summit that evening, only three had success. But that was three too many as far as I was concerned. In my eyes, it served only to to underline the fact that we had turned back while others had not - that it would have been entirely possible for us to have made it.

Nor was I alone in my sentiments, the rest of the crew were disappointed too, but we tried not to dwell on this too long however, and by the end of the day had become slightly more confortable resigning ourselves to our humble-but-dignified position among the ranks of those who had taken on Cotopaxi, and lost. "The winners win, sure, but the losers build character," we comforted ourselves to say. "Have you ever met anyone whose never lost at anything?" I asked aloud, "They can hardly be described as a well-rounded people. Surely we're better off in the long run." But such talk sticks bittersweet in the throat, and we all knew it.

But would I be willing to invest the time and money to have another go at it? Or would I take the more audacious route of taking on something even higher? Better to let the whole thing settle for a bit, I thought, and so we supped well that night - I took good advantage of the beautiful jacuzzi with which our little country lodge was outfitted - and we all slept like logs deep into the following day.

Mailing Address In Bolivia

Ok, I know it's been a long time coming, but I think I have finally figured out how to receive mail while on the road. So, if there are any among you who would like to send me something while I still have a few months time remaining in my travels, then I would happily encourage you to do so, preferably as soon as possible, so as to afford it plenty of time to get down here.

It is important that all mail be labelled in exactly the following way; all uppercase letters, with first and last names underlined:

MR. JOSEPH FRIGAULT
c/o LISTA DE CORREOS
LA PAZ / BOLIVIA

Apparently, mail made out in this way will find it's way to the main post office in whatever city/country in South America. At this point, I figure I'm about far enough away from Bolivia that anything mailed relatively soon should be there waiting for me by the time I arrive in La Paz, hopefully around mid to late July. I am told it will be held for a number of months if for some reason I am tardy. I think the bigger issue, however, is getting mail all the way down here on time, so again, the sooner you send, the better.

I want to stress that I will understand if you'd rather hold on to your mail until I return to Canada in the fall. However, if for some reason it can't wait, or if you just want to have a crack at putting something in my hands from half-way across the world - not everyday you get a chance to do something like that, afterall - I'd surely appreciate it! A short note, hunk of grass, Kinder Surprise, I don't care what, really. I'd just be stoked to walk into the main post office in La Paz and find something.

I only ask that you please let me know if you're sending anything - as a comment on this post, or whatever - so that I'll be aware of what to expect when I get to La Paz, and will know if anything is missing.

I want to thank those of you who have been asking about this for your patience, and look forward to receiving whatever may come my way. Talk to you soon!

SV T.L.C.

Well then. I guess I ought to apologize for the slight delay in catching up. It's been a tough few weeks for me, but I'm coming around now, and there's a lot to say, so I'll dive right in.

I want to begin by announcing that all told, my recent journey into Ecuador by sail was a resounding success. It was a doozy of a ride, I have to tell you, and easily ranks as one of the most grueling experiences of my life to date, as the following entry will hopefully illustrate, but I made it ashore in one piece, having gained a wealth of experience and knowledge, and a new friend in Captain Tom - who could reasonably ask for more than that? Let me lead you in.

After spending a night at anchor, Captain Tom and I rose with the sun, and after a hearty seaman's breakfast of black coffee and cornflakes, cut loose and motored over to the little service dock to load up on diesel, ice for the fridge, and potable water. We worked quickly, aided by the few scraggly servicemen who ran the place, none of whom seemed the least bit phased by the fact that someone had apparently put some bad Panamanian porno-film on the office television, the soundtrack of which was blasting through the air all around us. A strange way to start the day, I thought, although I suppose there's probably not much to do on the docks that early in the morning. Anyway, that little bit of business done, we gathered up the lines and were off, departing Balboa Yacht Club in Panama City at roughly 8:30 AM, Sunday, May 23, 2010.

I was excited to be underway, and ready for anything. I knew this was going to be a very different trip from the two I'd experienced back in Mexico, for a few reasons. First of all is was to be longer, five, probably six days to make the roughly 660 mile journey down to Ecuador. True, my first sail back in December had been six days, but we were stopping each night at anchor, cooking up lovely meals, swimming, and sleeping well. Moreover, it was on the realtively placid Sea Of Cortez, not out in open ocean. My second journey, across to Puerto Vallarta, did include a stint of straight sailing across the Pacific, but it was only two-days, plus we had three people on board, which made the night watches all the more manageable. (Standing watch is by far the toughest aspect of straight sailing - since you can't stop in open ocean, someone's got to be up keeping an eye on things at all times, even through the wee hours.)

This journey was projected to be six days straight sailing with a crew of two. That's 144 hours total - 72 daylight, and 72 nighttime - and if each crew member is up roughly half the night keeping watch, in theory, you're looking at about 36 hours of sleep over the course of the whole trip - minus daytime naps, of course. That's 3/4 waking, 1/4 sleeping. Sounds tough, but doable, right? Besides, if weather keeps up - we had some good wind that first morning - and we could keep those few extra knots above our projected cruising speed it looked entirely possible that we could arrive a day early. I have always been a fan of optimism, and was full of it that first morning, I can tell you. Tom was all smiles too, and our talk was of distant shores, and seabound adventure. For a little while, anyway.

I have to report, however, that optimism doesn't always yield, and it can hurt when things turn for the worse, as they did that evening, and continued to do on into the coming days. I will not mince words. It got bad. Really bad. I have never been one to wish for death, but I came as close as I ever have on that journey, I must confess. I don't doubt for one moment that hell, if it exists, is not all too unlike a sailboat in bad weather. I will try to explain.

Imagine, if you will, some of the more recognizable aspects of what we might call well-being: peace, restfulness, physical comfort, satiation of immediate desires, calmness of mind, freedom of movement, etc. Now imagine the absence or opposite of all these aspects mashed together at once, and held fast for days at a time, and you have something close to what sailing, at its worst, can be: constant jostling and agitation, restlessness, physical stress and discomfort, nausea, mental opacity and confusion, restriction of movement, etc.

I have thought long and hard about how to best communicate to you just how things went those first few days. How to convey some shadow of the agony, the weariness, the gut-wrenching nausea, the nightmares, and all the rest.

At first I was going to try to pull a Hemingway, and just launch head-on into a no-nonsense, full-detail account of my journey in all its naked brutality. Lord knows I started in my mind more than once. (I say in my mind, note, because the propsect of writing anything down throughout this voyage quickly became an impossibility for me, requiring as it did, my sitting upright at table in the cabin for more than a moment's time. I therefore have no written record of the journey save what I have been able to get down since coming ashore.) Once on land, and having regained myself a little, I realized however, that such an entry wouldn't be much for reading. Thus, I have decided to take a different tack, which will hopefully be a bit more positive, while still allowing me to offer some of the hairier details of my journey. And so I present to you the following list of Tips For Those About To Sail.

(I ought to point out that by Sail, I mean take part on a sailing voyage anything at all like the one I just completed. Sailing, I can attest, is generally a lovely time, and this trip, I take it, represents a particularly rough experience. I guess the harder the trip, the more plentiful the tips.) The following represent a few things I wish I had known before embarking on my recent journey - a few rules of thumb and hard-won lessons - not much use to me now, but perhaps someone among you will be able to profit therefrom.

Tip No. 1 - Go Ahead, Throw Up.

If your journey is more than a day or so, it's probably only a matter of time before you pop, so you might as well give in early and get it over with. I personally fought it for a little over a day before eventually yielding my PB&J into the briny sea. It didn't take long to realize that this was the better way to go. Don't get me wrong, giving in doesn't stop the nausea - although you will feel better for a short while immediately afterward - no, you've got to heave-ho for another day or so at least before your gut starts to toughen up. Like most things, it gets easier with practice, so the sooner you start the better.

"You're body is objecting." Captain Tom shrewdly pointed out to me the first time I lost it, a knowing look on his rumpled face. I nodded dutifully wiping a bit of stray objection from my moustache, and then promptly objecting a second time, my back arched, knuckles wrung white around the rigging. "I've been sea-sick three times in my life." he said, trying to helpful. "One time was in a typhoon off the coast of China. Storm so bad the captain had to stay up and steer every single wave - didn't leave the helm for five days straight - had to sleep in a chair for minutes at a time, whenever he got the chance." I didn't listen to hear what the other two times were.

Tip No. 2 - Keep Eating.

I know it sounds crazy, but you're better off, trust me. I was skeptical too at first when given the advice. Anyone whose ever thrown up - probably everybody? - will likely admit that eating is not high on the list of things you want to do right afterward. Better candidates are cry or sleep or blow your nose, but not eat. So I held off eating for a while, better just to drink, I thought. You can survive for days just drinking, can't you? But after losing a few gut-fulls of mango nectar, I realized that it made little difference. Sea-sickness doesn't discriminate. It's deeper than that. If you eat food, you'll barf. If you drink liquids, you'll barf. If you eat nothing, you'll barf up your own stomach juices until there is nothing left, and then you'll barf nothing, which also sucks a lot, incidentally.

The fact of the matter is, if you've got to barf - and you do - barfing up food is by far the best option - it's way better than passing mouthfuls of your own stomach juices. Besides, you need those to digest the food you need to stay strong, so don't waste them for chrissakes. Just eat and drink like normal, and if you have to hurl, just do it and conitnue to proceed as per usual. When you think about it, puking over the side of an ocean vessel in mid-sail is actually kind of an exhilirating experience, cursing between gags and shaking your fist at Poseidon as you struggle not to fall overboard. Maybe that's just me. If nothing else it will give you and your shipmates something to talk about, which brings me to my next tip.

Tip No. 3 - Know Your Captain.

The bit of traveling I've done has given me the opportunity to meet some pretty interesting people, and Tom Corogin, the Ohio-born Navy-man-cum-lawyer-cum-single-handing-sailboat-captain certainly numbers among them. Tom has sailed around the globe numerous times in his little 30-foot vessel, having skirted the coasts of Europe, Africa and the Americas, and is, at the moment, in the midst of a four-year intermittent journey from Ohio, down the eastern coast of the US, through the Panama Canal, and then onward down to Cape Horn, at the very southern tip of Chile (with stops at the Galapagos and Easter Island, for good measure.) Apart from his busy life as a traveller, Tom also runs a marina in Ohio, and is the author of a novel surrounding his Greek heritage, a signed copy of which I happily accepted. Impresive enough without noting the fact that Tom is also 83 years old - nearly a cool 60 years my senior! - and still as hard as they come. Drinks a cup of sea-water a day, the salty dog.

Indeed, the only reason I made it on to his boat at all was that he'd recently taken a fall while boarding a neighboring boat, and sprained his knee. Safe to have another set of hands around, he figured. Despite his hardy constitution, however, Tom possesses an incredible good-humor, which I imagine to be the result of his long and adventurous life - a disposition tempered by the years, somewhat as a stone is worn smooth by the waves - and which made a fine salve to my bruised morale more than once. Although for the most part his sun-beaten face is pinched into a squinty knot, every so often, he'll turn around and at the drop of a wry one-liner give a smile that could charm a jellyfish. Even in the deepest reaches of my agony, just hearing him say "You're getting better." would, through some magic grandfatherly powers, help to perk me up.

A two-man crew doesn't leave much room for choice in terms of conversation partners, but I was lucky with Tom. Not a chatty man by any stretch, I nevertheless did my best to probe a few stories out of him, and was rewarded more than once. Seafolk are often full of strange wisdom unknown to us land-lovers; just ask and you will be handsomely rewarded. Plus, it doesn't hurt to have them at your side offering counsel especially through the rougher moments. Unfortunately, the roughest of times must be weathered alone.

Tip No. 4 - Beware The Late Night Watch.

It can be your best friend or your worst enemy. Indeed, if your journey is of any length, chances are it will wind-up being both sooner or later - it certainly was for me. Most days Tom and I would be up from around 8 AM onward, puttering around the boat, soaking up the sun, and generally killing time. We often traded short naps when it got too hot to be on deck, but the real shift work came later on.

Around 6PM or so, Tom would usually settle in to the cabin and rest up some for his first watch at 8PM. We traded two-hour shifts throughout the duration of the journey, so come 8PM, after watching the sun go down, I'd rouse Tom, and settle into my bunk for a two hour rest until 10PM, when I took over until midnight. 12AM-2AM was Tom, and then me again from 2AM-4AM. Tom took the sunrise shift from 4AM-6AM, at which point I usually rose for the day, while he slept a bit more, waking for good around 8AM.

Of my four shifts, the ones from 10-12, and 2-4, were by far the worst. Having just started to sink into half-decent sleep, I'd be jarred awake by Tom's curt annoucement: "Joe, your watch." Most times I'd be all grogged out, and it would take me a minute to roll out of my bunk, clutching wildly for a handhold lest I be tossed about the cabin. Then, having found something to steady myself, I'd fumble for the foot-pump operating the freshwater in the sink, and splash a little in my face before I could begin to recall what was going on. Then I'd don my trusty harness (we were always strapped in to something when outside the cabin while underway) and scamble up the stout ladder and out into the cockpit to slump into the creaky rotating captain's chair fastened by one lone and loudly-complaining bolt to the ship's humble chassis.

And there I would sit, often straight through the full two-hours of my watch, my drowsy eyes cast out to the horizon, struggling to stay awake lest I miss some crucial sight, and allow the ship to wander into the path of a crossing oil tanker, or pass overtop of some poor fisherman's lines and wreck the prop. Staying awake was one thing, but if the weather was bad, there would also be the nausea, and I spent more than one watch doubled over the rigging. It doesn't sound all that hard - just sit there and keep watch, but at times it felt like all the forces in the world were keeping me from doing just that. It was often impossible simply to sit still, for all the boat's pitching and reeling, and while it was a stretch to find any position even approximating physical comfort, I quickly learned to doze off while gripping tightly to some stray line or what have you.

Even if you managed to find a half-decent posture, fend off the sea-sickness, and stay awake, however, there was still the loneliness. Two hours is a long time to sit by yourself surrounded by the vast and uninterrupted black of the ocean, with only the steady pulse and crash of the waves to keep you company. Often on my watches, I would be overcome by strangely intense emotions, ranging from intense sadness to the bitterest anger. Not infrequent were the times I'd find myself cursing the waves, shouting obscenities at a particularly rough swell, or simply sitting on deck, baring my teeth and snarling at the wind like a wild dog.

I found myself repeatedly trying to find an object for this sadness and anger. I nurtured a slow-building hatred for the devilish men who had invented sailboats, or the fools who had fine-tuned the diesel-engine, someone, anyone, to blame for what I was now going through. That felt good for a while, but I'd get tired of hating soon enough - it's stressful work in itself - and slip back into plain old misery again before too long. The worst of it, I now realize, stemmed from the unavoidable fact that no matter how bad it got, no matter how rough the seas, how torturous the nausea, there was simply nothing to be done about it. Nowhere to go. No one to call for help. No way out. You were on the boat now, and you just had to ride it through. Simple as that.

Strangely, other times, when called to my watch, I would find myself somehow immediately awake and clear-headed, harnessed and up on deck in seconds flat. The weather would be calmer, and the boats motion almost soothing in its to-and-fro. Peaceful even, the moon's golden light trickling across the water. Sometimes I would drink a cold soda, and savor the sweet release of fresh unnauseated belches, breathing deeply.

These nights I would never get bored - my mind would be full-up with a constant stream of delicious thoughts all dancing and twirling about wonderfully. I would compose poems in my head, or piece together snippits of letters to loved ones, even think-up little jokes, puns or witticisms. If that failed me, I would sing. Not loudly, but steadily, all kinds of songs - how many Beatles songs did I know, anyway? Soon my two hours would be up, and I would almost regret having to leave the crisp air of the early morning, and return to fitful sleep in the moist warmth of the boat's belly.

These were some of my most pleasant moments aboard T.L.C. and I did my best to cherish them while they lasted, before the heat of day crept slowly back overhead, and we were again overcome by the violent pitching of the water. My only advice here is to do the same if and when such magic nights come to you.

Tip No. 5 - Expect Delays.

For they will surely come. Ours came around day three or four in the form of a strong South-East wind. The southerly part was fine, but the easterly was pushing us too quickily inland, and it looked like we didn't have a strong enough sailing angle to round our next point. We would have to tack out West a bit, to widen our angle, and then cut back in South if we wanted to make it by the wind. This change of course stole almost a whole day from us, as we struggled to make our way deeper into the ocean. It seemed each time we would change to accomodate the wind, it too would change and leave us in a lurch. By the end of the day, we had realized that tacking out to widen our angle was not going to cut it. We would just have to point into the wind and ride it out. Surely the weather wouldn't oppose us for too much longer.

Now, T.L.C. has an average cruising speed of about 5 knots, but into the wind like this we were sitting closer to 2, which is basically crawling. With the boat hobby-horsing over the waves as badly as it was, however, it scarcely felt like we were moving at all most of the time. This central part of the trip was a real bummer, and we were forced to fight the weather this way for some two days. Even after we eventually rounded the aforementioned point and were able to sail again, the wind was rarely ever all that cooperative. Around this time, I began to laugh at the optimism I had allowed myself to feel those first few days, and to realize the practical value of expecting delays.

What? Joe, don't tell me you've given up on optimism? Hardly. I've merely adapted my view a bit. As near as I can tell part of the appeal of optimism is as a kind of psychological sedative, right? Expecting the best from the world just plain makes you feel better. Hopeful is a good way to be. But as big a fan as I am of that approach, I also appreciate the pessimistic view that says: expect the worst and you can only be pleasantly surprised. For that reason, I have seen fit to combine the two in the following way. Be wise enough to expect setbacks, but do yourself a favor and expect the least of them. In other words, expect shit to happen, but hopefully it won't be the worst shit possible.

I call this approach poptimism, and you are free to give it a whirl if you like. The Pessimist says: This is going to suck. The Optimist says: This is going to be fine, maybe good even. The Poptimist says: This is probably going to suck, but hopefully it won't suck too bad. Regardless of which view you espouse, however, please know that eventually...

Tip No. 6 - It Will Get Better.

I never would have believed it early on in the journey, but it's true. By the time day five or six rolled around, my gut had hardened up nicely, and even the perpetual headaches from the diesel fumes had begun to subside. The constant jostling of the boat had become normal to me and I could feel my body forecasting its every move and reacting accordingly to facilitate the maintenance of equilibrium. Around this time I started actively enjoying the view from the boat, even anticipating the sunsets in the evenings, and rising early to savor the cool morning air. I began to see more and more dolphins around the boat, often swimming alongside us for many mintues at a time, playing around the bow, and darting across our path by the dozen. Rays too were more common, shooting high out of the water, and flipping about awkwardly like big rubber pancakes before flopping back down into the blue.

I believe it was day seven however that things really turned around for us. We'd been dragging a line for the past few days, which Tom had rigged up in a fancy way with two clothespins so as to alert us when a fish hit, and that afternoon, as I sat lazily in the cockpit, I heard the wonderful squeee of the line and jumped up. "Fish on!"I shouted, and grabbed for the rod which was spinning out wildly. Our unexpected delay had found us getting a bit low on food, so the prospect of dining on fresh fish was more than exciting to both of us. Our catch had gotten a good ways out before we could stop him, but soon enough, we'd pulled him in close enough to get a good look. That sucker must have been four feet long. "Looks like a Wahoo." said Tom. When I realized what he was trying to tell me, I dashed down into the cabin to retrieve the trusty Dictionary of Fishes, and after some humming and hawing, we decided that it was, in fact, a Pacific Wahoo, and a big one too!

We dragged him for a time just to tire him out, and then, when we could stand it no longer, did our best to pull him on board - no small task, I can tell you, even for both of us. Tom held the line while I tried to scoop up his shimmering silver length in the too-small net which, when I tried to lift him out of the water, promptly broke into pieces leaving me to clutch at its tattered remains, and leaving our prize fish dangling perilously over the edge of the boat. He must have weighed fity pounds at least. At this point Tom decided it would be appropriate to snap a few photos, and so left me in that dire state to retrieve his camera from below. When he'd had enough of torturing me, it took the two of us a few good heaves to get him in, our hands shiny with thick scaly slime. But there he was. A big dead fish is a beautiful thing at just the right moment, and before I knew it, Tom had that sucker cut into fillets, bagged and on ice. We feased for days on his delicious white meat, and still had plenty to give away to the marina workers when we finally arrived in Ecuador.

Perhaps the highest point of my journey, however, was becoming an official member of something called the Mystic Order Of Shellbacks. For centuries, seafolk have been commemorating a novice sailor's first crossing of the equator by means of a special right-of-passage ceremony, whereby said novice enters into the elite group known as the Sons of Poseidon, or the (Trusty) Shellbacks.

This "ceremony" can take a variety of forms, ranging from the relatively harmless (dressing the newbie up in drag and throwing them into the sea at latitude zero) to the severe (making them eat/drink/slog about in all manner of unspeakable concoctions, shaving their head/body, etc.). For my own part, Tom insisted I have a good slug of sea-water, and dribbled a bit more on my melon before pronouncing me an official shellback and handing me a hand-written document proving my membership - complete with all rights, responsibilities and appurtenances - which, his having been a lawyer, I take to be legit. It's funny perhaps, but I hadn't felt so proud since graduating university - a lovely climax to an incredible and arduous journey, I thought.

Anyway, shortly thereafter, on the morning of Monday, May 31st, we finally arrived in Salinas, Ecuador, after nine full days at sea. That was a sweet, sweet morning I'll tell you, and I will not soon forget the swelling I felt in my breast as we coasted into land.

By the time we'd sorted through the finnicky business of immigration, arranged the stamping of passports, secured a spot in the marina, and all the rest, it was late afternoon and we were more than ready for a real meal in a real restaurant. Despite some weak protestation on my part, we dined at Tom's expense in a fancy bistro in uptown Salinas, and wobbled along the streets back to the boat, our still-fresh sea-legs leading us to and fro along the shifting sidewalk. Back at the marina we indulged in the other unspeakable luxuries of a hot shower and shave. Nine days at sea leaves a man in quite a sour state, and having taken only one single salt-water shower throughout the journey, suffice it to say that I was overdue for a real scrub. Then, afterward, a good full sleep at long last.

Never one to sit tight, Tom had big plans to clean the boat, and leave town the next day, so after a quick breakfast I packed up and we two exchanged contact information and said our goodbyes. I grabbed the first bus I saw headed North, and drove all day across the better part of the country up to the high mountain city of Quito (2850m above sea-level) where I've been ever since, acclimatizing to the elevation, and luxuriating in the sheer availablity of desirable things that comes with big city life. Warm beds, delicious food, delightful art, culture, history, and all the rest, all right at my fingertips.

Recent adventures have included a trip on Quito's new multimillion dollar sky tram up to a high plateau overlooking the city called Cruz Loma (4100m). The views were stunning, and although this was the highest elevation I'd ever been at in my life, that didn't stop a couple Germans I'd met and myself from then making the scrambling three hour ascent up to the summit of nearby Rucu Pichincha (4700m) - the highest point in the Quito region. There are a few other monster volcanoes elsewhere in the country that rise to well over 6000m, but I figure if I have any hope at scaling those, I'd better start here and see how my body reacts. Thankfully, except for a little dizziness, a touch of pressure in the ears, and some damn cold hands, I felt alright! Looking forward to some bigger climbs further along in the Andean range.

Yesterday, as a kind of reward, I made the two-hour bus ride out to a set of beautiful natural hotsprings called Termas De Papallacta, nestled right into the verdant mountainside. Undoubtedly, the most incredible set of such springs I'd ever been to, and I sat for hours soaking in the steamy mineral-rich waters gazing up at the rough peaks surrounding the compound. There is so much to do and see in this relatively tiny country, and I am happy to report that the remainder of my trip is slowly coming into clearer focus. Today I am feeling good, and getting ready to keep moving - likely tomorrow.

I will close here for now, but I want to say that I miss you all very much, and am thinking more and more about our coming reunion!

Cheers from chilly Quito.