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.
Wowzer my friend. You are conquering the most amazing things right now. I am inspired.
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