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.
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