The road chose me

I wind my way along a very remote dirt road, and find myself at a military checkpoint on what could easily be the top of the world highway. After the friendly guys check my paperwork and point me in the right direction, I drive along the top of a ridge-line, forested mountains visible in all directions.

Military check-point on top of the world

The little town of La Balsa itself consists of a handful of buildings sitting immediately before the bridge to Peru, again blocked by a ‘boom gate’ made from a tree trunk. The immigration guys are having breakfast, so I wait half an hour and chat to a lady about exchanging some money. The exchange rate doesn’t appeal to me, neither do her stories about how dangerous it is to travel (in general), with many a story about this and that person getting mugged.

The international border at La Balsa

Once breakfast is finished I hand over the paperwork for the Jeep to Aduana (customs), get a stamp in my passport and drive under the gate in about three minutes flat. The immigration guy did carefully check my visa was still valid – I’ve heard it’s a USD $200 fine if you over-stay.

On the Peruvian side, about 20 meters away, I park in front of a very similar gate and start the process of entering the country. I’m the only ‘guest’ for miles around and so am immediately helped by everyone. I fill out a tourist card at immigration, walk down the hill to get it stamped by the police and wander back to immigration to have it finalized and my passport stamped, good for 90 days. Next door at customs I hand over a copy of my license, passport and registration and the slightly deaf guy on duty has me fill out my own paperwork, with all the mundane details about the Jeep (color, year, make, VIN number, etc.). Half an hour later we stick a giant customs sticker on the windshield and I drive under the gate, officially permitted in Peru.
An extremely simple and friendly border crossing, and free across the board to boot.

Waiting patiently for a ride at the border, I pickup Fabricio, a friendly french guy who made the trip down to extend his stay in Peru. It’s always nice to have someone along and his stories about what to see and do in Peru keeps us chatting in Spanish for hours. The road gets worse and worse, turning from an extremely potholed mud pit, into very flat and slick clay and mud. At one particularly steep hill all the vehicles without 4×4 are stuck at the bottom or waiting at the top, too afraid to try and come down. Just to make things interesting, one large truck is stuck about half way up, right in the middle of the narrow road. I don’t have too much trouble with grip in 4×4, although going around the truck means I put two wheels into the sloping ditch on the side. It’s not a huge problem, going as slow as I am, and the locals are delighted to watch as I slide sideways up the hill with my front wheels on the road and rear wheels in the sloping ditch, all four wheels spitting mud the entire time. Coming down the slick parts reminds me a lot of driving on snow and ice, something the locals have obviously not had too much practice with, evidenced by the number of abandoned vehicles in the ditches.

Looking back to Ecuador

Somehow this part of Peru feels very much like parts of Central America, maybe southern Mexico or Panama. The cities we pass through are very dilapidated, dirty and packed with busses, trucks and thousands of tuk-tuks. The countryside is very tropical, with bananas, pineapples and even rice growing in the fields surrounding the road. It seems like another place where everyone is going to stop and stare as I move past, and the men again feel the need to shout something at me, just to maintain their dominance. After crossing into Colombia I immediately noticed a stark contrast to Central America, a theme that continued right through Ecuador. It’s hard to pinpoint, though I think it’s mostly about complete buildings, concrete footpaths, vehicles that look relatively safe, (somewhat) sensible road intersections and things like that – maybe I’ll sum it all up as ‘more developed’. It’s a really strange feeling to go back to ‘less developed’ again, almost like I’ve progressed backwards, not forwards at all.
I had thought more or less developed was a South America vs. Central thing. Obviously not.

Forward, into Peru

Hours later, after dropping off Fabricio at a bus terminal I’m winding along a beautiful river when the Police pull me over. The three of them are obviously excited to see me and clearly think they are on a winner. Nobody mentioned insurance at the border, so I completely forgot to ask if it was mandatory. These Police are straight onto it, not letting my Ecuadorian papers pass. Quick as a flash one of them whips out the law book and even has the passage highlighted and underlined:
“If you are a tourist traveling through Peru, you must have insurance… If you do not, the penalty follows…”
I’m happily conversing in Spanish, forgetting my usual routine of not understanding (oops). Eventually we wind up over at their car, where one of them has an ‘infraction’ sheet and is about to start writing it out. All three of them are trying to convince me I really don’t want him to write it out, though I say it’s OK, I’ll take the fine down to the next town and pay it, buy some insurance and get on with things. “Oh, no”, they say. “You have to pay it here”. (surprise, surprise) Not phased at all, I explain I don’t have any money on me, only credit cards, my protection against being robbed, you see. This comes as a huge shock and they don’t hide their disappointment one bit. “No money?!” they all exclaim and burst out laughing while handing back all my paperwork and wishing me a safe journey.

New country, same games

-Dan

I’ve always thought one of the hardest things about constantly being on the move is constantly saying goodbye. Leaving The Secret Garden Cotopaxi is absolutely no exception. I’ve made some great friends over the last four months who I’m really going to miss. Five minutes before leaving I mention it’s a shame I won’t get to see some of the changes we’ve started to work on around the place, and off-hand the boss says “You’ll be back one day”. My reply comes very naturally “Yeah, I will.”
I sing songs to myself out loud while driving away to try and force a smile on my face.

The road to Peru

I move south to the familiar town of Baños, where I spend a couple of nights at La Casa Verde, an extremely peaceful eco-hostel run by an Aussie and a Kiwi.
Further south I checkout the Incan ruins at Ingapirca, a site Ecuadorians are extremely proud of. It’s a wonderful lazy afternoon wandering around in the sunshine and striking up a conversation with some locals I learn of a planned road-closure for tomorrow. The local indigenous people are again unhappy with the government and are going to blockade all roads in and out of the area for 72 hours, starting at midnight. I’m told they will make no exceptions for me as a foreigner and my tires will be slashed if I try to push my way through.

The ruins at Ingapirca

In the morning I’m almost disappointed to see no signs of any road closures whatsoever after such a big build up. Maybe next time.
Late in the afternoon I arrive in the sleepy village of Vilcabamba, famous for ‘trapping’ visitors with it’s beautiful scenery and friendly atmosphere. After hanging around the town square for a while I learn of The Rumi-Wilco Eco-Reserve, an extremely beautiful place to camp, and go there immediately to setup my tent.
The following day I hike way up into the cloud-forest that surrounds the town, very close to the remotest of all National Parks, Podocarpus. Every statistic I’ve ever heard about this place blows my mind. For example, there are more species of orchids in the park than the rest of the world put together. The list goes on.

The cloud forest near Podocarpus

To avoid getting ‘trapped’ I leave early the following morning and even still strike up an hour long conversation with the guy who runs the book exchange. When he invites me to stay I all but run to the Jeep, him laughing and telling me about how great of a place it is the whole time.

Over 50 years old, going strong with the original motor

For my last night in the country I find a beautiful little spot by a river, not too far from the border to setup my tent. I’m amazed when I look in my passport and see I’ve been in Ecuador just over five months. Wow, that five months went really quickly.

The final campsite in Ecuador

Time for a new country

-Dan

Four months of watching excitedly as groups departed for the summit of Cotopaxi Volcano (5,897m/19,344ft) has not dulled my fascination in the least. Each and every time I’ve waited anxiously for their return and listed intently for every detail recounted, always a mixture of triumph and defeat, some told with broad grins and others looks of fear.
One quote has been repeated over and over by those who return; “Climbing Cotopaxi is the most difficult thing I have ever done”.

The waiting is over. Now it’s my turn.

It’s a beautiful sunny morning when our guides arrive, sometime after my tenth cup of tea and fifth banana, an attempt to silence my growing nervousness. In all there are four of us attempting the mountain, split into teams of two, each team with a licensed, professional guide. I feel like my Canadian winters have prepared me well for the expected temperatures and am not surprised at all by the sheer amount of gear the guides have with them.
As we’re trying everything on for size we pepper the guides with questions, some of which we wish we could take back:

How many times have you been to the summit? More than 100 each.
How many people make it? Less than 50%.
How long will it take? About 5-6 hours from the refuge to the summit, more if you’re slow.
How much sleep will we get tonight? A couple of hours, if you’re lucky.
How cold will it be? About -10°C for the hike, maybe -25°C at the summit.
What happens if we get altitude sickness? Headache, dizziness, vomiting. We go back.
(and me) What’s for dinner?

The José Rivas Refuge (4,800m) dwarfed by the mountain

At 4,500 meters I’m again staggered by the immense size of Cotopaxi, this time clearly more imposing that ever. Each of us is lost in our own thoughts as we make the slow trudge up to The José Rivas Refuge at 4,800 meters carrying our huge packs full of food, climbing and sleeping gear. After a short break we make our way across to the glacier at 5,000 meters to practice moving about on the ice. None of us has ever used crampons or an ice axe before, so we start from square one, walking up, down and sideways, all the time a little unsure about walking on steep, slippery ice. We practice and practice until we’re all satisfied with our abilities.
Well, until the guide tells us to stop so we don’t tire ourselves out, that is.

Practicing glacier travel with ice axe and crampons

The refuge is an enormous building accommodating day-trippers to the glacier and summiters alike. Upstairs, bunk beds are stacked three high, with wafer-thin mattresses and no heating of any kind. After a delicious carb-loaded meal of pasta carbonara and a brief look at the stars above Quito, we climb into our frigid sleeping bags at around 7:30pm, nervous, excited and scared all at once.
I hope like hell for at least a couple of hours of sleep.

Quito by night

I drift in and out of sleep, at times not sure if I’m awake or asleep, a feeling compounded by some pretty demented dreams that slip just out of reach when I think I’m awake. My eyes are wide open when Franklin, my guide, comes in at midnight to wake us up. We’ve all been listening to the wind howling outside are are certain our hopes have been dashed by the always-hostile weather. I put on two pairs of socks under two-layer mountaineering boots, fleece pants covered by waterproof pants, a thermal long-sleeve shirt, regular long-sleeve shirt and fleece top all covered by a waterproof jacket, two pairs of gloves and a balaclava and helmet with my headlamp attached. I just need to grab my backpack with food, water and extra warm clothes, ice axe, crampons and climbing harness and I’ll be ready to go.

A trip outside to the bathroom reveals a perfectly clear, starry night, absolutely ideal conditions for climbing. I wash my face in a bucket of icy water which succeeds both in waking me up and making my hands numb for the next 20 minutes. We’re excited over breakfast, though our guides remain non-commital about the weather, “Anything can happen up here”. A final bathroom break and we all get harnessed up before heading out the door a little after 1am.

The bottom of the glacier varies in altitude and we want to stay off it for as long as possible for safety and speed. The first hour is a slow, single-file trudge up a slippery gravel slope without our crampons. The night is clear and moonless and everything outside the small circle of illumination provided by my headlamp is utterly black. A couple of times I stumble badly while trying to walk, take in the view of Quito and stargaze simultaneously. Time to get my head in the game, I realize.

We step up onto the glacier a little over an hour after setting out and sit down to have a short rest and attach crampons to our boots. We’re all feeling comfortable after our practice session only yesterday until the guide brings over a rope and ties us together. Like a slap in the face we know this is no Sunday stroll. The first section of glacier is exposed and extremely steep, so much so it’s not possible to walk straight up as normal. We face side-on to the mountain and walk sideways, constantly crossing and uncrossing one foot in front of the other, using our ice-axe like a walking stick for balance the whole time. It’s soon obvious that my team is faster than the other, so we overtake and in a short time their headlamps have faded into the background, leaving each of us alone with only our thoughts and the wind howling across our faces.

Eventually the steep trail gives way to switchbacks, which provide a nice little relief at every turn – I have to swap the ice axe from one hand to the other and walk “sideways” the other way each time we double-back. I entertain myself in this manner for what seems like hours, concentrating hard on my footing and using the ice axe in the correct hand when needed. In a couple of places the guide plays out about 10 meters of rope while we take a giant step across a crevasse.  He’s going to catch us if we fall, right?
After pausing to look down and around one of the larger ones the concept of a bottomless crevasse keeps me busy for the next half an hour.
I step a little bigger and a little more carefully over the next one.

We enter a region full of ice formations and like a switch being turned off, the wind stops instantly. Franklin says we can take a short break, a concept that somehow hadn’t occurred to me yet. While eating a chocolate bar and sipping some water Franklin tells us we are at around 5,400 meters and making good time. It takes me about two minutes to calculate we are more than half-way, a fact that boosts my spirits immensely.
This is not so hard after all, I naively muse.

For the next hour or so we traipse on through the strange ice formations that I can only see towering above when I avert my gaze from the ice/snow directly in front of my feet, something I’m doing less and less. At some point my level of skill with crampons and the ice axe increases above that needed for any serious concentration, leaving my brain free to think about whatever it wants. Immediately, before I’m even aware that I’m thinking again, one thought pops up that just won’t go away.  Why the hell am I doing this, anyway? Somehow, it had never occurred to me to wonder why I might want to climb up an enormous, glacier covered active volcano in the middle of the night. Surely, this is pure madness – I can think of no other explanation.
This thought, and my ever-increasing headache do little for motivation.

It’s obvious, at least in my mind, that my partner Mike is having a much harder time than I am, making me think of ways to motivate him and just what options I might have if he wants to turn around (none, really). We finish a particularly narrow, exposed, nasty sloping section and we both completely sit down on the ice/snow for the first time (a big no no, apparently). I’m a little shocked by my tone of voice when I reply to Mike’s comment of “This is f***ing hard”. “Tell me about it”, I shoot back, a comment loaded with emotion and anger, though I’m too exhausted to do anything about taking it back.
Franklin can see how exhausted we are and allows a long rest break while we assess our situation. We’re still moving well, about an hour and twenty minutes from the summit and the sun will start to brighten the sky in about fifteen minutes, though we won’t feel it’s warmth until much later.

After a break of about 10 minutes my feet and hands are completely numb and even Franklin is beating his chest to stave off the cold. We slowly get moving and soon things get ridiculously steep and tough. We’re on a very exposed section, creeping our way up an incline so steep that even the “shuffle sideways” technique is a lot of work. Here we are moving so slowly I resort to counting my steps in the hope of ignoring my splitting headache and things become comically slow:

For over an hour, my life has only the following four steps:

1. Move ice axe forward about one foot and lean heavily on it (count one).
2. Move right foot up slope, crossing in front of left foot (count two).
3. Move left foot up slope behind right foot (count three).
4. Rest on ice axe for a three count, and repeat.

Total Exhaustion

During all of this, the sun makes an appearance doing wonders for our motivation. Although Franklin doesn’t say it, and there are many false summits, we know we are close to our goal and somehow continue to shuffle forward and upward. Soon the horizon is glowing blood-red and we can see how clear the day actually is – breathtaking beyond words. As the sun climbs higher we see the huge triangle-shaped shadow cast by Cotopaxi and even find the energy for a joke – “The sun rises at 9:30am when you live behind Cotopaxi”. To help things even more we see three headlamps bobbing along through the gloom below us – our companions are still climbing.

Counting my steps is a great help to keep my mind busy and breaks the task down into manageable pieces. Slowly, slowly as we near the summit the mountain finally levels out and I’m soon counting to ten before resting, then twenty. I think my brain has as much trouble as my body when I count one hundred steps without a rest and I collapse on the spot, unable to comprehend one hundred and one.

After a short break we march on again, and only two minutes later I’m standing next to an enormous crater, with nowhere higher to walk. I watch in a daze as the guide unclips my carabiner, before I crumple to my knees, overcome with exhaustion and emotion. It’s hard to know if I’m happy, exhausted, relieved, scared for the trek down, or all of the above and for twenty seconds I just stare open-mouthed, not really thinking much of anything. A little while later we all embrace and tramp around taking photos and pointing to landmarks we recognize. The weather is so clear we can easily see every major volcano in Ecuador and I’m especially excited to see Volcano Chimborazo, the highest mountain in Ecuador at 6,268 meters, a sight I have literally been dreaming about for months. All told we’ve made it to the summit in five hours and fifteen minutes, a little faster than average says Franklin. It’s extremely cold due to the strong winds, and Mike quickly gives up and walks fifty meters down to shelter. I’m a little more stubborn and talk with Franklin, naming every mountain and city we can see. Upon close inspection, I can actually see a little smoke coming out of the crater, again something I am very excited to see.

Victorious on the summit

The crater of Cotopaxi and Chimborazo (6,268m) in the distance

All too soon the cold becomes unbearable and so we begin the arduous task of walking down the same route. My legs are like jelly, my head splitting open with a headache that threatens to floor me and I’m walking down a steep, icy slope. What could possibly go wrong? I keep thinking to myself that most mountaineering accidents happen on the way down to keep my concentration up, and it seems to work – I never put a single foot wrong.

Volcano Cotopaxi crater (tiny amount of smoke on left)

Not far from the summit we pass our companions and offer a few brief words of encouragement, the complete exhaustion on their faces acting like a mirror for ours. Now the sun is up we can see the amazing ice formations we walked passed earlier and stop often to take photos, secretly thrilled for the rest breaks. While lazing about in the sun taking a solid rest, our friends wander around the corner and we’re all jubilant at our success, while cautiously mentioning we still have a long way to go. We all try our best to soak in the view and recharge in the early morning sunshine.

Ice formations surround us

Amazing views from the side of the glacier

The remainder of the trek down is uneventful, though my headache continues to get worse to the point I am struggling to function. At the end of the glacier we again pause for a long rest break, full of smiles and awe at what we have done. The final stretch involves walking directly down the slippery gravel, or scree-running, something I usually thoroughly enjoy. I’m so exhausted and my legs so used up I slip and fall ten times in five minutes, throwing a dark cloud over my mood. By the time I arrive at the refuge half and hour later my headache is so bad it overpowers my bad mood, and I manage to smile and laugh with the whole group, already lazing about in the morning sun.

Narrow paths are scary paths

Enjoying the sunshine

We pack our gear, stumble down to the car and struggle to stay awake on the hour-long ride home where we know we’ll find hot chocolate and our warm beds, a fact we are all happy to mention more than once.

Coming down through the enormous icefield

The crew at the base of the glacier

Climbing to the summit of Volcán Cotopaxi is by far the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life, the view from the top was possibly the most beautiful I have ever seen in my life and without a doubt, it was the single most rewarding thing I have ever done.
I honestly don’t know if mountaineering is for me, but I’m extremely happy about my first taste.

Dan on the summit of Volcano Cotopaxi

With extremely experienced guides, new gear and tons of local knowledge, I highly recommend booking CarpeDM Adventures for a summit attempt.

-Dan

I’m really not sure if I get much sleep, struggling with the cold and unfamiliarity of my tent after three months of luxury in a real bed. My tent is covered in a thick layer of ice when I climb out at 5am, and I spend the next hour taking photos and furiously rubbing my hands to maintain feeling. By the time I make it back to HQ, the ladies have breakfast well under control, again leaning over the raw open fire.
Nobody seems to notice when we have rice, potatoes and trout soup again.

Amazing morning views

After we all thaw out for the morning, the activities for the day start to take shape – everyone is extremely excited to go for a hike to find Chiwilas – an extremely sweet fruit that will take some getting, I’m told.
We’ve only been going for 20 minutes when a hilarious game of horse and bull breaks out, based around an old bull horn found on the ground. Kids ride on the shoulders of an adult and someone gives chase pretending to be a bull holding the horn on their head. An hour and a half later the game continues, even after we’ve hiked many kilometers over difficult terrain, everyone still smiling and laughing whenever the “bull” spontaneously decides to give chase.

The whole camping crew

Over the mountains and far, far away we arrive at our destination – a scrubby outcrop of brush and trees, rare at this elevation. Everyone dives right in, attacking cacti left right and centre. It turns out the highly sought after Chiwilas are the tiny fruit of the cactus which grow right down in the middle, past all the spiny leaves. With only my bare hands and a small stick, I quickly wind up with fingers full of spines and no desire at all to get more Chiwilas, which I’m not all that impressed with anyway (they’re extremely small and contain barely a drop of sweet nectar after biting through the pulp-like crust). I nap under a tree and can’t believe my eyes two hours later when everyone is still energetically going at it, lugging around sacks full of the tiny fruit. Even after my little nap I’m exhausted on the walk back, though none of the locals show any sign of fatigue, happily eating left-over potatoes retrieved from coat pockets and drinking out of every muddy ditch we come across.
Lunch, as you might guess, is rice and potatoes, now that we’re run out of trout.

Cotopaxi from an angle I've never seen before

I’m struck time and time again by how happy and playful these Ecuadorians are. Not just the kids either, even the adults get right in on the fun. Even after cramming into a car for a long, bumpy ride, eating the same plain food for every meal, sleeping in freezing conditions, traipsing for hours through mud and drinking out of muddy streams, every single person is still beaming, extremely happy to be surrounded by family doing exactly as they please.

Always happy

The guys illustrate this perfectly by donning moss for their best Gandalf impersonations – much to the delight of everyone.

The "Mountain Men" having fun

I know for sure now I’m ready to get back out in the wilderness for some serious camping & hiking.

-Dan