Climbing Cotopaxi

Climbing Cotopaxi

I was fortunate enough to be extended an invitation to travel with the infamous and ridiculous Prof. Theo and his Volcanology class on their salida de campo (field trip). When we arrived in Cotapaxi National Park, we disembarked to discover two red lobos (wolves) ears pricked, curiously observing our every move. They were eventually spooked and loped out of site.

An incandescent mist was moving in so visibility disappeared with each passing breath. As our group began to ascend the peak, we were soon discouraged by the futile struggle of mountaineering the incline of ashen, volcanic decay; each step, laden with bolstering energy was quickly negated by a six inch backslide. We pressed onward into the endless fog as the terrain became more and more treacherous. With the increasing altitude, each breath begged for oxygen our compressed lungs could barely supply. Every lone rock presented the opportunity to rest as the chill atmosphere blazed the walls of our esophagus. The rasping for air and grasping for a foothold consumed the climb. As the intense elevation caused crushing twinges, I was comforted by Newton’s Laws of Motion and the fact that what painstakingly hauls itself up, will come tumbling back down with a full force push from our very good friend, gravity. We staggered our way to El Refugio José Ribas marked by a heroic sign displaying the figures 4,800 meters (15,748 feet). When we realized that we had actually made it, we rejoiced and, of course, documented the momentous moment.

It wasn’t long before we heard that we were only about a 40 minute climb from reaching the glacier and we just couldn’t resist, after coming so far, not be able to touch the snow capped peak that makes the volcano so notorious. So we continued to scale upward. Every now and then the oil stained earth would flash red evidencing the seismic activity; no vegetation in sight.

The climbers sliding back down promised “only ten more minutes, you’re so close.” Mentirosos, but their false hope was just the fuel we needed. We eventually arrived at the icy point where one required professional climbing gear if they dare intended to scale any further.

Looking picturesque in their alpaca apparel friends posed for a ¨What, there´s ice in Ecuador? Who knew?¨moment before the violent shivering continued.

We played around on the glacier for a few minutes and the frigid cold made us think of the blizzard pounding Virgina. When we couldn´t physically take wheezing at nearly 17,000 feet anymore, we decided to disembark from our walk in the clouds. The top layers of volcanic rubble allowed us to literally ski down Cotopaxi with rapid strides as the loose rocks rolled with us.

Afterwords, our trip continued on top the small tourist town of Baños (named for its thermal hot springs) where we shed our misery and soaked clothes at a small hosteleria in the heart of town. The girls and I hit up Café Hood for dinner and preceded to schnuggle while watching Grey´s Anatomy in Spanish. Shouts from the street announced an invitation from our Ecuadorian classmates who had procured a Chiva for our late night enjoyment. A chiva is known as “the party bus¨ because it comes with outlandishly flashing lights and blaring music with a sound system capable of reverberating the entire street. We all hopped on and danced our way to the look out spot near the active vulcan, Tungurahua (throat of fire in Quichua). We enjoyed the the music and each others company minus the canelazo.

In the morning we awoke at 5:15, threw on clothes, and sprinted to the bus station for one of Prof. Theo´s optional adventures that landed us at the throat of the thundering Pailon del Diablo (Devil´s Caldron). The before sunrise hike followed a trail, laden with signs that read, ¨Dios ama la naturaleza; cuidela¨ and led us to a rickety wooden bridge that asserted “maximum capacity 5 persons, absolutamente no mas¨ and a microscopic underlying expression of ¨not responsible for accidents.¨ We stood at the middle of the bridge and watched the water crash beneath us and then peacefully trickle out towards the Amazon.

When we regrouped with those who had decided to sleep in (all the Ecuadorians that is) we ventured the valley stopping to look at all the other waterfalls, gorges, and cliffs which mark epochs in geologic time and are the result of seismic events. Everyone was ushered out at the base of this desolate mountain and frantically encouraged to climb. By this time in the day all the early risers were weary and begrudgingly following suite. Invariably it turns out that everything in Ecuador, from the daily commute in Quito to the spontaneous weekend travels, is a either a climb, trek, trudge, hike, expedition, or journey, so no one was thoroughly surprised or intensely enthusiastic.

When we reached the three fourths mark, we all collapsed and the Prof. proceeded to take attendance as stragglers still trickled from the bus at the bottom. All of a sudden the ground beneath my feet began to rumble and it suddenly clicked that we were standing in the lava bed of Tungurahua where, before she roared to life in 2006, used to stand 88 homes. Now all that remained was an ashen wasteland with a speck of green life here and there.

Paralyzed, we all craned upward to the misty vapors to witness the mushroom cloud of dark smoke she had just spat out, as she continued to groan beneath our boots. The panic was evident as even all the Ecuadorians were like, ¨Okay, time to go. ¨ The guide reassured us through a screechy megaphone that everything was fine and that this was only a taste of the minor seismic activity that Tungurahua experienced daily. He then proceeded to tell us about the past destruction, the emergency evacuation procedures of the town of Baños, and the hardening lava beginning to seal the massive crater at the cone’s core.

After a weekend of risking nature’s elements, I headed back to my student reality in Quito a prepared a presentation for my Ecuadorian Politics class on the Bucuram dictatorship of the 1970s. Papi watched the Super Bowl with me for a little bit or for just about as much of American football as he could take. It was definitely a let down for me as well because let's just say the hilarity of the legendary Super Bowl commercials is simply lost in translation.