Jungle Finale

The impact of my immediate environment on my thoughts and state of mind always astounds me. I'm now back in the States, visiting dear friends and eating delicious Texan BBQ. Only a few days removed from Ecuador, the bland food, Spanish speaking, being heads taller than everyone, and most brutally, the cheaper prices, all feel like a dream.

Though they already seem like long ago, the last five days of my trip were spent in the Amazon rainforest - some of the most fascinating hours in all my time in Ecuador. We took a long bus ride to Lago Agrio, a town close to the Colombian border and full of oil money. Winding our way through lush and stomach churning hills, the vast majority of the trip had us riding parallel to a huge oil pipeline. An extreme and thought provoking juxtaposition. From Lago Agrio we drove another 3-4 hours, the last hour on a dirt road. There we made the transition from land to water, hoping in a motorized canoe that would be our primary means of transportation for the coming days.

We arrived at the lodge/bunk huts in the late afternoon, after two hours on the river. For me it was a ride full of stiffness from the tiny benches, awe at the endless depth and density of the rainforest, and meditative monotony from the noise of the motor and pace of the boat. The rhythm of our journey was abruptly interrupted when the driver spotted a water snake, about 4 ft long, skimming across the top of the water. He put us on a collision course for the poor guy, and neither party flinched. Until of course, the snake actually ran into the boat, right where I was sitting. I screamed and the snake launched into the rear of the canoe. To my surprise, the driver seemed to have a healthy fear of the snake, kicking his rubber boots frantically at the squirming and jumping snake, launching the reptile back into the water after a solid 5 second dance.

The camp was made up of hammocks, thatched roofs, and cheerful staff members. There was a long-term German volunteer and I could definitely get behind spending a couples months in that idyllic jungle locale. We spent four days doing an array of exploratory walks and boat rides at various hours of the day and night. We were treated to tropical birds of all varieties and sizes, including macaws, toucans, parrots and woodpeckers. Of the flightless variety we caught glimpses of crocodiles, pink river dolphins (actually kinda creepy looking), tarantulas and sloths.

Yum

Even more fascinating than animal spotting were the plethora of plants and insects we got up close and personal with, thanks to our guide Ramon. A local 26 year old whose grandfather was a shaman and taught him much about the resources of the jungle, he provided a truly unique window to the jungle. He introduced us to a water vine with fresh and plentiful water hiding in its core. He had us snort garlic bark - clearing our sinuses and burning enough that we were all convinced it was a close relative of crushed fresh garlic. We ate ants that tasted like lemon and larvae the flavor of coconut. We got to see first hand the ayahuasca vine, an incredibly important and powerful hallucinogen that is the center of much natural medicine and tradition in the area. For every health problem faced in the jungle, there is a plant to cure the malady, and Ramon knew them all, adding a new and special element of depth and richness to the already impressive Amazon.

It was a great ending to an incredible trip. I'm so thankful to all the generous and welcoming Ecuadorians and fellow travelers I met, and to everyone at home for keeping in touch and providing me with incredible amounts of both support and entertainment.

Cotopaxi

Working on the lungs - hike to the refugio on Chimborazo

Train station where we stayed the night to acclimatize

At 10pm I felt Erin tug on my sleeping bag. I begrudgingly turned on my head lamp and began to pile on the layers. Emerging out of the bunk room with snow pants, jackets, helmets, and boots in tow, we choked down a bit of 'breakfast' and hit the road at 11pm. A half hour up the road, we came to a hill of unknown proportions, made up of a loose, soft, rocky ground that daylight would later prove to be a maroon mixture of volcanic rock and dirt. The five of us - Erin, Jake, our two guides Paul and Jaime, and myself - stepped out of the car, clipped on our helmets, and began our climb of Cotopaxi.

Cotopaxi is the second highest peak in Ecuador and one of the highest active volcanoes in the world, sitting at 5,897 m or 19,347 ft. To summit Cotopaxi you need a guide (regulated as one guide for every two people), crampons, an ice ax, and very warm gloves. Despite it's height, the climb is remarkably straightforward and known to be a good beginners technical climb.

With clear and stern instructions to follow Jaime's pace, we started walking. Every so often lightning lit up the horizon and the stars were the brightest I had seen in Ecuador. Aside from the celestial pyrotechnics, it was pitch black and my peripheral vision offered me nothing, allowing me to hone in on the foot steps of the guide in front of me. After half an hour, we took a quick breather. Erin was breathing very shallowly and looked very faint. We all expected to have trouble with the altitude, but not this early. The guides quickly decided that she needed to go back down, that this wasn't a fleeting feeling of nausea, but instead difficulties that would persist. Jake and I continued on ahead, reluctantly leaving Erin to rest with Jaime. Another fifteen minutes of walking brought us to the under-construction refugio (bunkhouse) at 4,800 m, where climbers normally spend the night.

Rest stop

A bit farther, and we began to see snow. We wrangled our crampons onto our boots, armed ourselves with our ice axes, and began laborious and intentional steps up the glacier side. The mountainside was steep, but it was so dark, scale was only shown when the lights of other climbers appeared above and below us. Two groups hopped ahead, and their lights moving up and up served as hopeful motivation as my legs were still pretty energized with adrenaline. Later a group would come up from behind, their lights portraying them as spotlit insects in a dark hole, and their presence serving to emphasize that we really were in fact on the side of a very steep and snowy mountain.

We rested, we walked more, weather changed and so did our moods. At 3 or 4 am, huge clouds rolled in, bringing chilling winds, nerves and doubts. The assured 6 am sunrise energy boost kept me focused, until I realized that the cloud was now a lighter color and little had changed except for increasing fatigue. Roped together, Jake was subjected to my ever-so-motivating inconsistent and increasingly lethargic and unbalanced gait. We were treated to exquisite ice formations, but each rest brought less and less energy.

At the top!

The drop dead hour to reach the top is around 8 am, depending on the weather. Worse than having to turn back for health reasons or fatigue would be to get close and be told we were too late (ie going too slow) to reach the top. Even with that knowledge I couldn't make myself go any faster.  I felt rather helpless, though encouraged by the intermittent crawling and complaining of much more experienced climbers in our midst. About an hour from the top, Paul asked us what we thought Erin had done. The next rest brought the news that she and Jaime were on their way up. Within reach of the summit and knowing that all three of us would be there together, we huffed and puffed and continued. The last portion being the steepest, calling for real use of the ice-ax and the adrenaline that thankfully comes from being within spitting distance of one's goal.

We got no views. A couple times the clouds cleared enough that we could see other clouds, but I was more easily convinced we had gone to another planet than that we should be seeing other mountains and vistas. The socked in conditions contributed to the surreal nature of the whole experience. We reached the top at 8:10 am. In a fraction of the time, we skidded our way down the mountain. I'm definitely loosing a toenail from the hike, but it is an exchange I'm more than willing to make for such a unique, difficult, and empowering 12 hours.

Cotopaxi on a clear day (not my picture!)

Cloud forest and Quilotoa

On the Quilotoa Loop

And somehow it is May. It always amazes me how quickly time passes when one is busy, or having fun, or on the go, or in this case, all three. Since saying goodbye to our parents and the Galapagos, Erin and I have been traveling around central and southern Ecuador, along with our third tall compatriot, Jake, Erin's boyfriend. Remarkably different from both being stationary and from traveling alone, exploring Ecuador with Erin and Jake has been a real treat.The downside is the much stronger buffer between myself and others at hostels, on buses, in markets, really anywhere; when alone you end up interacting with such a broader range of characters, both enjoyable and stressful. That change is overshadowed by how refreshing and wonderful it is to be with people who can shift seamlessly from seeking out cheap beer and American sports games to discussions of gentrification, the future of cities, and natural resource management.

At the butterfly breading center

Now over two weeks ago, we took a two hour bus ride from Quito to the small eco-tourism oriented town of Mindo, nestled amid lush rainforest-like hills in a region categorized as cloud forest. We did the most well known hike to waterfall, treated to a major downpour, which put my Northwest soul in a great mood. We zip-lined through the hills, flying over diverse canopies and being eaten by small devil flies. Our final evening, Easter Sunday, we treated ourselves to an incredibly decadent brownie at El Quetzal, a local chocolate factory, where I ran into a 19 year old girl who was not only from Seattle but also had attended the same elementary, middle and high school as me. The small world moments never fail to amaze me.

Trail up to Pichincha

From Mindo we returned to Quito where I finally completed the last of my Peace Corps medical exams and more interestingly (though perhaps equally as exciting for me personally) we climbed Pichincha, a volcano hugging one side of Quito. The trail head is accessed via a gondola ride and the peak sits at just under 15,700 ft. After scaling what amounted to a sandy wall, we found ourselves in a rocky nook a bit below the peak where windy chills set in and views back over the city opened up. From there we hightailed it back down and feasted on 'chinese' food, with an incredibly friendly and adventurous (i.e. the quintessential) Australian man.

Quito provided a couple great surprises - crossing paths with a friend from home and exploring Parque
Metropolitano, a remarkable public park, apparently the largest in South America. But with the Peace Corps logistics settled, I was thrilled to set off for the Quilotoa loop, a hiking route through picturesque communities and up to an exquisite crater.

Who are these fools?

From Latacunga, we stored our stuff, got 'maps' and directions, and took off the next morning for the town of Sigchos, from where we would walk to Isinlivi, realizing later we were fairly malnourished and dehydrated. After an endless uphill climb of the far side of the valley, we arrived in the town and found heaven - a hostel with the best, most plentiful food imaginable. We all ate ourselves into comas and slept like babies. The next day we walked to Chugchilan, again crossing a river and valley. The hillsides were similar to those I saw around Otavalo, in that the patchwork patterns from agricultural cultivation, cattle crazing, and forested areas provided an endless array of shades of green. The landscape around Quilotoa appeared even more expansive though; I found myself getting lost in the details of any one hillside whenever we would stop for a break.

View from the top

From Chugchilan we walked the longest day to the main attraction of Quilotoa. Treated to the same gorgeous landscape, lots of cows, sheep, horses, and a few semi-ferocious dogs, we reached the base of the crater volcano around lunchtime. Joined by a loyal dog who followed us all the way from Chugchilan, we chomped on ritz crackers, tuna, and boiled eggs and began the climb. It was a long haul but I felt energized almost the whole way up. I'd like to attribute it to my body getting in shape and aclimatized, but I think it has more to do with excitement about reaching our end goal.
At the top, we were treated to massive clouds and views of nothing beyond our feet. Instructions read to walk around the rim of the crater for an hour in order to reach the town of Quilotoa. As the sun broke through and views of the crystalline lake appeared, we wasted no time in running ourselves well into the crater. Walking through idyllic fields of wildflowers and the jagged crater edge and glacial blue water in the background, I was blissfully thinking of dinner and resting my feet.

Quilotoa crater lake (with distracting wild flowers)

When we were more than halfway down into the crater and thunder started really cracking, we realized how majorly we had gone awry. After much deliberation about backtracking, going to the kayak post another 30 minutes down into the crater, or trying to follow a random path back to the rim, lightning hit within the crater. Squatting in a low spot with some bushes, I felt each rain drop seeping through my layers, empathizing with our loyal dog companion who was shivering with cold and confusion as to why we weren't under the trees. The rain let up a bit and we decided to give it a go on a forward and upward moving path that looked promising. Thankfully it brought us to the real deal path, each of us rapidly huffing and puffing our way up with our (at best) third wind, coming from the adrenaline rush only attainable with the risk of being stuck in a crater for a lightning storm.