To Sur With Love: Climbing Illiniza Sur in Ecuador

The title of this story comes from the 1967 Sidney Poitier movie "To Sir With Love" about a teacher challenged by his unruly students. I believe climbing guides face similar challenges with their unruly clients.

Rock climbing and especially alpine climbing guides have a hard hard job. Imagine yourself as a guide: any Tom Dick or Harry (or Sofía, or Wei, or Rolf, or Bob) with enough disposable income can hire you. I fill out an online form, enter a credit card number, and shazam, you are hired to rope up with me to haul me up a steep, icy, crevasse strewn mountain.


High on Illiniza Sur

You have no way of knowing ahead of time my level of skills, fitness or temperament. For two days, and the intervening night, your job is to keep me from killing myself and taking you out in the process!

I've filled out an online form for the guide company Andean Summit Adventure and entered a credit card number, so on Saturday morning the 27th of January, 2018, a white Toyota SUV pulls up outside of my Casapaxi hostal and I meet my guide, Jaime Vargas. Jaime is certified by the Asociación Ecuatoriana de Guías de Montaña, and International Federation of Mountain Guides Associations. He has a National Guide Certification from the Ministry of Tourism. He speaks Spanish, Castilian, English, French and German. And, we have similar hair cuts, or lack there of. I feel we'll get along fine.

Our first objective is Illiniza Sur, considered a technical climb. It would be a challenge for a hiker but my Cornell Outdoor Education wellness class graduates could easily manage the rock climbing. We could practice the skills at the Lindseth Climbing wall by climbing a 5.6 route wearing clogs and breathing through dust masks partly covered with duct tape. We could practice the ice climbing on a styrofoam coated ladder wearing clogs and swinging a carpenter's rip hammer.



Illiniza Sur from Illiniza Norte
Photo by others

With a summit elevation of 17,267 it's the sixth highest mountain in Ecuador and pretty darn high for me. Those 3,000 additional feet above a Colorado 14er are significant. Five years ago I climbed Illiniza Norte, (about 500 feet lower than Illiniza Sur), and was then turned back by wind conditions on Mt. Chimborazo, so at least that time I was okay with the elevation. Although that's reassuring, one can never tell how altitude will affect you. And, five additional years doesn't help considering I was born in the year that the Micky Mouse Club debut on TV and Disneyland opened in California.

I've been training for this trip with years of the Oxygen Compensation Driver, Schoellkopf Mountain Upward Resource Facilitator training program, ( otherwise known as the OCD SMURF).

For acclimatization, I've been visiting my sister Jeanne in Cuenca (elevation 8,400 feet) for over a week, went on a day hike up to 12 or 13,000 feet, been in Quito at 9,350 feet for three days and climbed up Rucu Pichincha at 15,696 two and a half times (see my story Ecuador? WTF?).

For nutrition, I've stuffed myself with Salchipapas.

Travel tip: any culture worth visiting has discovered the culinary and cardiatric delights of heaping several types of fat on top of French Fries. In the US there are chili cheese fries, Irish have curry chips, and Canadians really excel with poutine. Fries, cheese curds and gravy? Make mine a double!  While writing this story, I spent a pleasant afternoon investigating and daydreaming about Fat on Fries Around the World

It takes a couple of hours to drive from my hostal to the Illiniza trail head. We pass through residential neighborhoods and along commercial strips before reaching the freeway. We cross a bridge high above a raging torrent cut through impossibly steep walls of volcanic deposits. Jaime explains how the beautiful cascade below is a sluice of raw sewage. He discusses problems with the Ecuadorian government and environmental policies. He is not just fluent in the English language, his elocution and insight enter my ears and become scrambled in the sponge of my vacuous cranium.

The road to the trailhead has accumulated five years of ruts and potholes since my last visit, without the benefit of maintenance. My brain finishes scrambling from the vehicles concussions. How do Ecuadorian vehicles survive their first month?

At the trailhead, we change into mountain boots, shoulder packs, and begin the hike up to the Illiniza refugio. I just carry my personal clothing and gear, while Jaime is additionally burdened with rope, pickets, and group gear. We meet several guides descending with their clients. Jaime seems to know all of them and I imagine their conversations include information about conditions on the mountains, catching up on family news, and maybe discussing us clients:


Jaime on left

Jaime 'How was your client?' Other guide 'Awesome, very strong and skilled, he told jokes in Spanish and brought home made baklava to share. How about your guy over there?' Jaime 'seems like a dolt with a shaken brain. And he stops all the time to take inane pictures. But he filled out his online form and his credit card went through.'

We continue plodding up the well worn trail until we notice a large group coming up behind us. Jaime asks if I'll be okay continuing by myself so that he can go up to reserve spaces in the refugio. I wheeze an affirmation and he disappears up the slope. I continue to slog along, being passed by other climbers. By this time, clouds have descended and the trail above fades into the mist. A lone climber descends from above. It's Jaime! And he's come back down, to carry my pack up! This feels shameful, but he insists, saying something about his job is to maximize my chance of summiting and it provides a bit of extra conditioning for him. By the time he's done with his explanation, it sounds like I'm doing him a favor by allowing him the honor of carrying my gear. So I continue up, packless, to the Refugio, nestled in the col between Illiniza Sur and Illiniza Norte.


Illiniza Refugio
Illiniza Sur visible above cliff band

Jaime has claimed a low bunk for the two of us, located at the back corner of the refugio. This is more strategic and significant than you might think. It's the most secluded part of the hut, though secluded is a generous description. Here's why I appreciate that Jaime claimed a bed on the fringes of the impending nocturnal hubbub:

Three fourths of the single room is crammed with double decker beds tightly fitted on the sides. Most beds are wide enough for three strangers to lie cozily adjacent to each other, and on busy nights every available square foot might be occupied. Reckless snuggling is not a bad thing for shared warmth in the unheated space. At 15,416 feet, this hut is 911 feet higher than Mt. Whitney, the highest point in the contiguous United States.

Aisles are only between the ends of the bunks (presumably to promote continuous cuddling from wall to wall). They are just wide enough for two people to pass, though not without leaning into the bunk space if the climbers are wearing layers of Primaloft and down.



Prime bunk location!

Despite everyone's need for sleep, nightime in the hut is far from tranquil. All through the night: climbers arrive late and search for mattress space; snoozing climbers cough and sniffle due to the altitude; nervous climbers rustle around, get up once or twice to go pee; headlamps pierce the room like dueling light sabers, (a conscientious few use dim red lamps); climbers wake up, double check their summit packs, get dressed in the narrow aisles, lace on mountain boots, and clomp to the constantly banging front door. Through it all, the guides snore blissfully, dreaming of how to prevent their clients from killing themselves on the climb the next day.

I pack and check and recheck my gear, set out clothing to wear, gloves, boots, gaiters, my ever present trusty red anorak, readying climbing harness, ice axe and crampons, over mittens, waterproof jacket and pants, sun glasses and cream... Hopefully I organize enough so that I won't cause too much disturbance when its my turn to clomp to the banging front door.

In the front fourth of the refugio sit two picnic tables placed end-to-end. In an alcove near the bunks is a tiled kitchen. On one burner sits a big pot of boiling water from which endless cups of tea warm and hydrate the guides and their charges.



Dining and kitchen area

We assemble on the picnic table benches and from the hands of the refugio caretaker, a feast issues forth. Bowls of steaming soup, fragrant and sustaining. Then plates of succulent chicken, (or eggs for the vegetarians, not sure if there's a vegan option), topping a mound of rice heaped to the angle of repose, all drenched in luscious sauce. I eat prodigiously, despite shoveling a large portion onto Jaime's plate.


Refugio Dinner attire

During dinner, I notice a guy with a water bottle from the Mountaineer Store in the Adirondacks. I strike up a conversation and learn that he also runs stairs for conditioning. His intimacy with stairs is inspiring and frightening. It is my understanding that he participated in an event called the American Lung Association Fight For Air Climb and climbed 29,029 vertical feet of stairs in 24 hours, the height of Mt. Everest! How can my OCD SMURF preparation possibly be enough?

A guide calls us outside. At the fringes of light cast through the windows of the refugio a few cautious forms emerge. The exotic sight turns all of us clients into zoological paparazzi. The guides tell us the animals come to scavenge leavings from the refugio. Later research suggests they are Andean Fox or wolf.

After dinner, more tea, and a final visit to the bottom numbing toilet, I crawl into my bunk and join the bevy of clients nervously rustling and sniffling in our pursuit of rest.

We wake up at 10pm or midnight or 1 am or some other confusing hour. An "Alpine Start". I quadruple check my summit pack, get dressed in the narrow aisle, lace on mountain boots, and clomp to the picnic table. Jaime and I drink cup after cup of tea, eat some bread and jam, shoulder our packs, adjust clothing and helmet and exit the constantly banging front door.

We begin hiking by headlamp. Guides start off at what first seems like a comically slow pace. Lift a foot, move it forward, place it back down. Lift the other foot, move it forward, place it back down. Later on when it gets steep, that same pace takes great will power to maintain. I follow the essence of Jaime: a spot of light and big yellow boots rising and falling, rising and falling.

We arrive at a level area with a few boulders protruding from the snow. We put on crampons and I tie into the rope. We double check each other. Every single time. Even though he is a guide.


Transition to snow and ice

My existence reduces to the familiar meditative symphony of lifting feet and breathing. Step, step, plunge the ice axe, breathe, breathe, breathe. At steep or crevasse-risky places Jaime climbs up, establishes an anchor, and then belays me from above. I like to think that I've established some level of cred by not slipping and falling all over the place.

As we move upward, voices and then head lamp beams rise from below. As I plod up and up, puffing like a steam engine, a pair of unroped alpinists pass us, conversing as though they're strolling along the sidewalk. We wish each other safe climbs, and they vanish up into the dark.  Jaime climbs the technical section and establishes a belay.  I climb and am surprised and pleased that the ice and rock are not as difficult as I expected.

As we climb, my universe expands from the circle of my headlamp to include a faint separation of land and sky. Beginning as dark forms against the black sky, surrounding masses gain texture. After more minutes of watching my boots rise and fall, the surrounding snow fades into view. I switch off my headlamp and we continue up.

The slope eases and Jaime's big yellow boots pause. I sag onto the ice axe, thankful for the rest. He points behind me. In my absence, Illiniza Norte has turned to face the sun.


Illiniza Norte

Although we remain in the shadow of our destination, the brightening sky brings joy and strength.

I puff my way up another steep section. Ahead, within reach: the sun and gentler slopes of the summit cone.



With renewed energy I continue up, passing glorious snow and rock. Symmetrical Cotopaxi in the distance awaits a future visit. For now, step step breathe.



Eventually, there are no more steep or even upward inclines for my legs to work on.


Summibration with Jaime & my trusty red anorak

Jaime and I hug. Under what other circumstances do strangers hug? Yet for me it feels instinctive to celebrate such an intense experience by showing gratitude and connection. With a hug.

It occurs to me, this is the true reward of guides. To make these life affirming experiences possible for others.

We put on layers, take pictures, guzzle liquids, throw food in our mouths. We congratulate other climbers arriving and departing the summit, Jaime reconnects with his guide friends. I linger to maximize my immersion in the beauty of nature, and the experience.

Eventually, it is time to descend. And descend we do!



On steep parts, I face the slope, kicking in the front points of my crampons while Jaime belays me from an anchored stance above. Then when I get to a safe stance, he climbs down. As he descends, I give him a boot-axe belay though I question whether I could actually stop him if he fell. And if he fell into a crevasse, I question my ability to haul him out. Good thing I've taken the Cornell Outdoor Education vertical rescue training class. Too bad it was years ago and I haven't practiced since.

The slope angle eases and although I am not experienced enough to feel comfortable, we turn to face out because we can move faster. Jaime uses a short rope technique to keep me safe. I plunge step my way down, my confidence only achieved through the slender nylon connection with Jaime.



When we reach safer ground, we unrope...



and I return to the business of putting one foot in front of the other...



We stop at the refugio and devour heaping plates of fried eggs and rice, accompanied by the unceasing cups of tea. Giddy climbers congratulate each other, trying ( and generally failing ) to be mindful of those who did not reach their objectives. The guides congratulate each other for yet again surviving the antics of their clients.

We repack our overnight gear, shoulder our packs, and descend.



Back down to green grass, showers, and Salchipapas.

Humility to Hilarity

I consider humility a desirable personal attribute. Not humility as having low self esteem or a sense of unworthiness the way some define it.  Rather I strive to respect and admire the attributes and accomplishments of others.  Since typically their accomplishments far exceed my abilities, they serve as a source of inspiration.  When I see someone creating art or attempting intellectual or physical pursuits beyond my talent, skill, or strength, I feel fortunate to witness their endevors.

I am also humbled by the inherent beauty of the natural world.  When my senses perceive mountain peaks, sunset mirrored on a lake, the fragrance of pine needles, the trill of a loon, a snowflake on my face, I am thankful. How fortunate we are as humans to appreciate these gifts.

Sometimes other people's abilities are so vastly greater than mine, the best way to accept my humility is with hilarity.  For instance...

In October of 2018, Lisa and I flew to Anchorage, Alaska to visit Jimmy and Donna.  For just $125 more, United let us bring a third passenger!  Unfortunately, they were required to spend the eleven and a half total hours of flight time under the seat in front of us, smelling our feet.

Steerage class in the 21st century for Jimmy's poor cat Kai.  Kai however is a stoic (as well as stowed) traveler having survived as a stray in Japan, flying from Japan to New York, to Colorado, back to New York, and now to Alaska.   He should be eligible for feline frequent flyer miles.

After safely reuniting Kai with his family, I take advantage of a lull in the Alaskan precipitation to climb Wolverine Peak.

Wolverine Peak a third of the way from the right
A couple of weeks after and a lot colder and snowier than when I climbed it

Wolverine Peak on the western edge of the Chugach Range forms the eastern horizon of Anchorage, and the trailhead is an eleven minute drive! from Kai's new home.  

The summit of Wolverine Peak rises to an elevation of 4,491 feet and is a popular hike on a class 2 trail.  With 3654 feet of elevation gain over about 4.2 miles it resembles one of the Adirondack High Peaks.  Except that the treeline in Alaska is about 3,000 feet!  So much of the trail is exposed and the experience is very alpine.  Yum.

I choose to start from a trailhead with the ominous name "Basher".  Ironically, an alternate trailhead with the aristocratic name of "Prospect Heights" was where Jimmy and Donna's car was broken into just days after he arrived in Anchorage.

The lower part of the trail even feels surprisingly similar to an Adirondack trail, complete with roots and mud.

Alaska is wilder than the Adirondacks however, and encounters with large mammals are even more common.  A short distance up the trail I catch a glimpse of movement maybe 100 feet away in the scrubby woods to my left.  I can't see much besides a big behind, though I am happy to see that the big behind sits atop long legs.  Hopefully I won't need the canister of bear repellant that is a standard piece of kit for Alaskan hikers.

The big behind ambles away and I learn later on another hike that based on the tawny colored legs, 

Another moose encounter on a different hike

that it was a moose.

I break out from the stands of low conifers and brushy meadows, and traverse a valley hillside with views of Anchorage and the Turnagain Arm of Cook Inlet (where the tide is so strong, people surf!)

Uh oh: to my left, the sound of crashing through brush and I see a dark form moving fast!

A black lab streaks across the trail : )  I look back down the trail and see its human companion.  In no time at all they catch up, breathing easily and running up the slope.  After several minutes I crest a ridge and the view of Wolverine Peak opens above.  The runner and her dog are far up the switch backs.

I am humbled by their strength and vitality, and also the grand view before me.

Wolverine Peak to the right,
photo taken on my way down with an afternoon crowd ascending

As I work my way up the trail at my comfortable pace, I occasionally look up to watch the speeding pair zig zagging up the switchbacks and traversing the upper slopes. Wow they're fast.  I am really humbled. 

When I look again, they appear as specks at the top.  All that climbing accomplished as I made my way along the gently sloped ridge to the base of the switchbacks pictured above.  I am really, really humbled.

Telephoto shot of the runner, the little vertical speck, on the summit

How can I react to my relative feebleness but to laugh at myself.  I think this level of humility is best assimilated through hilarity.  

My slowness reminds me of a comedy video where one poor guy is stuck in a slow check-out line while hoards of people in the adjacent lines whizz past him in speeded-up motion.  

Or I'm so slow jokes:

I'm so slow they measure my 50 yard dash times with a calendar

I'm so slow I came in third in a two person race

If I went any slower, I'd be going backwards

I increase my speed up the switchbacks thinking of a nice image of the pair running along the snow-dusted exposed ridgeline.  Not even close.  By the time I am near the top of the switchbacks, they've descended onto the slope.  Moving with sure footed grace they pass by and continue down.

As I gain the upper ridge crest, views of the surrounding mountains are revealed. 

Wolverine Peak presents me with a unique and extraordinary mountain experience.  Despite the seriously alpine sensations, the summit is reached by a well graded trail.  There are two or three little rocky steps where I am among the elite 1% of hikers who put a hand down for balance.  Otherwise, it's just walking. 

Or for some folks, running.  

Near the summit, I look closely at the footprints of the runner and notice an interesting characteristic of her uphill stride.

 

See how the uphill impressions show just the forefoot?  She was REALLY RUNNING.  Once again I am humbled.  And humbled yet again when I reach the summit.  

The reward of mountains like this after a trail hike is an extraordinarily generous gift.

But I don't like the looks of the rapidly approaching cloud bank, so I don't pause for my typical sumibration snack.  I hustle my way down as quickly as my old geezer's shuffle is able.

Mid way down the switchbacks, I see the clouds have stayed to the south, and the sun breaks through.  Oh well, after my experience on Tabeguache in Colorado, I don't mind being even more conservative than I used to be.  And the descent is gorgeous as well.

Looking Southwest,
what's going on with the water?

Anchorage and the Turnagain Arm of Cook Inlet

The magic combination of sunlight and water

As I descend, a guy in a yellow jacket passes me moving fast. 

Wait a minute... I saw him earlier when I was eating lunch on the gentle ridge below the switchbacks, and he was on his way up.  Could he really have climbed and descended the mountain while I ate lunch and walked half a mile?  Couldn't be, and yet when I next see him, he's down in the valley bottom entering the trees you can see in the photo above.  He's so much faster... what can I do but laugh?  Hilariously humbling.

Ecuador? WTF???

In 2011 my sister Jeanne retired from her architecture practice and moved from Oakland, California to Cuenca, Ecuador. Until she flew there to look for a house, she had never previously visited. She didn't know anyone living there. Her Spanish language skills were based on high school classes taken 40 years previously.

When she first told me and my other sister Kathy, our reaction was WTF !!! ??? (Why That Far?) When you grow up in Minnesota, your mind and heart are pure. Our next reaction was, where exactly is Ecuador and why? My only knowledge of Ecuador was that it's located on the Equator.

Turns out Ecuador, and the City of Cuenca in particular is a wonderful place to live: friendly people with a welcoming society, lovely climate and stunning landscape, historic architecture,

cultural and culinary delights, politically stable and progressive government (voting is compulsory), reasonable cost of living, and first class health care that's affordable. So affordable that there's something called Medical Tourism. Come scuba dive with tortoises in the Galapagos, and if you call before midnight, you'll receive a quadruple bypass! There's even a magazine called Medical Tourism Magazine. Past issues have included articles such as "Spain, the Heart of Transplants", "Grasping Dreams: Hand Transplants Greet Medical Tourism Markets" and "Abu Dhabi: Sustainable Healthcare Sector"

Speaking of Cuenca tourism, at an elevation of 8,400 feet under the equatorial sun, you tan faster than applying it with a spray can.


Cotopaxi Tanning Salon
So visiting Jeanne was how I ended up climbing volcanoes in Ecuador. This story is about my second visit to Ecuador, in January of 2018.

Traveling from Ithaca, NY to Cuenca is like going from Podunk, NY (located just 13.8 miles from our house!) to Jerkwater, PA by pogo stick. There's no way to fly from the US to Cuenca, the third largest city in Ecuador, without an overnight layover in Quito! Because of the layovers, it takes longer than flying to Tokyo, Japan.

I leave from the State of New York on the east coast of the North American Continent - complete with shoreline facing the Atlantic Ocean, and arrive in Ecuador on the west coast of South America with shoreline (and the famous Galapagos Islands ) on the Pacific Ocean. If I swam due west (and a tiny bit south) from Ecuador, I'd arrive on the island of Tahiti, with very wrinkly skin.
 
                                                        



Yet my flight is almost directly south!

Since Ecuador is on approximately the same line of longitude, it's in the same time zone as Ithaca. So my internal clock is not disrupted and hooray! my daily nap schedule doesn't need adjustment! I'm also pleased to learn that the hands of clocks in the southern hemisphere don't turn counterclockwise.

Another fun travel fact: Ecuador uses US currency! No need to make conversions of 0.68 to 13, or learn colorful Monopoly bills with pictures of Queens or Archdukes. No coins with holes in them , not even the loonies and toonies of our neighbors to the north. And what's more, you can actually buy things with nickels and pennies, like delicious baked rolls, fresh fruit, or ice cream treats.

Occasionally the merchandise is proportional with the cost.



WTF!!! Widdle Tiny Food

It turns out Jeanne is not the only one who noticed the attractive living conditions in Cuenca, so there are a number of foreign residents. Unfortunately, not all of them have embraced the country and worked to become a contributing Ecuadorian citizen the way Jeanne has. She overheard a US expat complaining that the locals don't speak English! I know there's funny in there, but it's so covered up with embarrassing and disgusting and sad.

I spend the first week of my visit in Cuenca, going on walks with Jeanne and her dogs, meeting some of her friends (who aren't shocked by encountering Spanish speakers at the market), admiring the ancient buildings and National Geographic-worthy scenery, and...


sampling as many varieties of the local cuisine as we can fit into each day.

One traditional food is cuy pronounced kew-y. Avert your eyes if you're squeamish...


In case you don't recognize the little critter when it's not in a cage running on a wire exercise wheel, the cuddly creature on the platter is a guinea pig! WTF!!!! (Without The Fur)
Here's another view.

Personalized rodent rotisseries!

I really thank Jeanne for taking me for a cuy lunch. Not that it tasted like bacon to the tenth power. Not that she took me even though it grosses her out (the Chiang's are pretty adventurous when it comes to eating). Rather, because it's overpriced and underwhelming. One of her friends described it as a lot of work for not much meat. I thought it was too salty, this coming from a guy who likes his diet to include about 10,000 mg of sodium each day. It was fun for the novelty, but not something I'd care to eat again. So thanks Jeanne for putting up with another cuy restaurant just to give me the experience.

A traditional Ecuadorian meal that is decidedly extraordinary is the almuerzo. Humbly translated as lunch, it is in reality a sumptuous serving of succulent superlatives. This is the pinnacle to which culinary contestants seeking a Nobel Food Prize would aspire. All this set us back about $3.50, and there's enough on one plate to satisfy both Jeanne and me.

Jeanne arranges for a guide to take me rock climbing in Cojitambo . It's quite a different experience to hike cloud forest trails to reach a cliff. Long ago, the Cañari used those cliffs as a defense against the Incas. On the other side of the mountain there are archeological ruins.

Turns out my guide, Pedro Montezuma, was instrumental in setting routes and developing this area as a climbing destination! WTF! Wrote The Fieldguide!

We have a great day of top roping while he evaluates my climbing (and belaying) skills and then we climb a couple of multi-pitch sport routes before rain chases us off.

I also go for a hike in Las Cajas National Park. It's one of the most stunning landscapes I've been lucky enough to experience, and at 12-14k provides acclimatization beyond the 8,000 foot elevation of Cuenca. I'm kind of OCD when it comes to acclimatization so this hike is part of my plan.


My hike at this park 5 years ago ranks as one of my life's greatest gifts. Could have had something to do with the hiking partners, my kids Molly and Jimmy.
 

Jeanne suspects that I only visit her to provide an excuse to climb the Ecuadorian volcanoes. That's not true, but I certainly do like the high mountain experiences readily available in her new country.

Ecuador is a great place for high altitude climbing adventures for those of us with mediocre technical skills: there are moderate routes up many mountains, a well developed organization of professional guides, easily accessible refugios (mountain "huts") serving delicious meals, and all at reasonable prices.

My journey to the high mountains starts with a flight to Quito.


I lug my big duffle (filled with approximately 49.8 pounds of the lightest weight clothing and climbing gear that I can make and afford) out of the airport and load it into a taxi. The driver doesn't laugh at my pathetic attempts to speak Spanish (as I said, Ecuadorians are friendly). I resort to gibberish and pantomime. He smiles when I hand over a printed description of my destination and takes off.
Almost literally.

I'll say it yet again: Ecuadorians are friendly. And they are also generally laid back. They describe each other and situations as tranquilo, tranquil, mellow, no worries mate. Yet when they grab the rim of a steering wheel, something snaps. They become the star of an instructional video to show aggressive driving. They might still converse with the calm of a Buddhist monk, but they'll pass multiple vehicles around blind curves on a mountain road. It doesn't seem to be associated with animosity toward other drivers. I guess it's not road rage when everyone does it and expects it and doesn't get mad about it.

So my driver accelerates to about warp 3 in town, and conscientiously waits until the freeway on-ramp to hit warp 9.50. In no time we've crossed the entire east to west width of Quito.


With a population of about 1.4 million (for some reason there are several different numbers floating around the internet) Quito is far too big of a city for my liking. Although Quito has a plethora of historic and cultural stuff, my first visit 5 years ago was enough for this hick. So this time I won't venture into the center of the City or visit any of the diversely enriching offerings on this visit. I'm in Quito just as a base camp to climb.

Quito perches at an elevation of 9,350 so my acclimatization progresses as I lug my duffel up the stairs of my lodgings. Via the internet, I have rented a room in a "hostal" for $12 a night. For this price you would expect a flea bag dump, but check out the the living room of my accommodations.


The owner, Luigina is a tiny woman with kindness and generosity befitting a Santa-sized body. I highly recommend staying at Hostal Casapaxi if you want quiet lodgings away from the bustling center of Quito.

By chance, I am the only occupant for the duration of my visit. So I have this architectural marvel of a house (Luigina built it when she was working as an Italian diplomat to Ecuador) to myself. On Luigina's recommendation, I buy a pizza for dinner from a shop up the street. Travel tip: I do not suggest flying to Ecuador to eat pizza. I buy my future dinners from a little establishment offering Salchipapas.

When in Ecuador, eat as the Ecuadorians do.

The next day I begin my acclimatization program in earnest. Acclimatization is the process of conditioning your body to the rarified air on a high mountain. Through gradual exposure to higher and higher altitudes, your blood chemistry changes and other medical marvels manifest to adapt to the decreased oxygen. You know how you get out of breath when you carry your two cases of Vodka from the car to your house? At altitude you get out of breath by standing up too fast.

High altitude photography tip: if you hold your breath to steady your camera grip, don't hold it for too long and then stand up!

I'm kind of OCD when it comes to acclimatization. I will climb Rucu Pichincha, the mountain west of Quito, two and a half times before meeting my guide to climb my big objectives.

From Hostal Casapaxi, I walk an hour uphill past little shops, houses, a police station, a school playground. I cross a very busy thoroughfare (endangering my life more than climbing any volcano) and climb up a steep road to the teleferico station. For $8.50, a scenic gondola ride whisks me up to 13,000 feet in 18 minutes. This instant gratification of high altitude scenery draws tourists visiting Quito with no climbing experience and possibly arriving from The Galapagos Islands, or Rio, or Sydney, or San Francisco. All of which have the dense atmospheric pressure benefiting sea level. The results can be dangerous, hence my OCD acclimatization program.

As I walk from the gondola, I see a woman slumped on the ground with her husband. She has a headache and nausea, suffering from altitude sickness. I offer her ibuprofen which her husband declines saying something in French about 'she already took an aspirin'. I strongly urge them to go back down right away. She worries that she will vomit in the gondola to which I respond, that should not be your main concern right now.

Behind a restaurant and the plaza overlooking stunning views of the city mottled by shadows of cotton ball clouds, beyond a small chapel, there's a trail to Rucu Pichincha. With a summit elevation of 15,413 feet above sea level, it is higher than all the mountains in the Contiguous US. The trail and route are similar to a Class 3 or 4 "14er" in Colorado. This is the mountain I will climb to prepare my body for the highest peaks that Ecuador has to offer.


The hiker's trail initially follows a ridge, switchbacks zigging and zagging up the steeper parts, climbing through paramo vegetation: tall grasses and spiky succulents to my non-botanical eyes. I pass beneath gargantuan power lines. The buzzing makes me wonder if my camera cards and brain are being erased. I hurry as much as my labored breathing permits.


As I arrive at the volcano's rocky base, I hear voices above. Interesting, I think to myself. Someone is on the East Ridge/Direct Route this is a low 5th class climb so I hope they have chosen this route deliberately. I instead follow the trail for the standard route around to the right along the base of the rock cliffs. Contouring upward past ridges and ravines, I arrive at the base of a sandy scree field. Rather than climb directly up the scree where I'd slide back one step for every two taken, I angle up and traverse to the far side. I follow climber's trails that reward me with only half a step sliding for every two taken.

Looking down the start of the scree slope

Despite a forecast of clearing skys, the weather for my first ascent of Rucu is overcast and the clouds seem moderately threatening to me. I have read that the rock composing Rucu is very slippery when it gets wet, and I take that warning seriously. Luckily, I catch up with Mac, a guy from Montana who lives in Quito half of the year and who has previously climbed Rucu Pichincha. We agree to continue on unless it threatens more seriously to rain. At the top of the scree slope, there are a few hundred feet of 3rd and occasionally 4th class scrambling. I appreciate Mac's route finding as we make our way over lumpy but solid rock.


We congratulate each other on the summit and sit down for lunch. I'm impressed when Mac pulls out an avocado. A few other climbers arrive, a couple of whom were the adventurous pair I heard up on the East Ridge. It turns out they are not experienced rock climbers. They just started up the first rock they saw until realizing they were over their heads. We are all happy that they were able to downclimb without falling.

Various climbers come and go, happy with their success but disappointed by the mist hiding the views. One guy arrives with a Hasselblad camera, and his companion has some other modern medium format camera. Honest to goodness film photographers, bless their hearts. When astronauts took selfies on the moon, NASA wanted a reliable camera, so they chose Hasselbads. Back in the day, I knew two wedding photographers with requirements for reliable cameras no less important than NASA (the term Bridezilla hadn't yet been invented, but the character probably existed). They both had Hasselbads, and both had stories of malfunctions!

Mac and I loll on the rock, enjoying each other's companionship. It's nice to summibrate with another old fart, sharing snacks and conversation. With the patience gifted to the elderly (patience comes easily when your mind is a complete blank), we wait for the clouds to lift. With my OCD attention to acclimatization, I don't mind the additional time at elevation either.

In my peripheral vision, I catch a glimpse of a fleeting shadow. WTF??? Was That For real? Another shadow streaks from the mist and lands on the summit, a big speckled bird! What luck, when Mac isn't living in Quito, he works in Montana as a naturalist. And he's a birder. Carunculated Caracara says Mac, and unfortunately I don't write the name down. Back home it takes me hours of incorrectly remembered variations before Google figures out what I'm searching for. Mac lures the bird to feed from his hand by lying down so that he's lower than the bird. What a treat of an experience.

Lo, our patience is rewarded as glimpses of the surrounding valleys and peaks emerge from the mist. What with the Caracara, and sunlight through lifting clouds, the scenery, and most of all the serendipitous encounter with Mac, I once again thank who or whatever being preceded my incarnation to reward me with such pleasures. WTF!!! Way Too Fortunate

Too soon, it's time to return to reality and we pack up to leave. After descending the rock scramble, the scree, the contours around the ridges and ravines, we sit down in the grass on the gentler ridge. The sun and air temperature are warmer now and we bask in the glorious setting.

After another snack and drink we hike the rest of the way down to the teleferico station. I tell Mac that I plan to climb Rucu again the next day. Although he is tempted, he doubts that he will be able to join me. We ride the gondola down, and walk down the steep street to the thoroughfare. With a hand shake we part ways.

The next day after a breakfast of bread rolls, kiefer and bananas (total cost about a dollar) I walk up to and ride the teleferico again.

As I hike, I encounter the trail maintenance crew I recognize from yesterday. In my pathetic Spanish, I try to thank them for their hard work. One of them is carrying a massive pry bar and a post hole digger. I offer to carry the post hole digger: partly out of sympathy for his sweating misery, partly to thank them for their work, and partly to satisfy my OCD acclimatization and training. I recall seeing timbers for a replacement sign on the summit yesterday, so through gibberish and pantomime, I ask if I should carry the tool to the top of the mountain. Perhaps out of politeness or just to get rid of this crazy asian gringo they nod.

The weather today beckons, so along the route and at the summit I meet lots of climbers. Through gibberish and pantomime I try to explain why I am carrying a post hole digger up a 15K mountain. From the expressions on their faces I can tell that I am unsuccessful. My disastrous communication is all the more disappointing because the other climbers hail from San Francisco, Pittsburgh, the UK, and Canada.

On the summit, the mood is festive. Like a Madison, Wisconsin block party, 

but transported 14,000 feet vertically. 

 Unfortunately, the pair of Canadians are dressed for an afternoon in Madison. Shorts and T-shirts under windbreakers? WTF! Way Too Flimsy! Even though Rucu Pichincha is near the equator, shorts are not appropriate attire for a mountain 1,000 feet higher than Mt. Rainier. So I make like a magician and start pulling clothes out of my backpack: insulated jacket, rain jacket, rain pants, hat, gloves, mitten shells, all of the spare clothes I brought in case the weather turned bad. After donning my mismatched mishmash of gear they look like Nepalese porters after a 1950s Everest expedition but they'll be warm on the descent.

Perhaps influenced by my future analogy of a Madison block party, the guy from San Francisco, (we'll call him John Doe), mentions that he has coca leaves. WTF??? Where They From ?

Coca leaves and products are legal in Ecuador and are purported to ease the effects of altitude sickness. I ask John where he bought them and he describes a vague location for a pharmacy near the center of Quito. Oh well, I'm interested, but not willing to search the bustling center of the city asking strangers where to find coca through gibberish and pantomime.

Later the next day, I will in fact visit a market with various vendor stalls including some that sell coca products: tea bags, candies, lotions. leaves! I've read that indigenous people laboring at high altitude chew the leaves so I give that a try. I don't feel any effect at all. Only once I'm back home in Ithaca do I learn that to release the chemicals that suppress hunger, thirst, pain, fatigue, and help overcome altitude sickness, the leaves need to be treated with an alkali. So the trick is to roll the leaves up with baking soda and tuck the soggy foaming wad between gum and cheek.

Tomorrow, I'll visit Rucu Pichincha a third time before being picked up by my guide to start our high mountain adventures. Per my OCD acclimatization program, I'll just hike to the base of the scree slope to save my legs. I'll spend the afternoon napping, snacking, and talking with other passing climbers. Occasionally they'll offer a phrase of Spanish, Chinese, or Japanese, or I'll offer a bit of gibberish before realizing that we're both from the good ole US of A.

Back on the mountain as I descend I see the maintenance crew. Working away...
Without their post hole digger...
Uh Oh.
Through animated Spanish with gesticulating limbs, their message is clear: WTF!!!
Welcome Tool Ferry-er !!! 

or they inform me that I am a dolt. 

Not really, they're too polite.

With my limited Spanish, I say "Lo siento, lo siento..." I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
To which they respond, "Es tranquilo... "


A random guy who gave me a ride after hiking in Las Cajas Park
Next up, Illiniza Sur.