Cotopaxi

Cotopaxi, as seen in the early morning, heading down from the climbing refuge. 

On a whim, John Hoshall and I decided to climb Cotopaxi, the very same 19,400' monster that looms over Latacunga, threatening to once again destroy the town with another (long-overdue) eruption.  I know a few people who have peered into the Cotopaxi crater from the rim at the summit, including Uncle Keith (Skier Boyz) and a team that included fellow Fulbrighter, the intrepid Anne Davis.  Hoshall and I, after discussing the prospect over a few too many Pilseners and games of cribbage, decided we, too, should give it a shot. 

Hot water in the refugio.

We booked a guide here in Latacunga procured some gear of questionable quality.  The next day we headed up to the climbing refuge in Cotopaxi National Park.  The refuge sits at a lofty 15,400'.  We spent most of the afternoon drinking tea, eating delicious pasta, and practicing with the ice axe and crampons (tools that were quite new to me).  I tried to take my self-arrest practice seriously and kept my giggles to a minimum.  The weather was gloomy and cold with rain and snow spitting from the sky.  Fog kept the summit hidden from view.  Maybe it was better that way. 

We met a nice Swiss man at the refuge.  We would end up following closely behind him and his guide through the night.  He would ultimately make the summit (and we would see him get there, watching from the refuge); we would not. 

A group of forty students from various U.S. universities arrived at the refuge shortly after we did.  They were loud.  Our guide, Lobo, told us that these students were supposedly la esperanza de los Estados Unidos, the "hope of the United States."  I protested, stating that I was, in fact, the hope of the U.S.  He shook his head in quiet disagreement. 

After supper, Lobo informed us of the schedule.  There was no room for late or false starts.  We would rest until midnight, eat as much breakfast as our nerves would allow, pound some tea, and start walking before one am. 

Around eight pm, we bundled up and crawled into our sleeping bags.  Hoshall took the top bunk.  Maybe it was the cold, the altitude, the anticipation, or the fact that a 240 lb. being was sleeping on the wafer-thin plywood above me, but sleep did not come that night.  Eventually, it was midnight.  We got up, put on our remaining layers and headlamps, ate breakfast in the dark, and then moved out into the frigid nighttime air.

We climbed at a steady pace, moving slowly, one foot in front of the other.  My hands and face were cold, but my lungs and legs felt strong.  We roped up before we moved onto the glacier and we traveled close together.  Hoshall's body, coming almost straight from sea level, adjusted slowly to the altitude - he needed more oxygen, meaning he needed to move more slowly.  Lobo insisted that we move at our current pace, which was barely fast enough to keep me warm.  The strange, illuminated icy columns that rose from the glacier's surface provided minimal shelter from the wind.  The darkest spots along the way, the ones that I chose not to look at for too long, were the ones that scared me the most.  These dark spots were the grietas, the crevasses that opened the glacier's belly to the sky. 

The ice bridge that had provided passage over one such crevasse two days before had become unsafe.  For that reason, we were forced to find a different route, and we spent at least thirty extra minutes doing so.  Lobo and Franklin (the Swiss man's guide) scrambled up through the columns to find a reasonable passage to the next open spot on the route.  The Swiss man, Hoshall, and I waited in near silence, clinging to our ropes, hands shivering, until the guides called us up.  By the time the call came, I was too cold (dangerously cold) and had lost good control of my arms and hands.  Hoshall was shivering and had become a bit unsure of the new route and the techniques in use.  After much debate and one last pep talk from the Swiss man, we called to Lobo that we were finished.  We were turning around. 

Hoshall and Lobo on the snowfield, below the glacier.

We made it just under 18,000' before we headed back down.  I had never been to heights like that before.  And as we walked in silence down to the still-dark refuge, the stars came out and the lights of Quito twinkled in the distance.  Hoshall and I watched the sun rise from the refuge, drinking tea and evaluating our decision to turn back.  Later that morning, we began the walk down to the parking lot.  The early sunshine illuminated every major peak in Ecuador, the fiery northern spine of the Andes.  And for the first time since our arrival to the refuge, we could see the top of Cotopaxi.  Lobo pointed out two tiny figures crawling slowly over the lip of the summit: the Swiss man and Franklin, the only two humans to make it to the top that day. 

Lobo confided to me that this was to be his one hundredth summit.  He was disappointed.  Perhaps more so than his clients.  He said he'd like another chance to take me to the top.  I'll try again. 

At the refuge, after being dominated by the volcano.

We arrived in Latacunga later that morning and went straight to bed for much-needed naps.  I was glad to share the Cotopaxi experience with my dear friend, John Hoshall.  I look forward to more adventures of similar quality in the future. 

The key seems to be to focus on your steps and look away from the dark places.  Good words to remember.

On the final stretch back to the parking lot. 
Ruby on my pack.  (I would guess that this was her first time to 18,000' as well.  I was proud to take her there.)