Alex's Asian Adventure

Yesterday I made it back to Quito by way of a long bus ride. Boooooring.

This morning, however, I got up at the crack of dawn (6 AM) to check out the biggest artisan market in Latin America - the Saturday market in Otavalo. The trip there was uneventful other than a very slow bus ride, but that's to be expected. I should also say I got ripped off on the price of the bus there - I paid $4 instead of the $2 I should have... grrr....

Otavalo's Saturday market is a sight to see. It's huge! Beyond belief huge. Block, after block, after block of stalls manned by vendors selling all sorts of things. There are textiles, jewellery, toys, paintings, clothing, food, consumer staples, whatever. There is a separate food market, where one can buy spices, juices, ingredients both cooked and raw... you name it. Huge! There is also, apparently, a live animal market that I did not venture to for lack of interest in seeing soon-to-be-slaughtered guinea pigs and other fine sources of animal protein.

So, today, commencing at 6 AM, I went on a shopping trip. I feel vaguely dirty. I even spent more money than I thought I would have. However, there's an escalation of committment that comes as part of the bargaining process (and you bargain for everything). If you lowball a vendor, and he (or she) hits your bid, you're obligated to fork over the cash. I got some bargains on things that I didn't necessarily want. Ultimately, it's all for the better; when am I going to be around here next? Besides, the amounts of money involved are still relatively pitiful. The biggest problem is that I now have to transport all my newfound posessions to Canada, and I'm quickly running out of luggage space.... hmmm.

Speaking of which: Tomorrow I fly back to Toronto. Tonight is a triple birthday party at Patricio's place. I think the day might get longer and longer... maybe no sleep until I'm in the air.

I am in Baños for a couple of days.

Recap: Tuesday afternoon I arrived here looking for a place to kick back a little bit after my high altitude mountaineering adventures. And I found it.

Baños is extremely touristy. It's definitely a resort town, probably the most tourist-geared town I've ever been in. There is a plethora of restaurants (all serving the same food), travel agencies, souvenier shops, etc - all in a very small, concentrated area. I think this whole town is about the same area as Gringolandia in Quito.

The major feature of this area is the volcano Tungurahua. In the Quechua language (the language of the Inca descendents living in Ecuador), "tungu" = "throat" and "rahua" = "fire". So "Tungurahua" = "Fire Throat", a fine name for a volcano. Tungurahua is big (5016m) and only 8km away, although you can't see it from town because of some closer hills. In 1999, the sucker became active and Baños was forcibly evacuated for about a year. These days, the volcano belches smoke and ash on a near-constant basis. The locals don't seem to care too much, although I figure if there's a big enough eruption, Baños is toast despite there being rather obvious gullies for lava to flow down away from town.

In short, Baños is very scenic, nestled at the bottom of a river valley and surrounded by mountains on all sides. No wonder it's a huge tourist draw.

Yesterday, in the spirit of checking out the mighty Tungurahua, I hiked across the river and up a big hill to "Los Antenas" aka "The Antennas". It's a solid 800m vertical gain over 8km to get a great view of Tungurahua and the town proper. It was fun. Pictures coming. In the evening, I did the other local attraction, which is a bus up to a nearby lookout to see if we can spot magma at night. It was somewhat overcast, but I can confirm that I did see some flashes of red from the vicinity of where I figure Tungurahua was located. It's very exciting.

In between all this, I also ran into Haiko and Grit, a German brother & sister duo I met on the Nariz del Diablo train - Heiko was on the back of the train taking pictures the whole time. Whereas I returned to Riobamba after the train ride, they proceeded to Cuenca and just got into Baños yesterday. It's amazing how travellers' paths cross & re-cross in a matter of days. Incidentally, where the Germans get their names is a mystery for the ages. In this case, "Haiko" is a man's name and "Grit" is a woman's name. They joined me for magma-watching last night, and I'm meeting them later on tonight.

This morning, to continue in the spirit of volcano-watching, I actually took a trip up to the flank of Tungurahua, and hiked to a refuge at 3800m on the volcano's north-east side. For this trip, I hired transportation and a guide, and since I'm a solo traveller this always ends up being more expensive than it should be. As it turned out, I had not one but two guides - the second having come for the trip to see the route, I think. So, two young guns & I wandered up the hill to the refugio.

It sould be said that unlike yesterday's Antenna excursion along a road, this was an actual hike in the forest. This is also the first time I spend any time in an Ecuadorian forest, and for that alone I think the trip was worthwhile. It's a neat trail. For a good chunk of the distance (4km and 1000m vertical) the trail is really a trench, with mud walls two meters high and overhead canopy of vegetation. You are heading uphill in a tunnel! Quite cool.

We started late (hit the trail around 10:30) and got to the refugio at 1 PM. It should be said that there are actually three separate refiguios up there, but unfortunately two of them have been previously destroyed by Tungurahua. It certainly adds confidence to the venture, let me tell you. Also, there's no doubt in anyone's mind that you are close to a volcano, as volcanic ash coveres literally everything you see and touch. It's impossible to walk without getting completely covered in it, to say nothing of breathing it and having the ash go in your eyes. It's just fantastic.

As luck would have it, when we got up there the summit was covered in cloud, and we could not see anything. We could, however, hear rather ominous rumbling and the occasional sounds of falling rocks. I got nervous. After an hour at the refuge, and the start of rainfall, we left. And, this being my luck and not a lucky person's, when we were 90% of the way down to our transport back to town, the weather cleared and we finally got a good view of Tungurahua billowing smoke several kilometers into the atmosphere.

As far as volcano-watching goes, today's trip was a bust. As far as an OK hike in Ecaudorian forest, it was worthwhile.

Tonight, more R&R in Baños - meeting Haiko and Grit later on this evening. Hopefully will manage a visit to the hot springs either tonight or tomorrow morning. Tomorrow, I am heading back to Quito sometime in the late morning, and on Saturday heading to Otavalo and the huge Saturady artisanal market there - apparently the biggest in Latin America. And on Sunday... travel back to the great white north.

Yeah!!

Yesterday afternoon I was picked up 1-ish to go to the Refugio Whymper on the Western flank of Chimborazo and give the sucker a shot.

This mountain happens to be an extinct volcano, with a summit 6310m above sea level, and is the furthest point from the centre of the earth short of being airborne. At noon local time, presumably, it's also the closest point to the sun. It's higher than everything in North America - Denali is 6194m, Logan is "only" 5959m. In fact, it's higher than everything on any continent other than South America and Asia. It's a big objective, but with the advantage that the logistics are straight forward. There is no long approach (like the 2 day walk-in to Aconcagua) or complicated transportation (weather-dependent flights to Patriot Hills for those attempting Mt. Vinson in Antarctica). You drive to the Carrel hut, and walk 30-45 minutes to the Whymper hut 200m higher. This is not a multi-day expedition with a couple of bivouacs or high camps. The mechanics are similar to Cotopaxi and some other volcanoes in Ecuador: idiculous alpine start (in this case midnight) and hopefully a summit at around dawn, returning before the sun turns the glacier into an angled lake.

The plan was to climb this with a new guide, Cesar, a more competent replacement to Carlito. I get picked up by... yet another guide. This is good news; the guide at question was on Cotopaxi during my near-summit, and I was rather impressed by him - he had an air of competence. Freddy's the name. My mood improves.

Freddy is experienced. He has climbed all over the world, though not Canada. He's heading to Switzerland in April and talking about climbing the Eigerwand. He's attempted Cerro Torre twice. He's climbed in Peru, and in Colorado. He says he probably has around 80 summits on Chimborazo alone. And he's been guiding for 13 years. In other words, he's not the wet-behind-the-ears Carlito. He also speaks very respectable English, an asset when it comes to guiding an English-speaker in a somewhat risky environment.

We made it to the Carrel Brothers hut at around 3 PM, and up to the Whymper hut shortly after 4 PM. These huts are named after the first people to climb Chimborazo in 1880, Louis Carrel, Jean-Antoine Carrel and Edward Whymper. Whymper is also noted for the first ascent of the Matterhorn.

Also, it was Whymper who said (in Scrambles Amongs the Alps):

There have been joys too great to be described in words, and there have been griefs upon which I have not dared to dwell; and with these in mind I say: Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are nought without prudence, and that a momentary negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime. Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end.

Sage advice for any mountaineer.

I was not expecting much activity on the mountain that night, but it turns out that more Germans invaded Ecuador, and there was a relatively large expedition - I believe 8 or so climbers - were about to lay siege to the mountain. Their first mistake: beer, wine & rum ahead of a midnight start, and at 5000 meters elevation, to boot. I guess you can't take the booze away from some people...

I ate, went to bed at 7 PM, slept a bit, and up at 11 for a midnight start. This time, no major issues with altitude - in fact, I felt great and ate with gusto, something I can't say happened on Cotopaxi. That may have been part of the issue behind my rather brutal cardiovascular performance on that mountain...

It also serves to mention that the weather the day before the climb was terrific - not a cloud in the sky, no percipitation. This is a huge step up from the Cotopaxi attempt, which was unfortunately loaded with snow.

Aside: I spoke with the head of the German expedition and he mentioned that his team turned back on Cotopaxi at precisely the place I turned back, for precisely the same reason. I feel somewhat more validated.

Freddy & I left camp at 12:15 AM to attempt the "Normal route" aka what I believe is the North-West ridge, also known as the "Castillo" route after a big castle-looking rock in the vicitity of where you get on the ridge proper. The route is 1300m vertical over rock (at first) and snow (for the last 800m or so). According to SummitPost and people I've spoken with, it's typical to take 8-9 hours to ascend, and another 3-4 to descend.

Point 1: At least three teams departed from the Whymper hut that night, including a Japanese pair with a guide, the Germans, and Freddy & I. We were definitely the last. Being last did not prevent us from immediately overtaking the Blitzkriegers, who were moving with not too much Blitz. We made good time, and I believe we passed everyone who had started from Whymper and not from the bivouac site on the ridge near the Castillo.

We climb up to the Castillo (more precisely, just above the Castillo) through a mixture of moraine-like crap, ice, snow and mud. In crampons. It's a delight, but we get on the ridge and start climbing.

Point 2: It's windy and cold as all hell. Now, you occasionally hear about hurricaine-force winds in different places like Florida, Louisiana, etc. If you follow the climbing world, you may hear about high winds on K2, for example. You rarely hear about really high winds on the North-West Ridge of Chimborazo. Guess what? They're there. I thought I was going to get picked up by the wind fairies and get thrown into the nearest active volcano (incidentally, Tungurahua, which is belching smoke about 8km from where I'm sitting and typing this). I've never experienced anything like this, but hey - that's part of the adventure. You can't expect fair weather, and to be fair I haven't had fair weather on any of the three alpine climbs I've done here thus far. Illiniza Norte had the cloud/fog/rain, Cotopaxi had the cloud/fog/rain/snow, and Chimborazo had no cloud, rain or snow - but ridiculous winds. Using my highly scientific tools, I estimate the wind to have been somewhere around 40-50 knots, and the temperature no warmer than -10C.

We climb on. I nearly lose one of my gloves to the wind and Freddy points out that it's very common to lose gloves and that he carries extras for that reason. 10 minutes later, we pass by the Japanese team from our camp (I only found out who it was once I got down), which is standing immobile with a woman clutching her hand. She lost her proper Gore-Tex glove and is wearing something wooly and otherwise inappropriate. Ordinarily, there is no easy out from this situation; it's cold & windy, and we've now been climbing for at least 3 hours. Exposed skin in this kind of environment does not stand much chance against the elements. Going higher is totally out of the question. And yet, if she turns back to camp, by the time she gets to warmth she may still suffer pretty severe frostbite. Freddy to the rescue: he has extra gloves. Phew! I'm not sure I've ever seen someone be as appreciative as this woman, and express it so mutedly...

It's worth noting that the first ascent of Annapurna, by Maurice Herzog and Louis Lachenal in 1950, had glove issues. Specifically, Herzog put his gloves down. They blew away. He lost all 10 fingers and 10 toes. If memory serves, Lachenal only lost his toes. Charming, eh?

We climb on. The snow is good. Unlike Cotopaxi, where we were climbing on largely high-angle wet snow, Chimborazo is in great shape. The snow has a nice crust ("neve") underneath which is large ice particles. It's very easy to make steps on this stuff, as long as you're not going over a snow bridge and your leg falls through - which happened a couple of times on the descend to my immediate concern. The angle is also friendlier than Cotopaxi, with fewer stretches of 45-degree hell on earth. The flip side is that the route is longer, but somehow doesn't feel that way.

At around 6:30 PM we reach the first summit, the so-called Ventemilla Summit at 6270m (this mountain has 5 individual summits). From here it's a traverse through a minor dip to the true summit, the Whymper Summit. As we head to the Whymper Summit, we cross paths with a team climbing ahead of us who topped out shortly before us. We summit at 7:05 AM, as the sun is rising and we can see some of the gorgeous peaks nearby: Cotopaxi, Cayambe, Antisana, the Illinizas, Sangay, El Altar... and clouds far below. The panorama is unbelieveable. Obligatory summit shots later.

We descend from the Whymper summit, by way of the Ventemilla summit and the route we took up (with a few shortcuts plainly visible in daylight). We see no one heading up as we are heading down, including the German team. They made it to 5500m, but obviously for whatever reason turned back. I can only suspect that it was the high winds that scared them off; not sure why, exactly, but that's my guess. There were two teams, totalling 5 climbers (2 of them guides) on top of Chimborazo today. I think another team made it to the Ventemilla summit, but turned back from there.

It's not a lot of fun to go down these snow fields, but at least now we can see them. When you climb at night behind a guide, you look at where you're going to put your feet and have no real concept of the route or the surrounding panorama. On the descent, you see everything. Man oh man was it ever a lot of snow - and some very steep parts, too! We eventually make it down to the early section of mud, scree, snow & ice that must be tackled in crampons, and what a joy it was all over again. Descending scree in crampons is unnerving at best. Descending scree covered with a small layer of snow, at a steep angle, is even less fun. However, there's no choice. I make it down to the Whymper hut at 10:20, a few minutes behind Freddy.

One snag: I left my trekking pole (my spare, given one of them broke on Illiniza Norte) hanging on a hook inside the Whymper hut on the correct hunch that I would not need it, nor want it. I come back, and it's gone. Why? Where? My suspicion is that the Germans mistakenly took it - they were all equipped with a pair each, and probably grabbed it by mistake in their hurried departure (they were gone by the time I came off the mountain). I don't think I'll ever see the pole again. Both Illiniza Norte and Chimborazo have taken one of my trekking poles, and if that's the price I have to pay for a safe and enjoyable climb, then so be it.

So, short of actually being there, this is the story. I have a new personal altitude record (6310m, topping the Stok Kangri record of 6137m as measured earlier this year). And I'm very, very tired.

After a bit of R&R at the Whymper hut, I picked up my transport and made my way to Baños, a touristy resort town near the active volcano Tungurahua, which was belching smoke as I was driving in. I can't see the volcano now, as it's obstructed by other mountains despite being only 8km away. I suppose it's comforting that there's something in the way in case this thing starts spewing lava or something...

I'm looking to spend the next few days here in Baños, returning to Quito either on Thursday or Friday, in time to go to Otavalo for the Saturday morning market - apparently the largest artisan market in Latin America. And on Sunday, the trip is over, just as I'm getting into it and finding out all kinds of cool places to visit and gorgeous mountains to climb.

The Nariz del Diablo train ride is meant to be one of Ecuador's big tourist attractions. I... fail to see why. But first things first, context.

I arrived in Riobamba yesterday, with a mission to find a hotel with reliable hot water and powerful shower, get cleaned up, write the Cotopaxi blog entry yesterday, and otherwise rest. I did all that, and here are some observations:

• Riobamba is actually quite ugly. Uglier than Quito by far - and Quito isn't pretty once you get past the old town and Gringolandia and move to the fringes.
  
• Riobamba also has lots of street food in the vicinity of the train station, which is precisely where I'm staying. This is in major contrast to Quito, which has minimal street food unless you count steel shelters selling soft drinks and packaged chips "street food"
• In my quest food a decent place to eat, I found a quiet restaurant around the corner from where I'm staying - and it serves sea bass in shrimp sauce for $8. Lets be serious: it would be a shame not to try it. And it was good.

This morning I dragged my arsche out of bed to get breakfast in time to catch the 7 AM Nariz del Diablo train. The notable thing about this train ride is a section that descends a very steep buttress of rock (hence the name - The Devil's Nose). The railroad was built somewhere around 1905, and getting up this particular section at the time was a marvel of engineering. Essentially, what happens is that the train goes across at a bit of an angle, stops, and reverses down another set of tracks to the next switchback. The attraction is, I suppose, seeing the train reverse down the hill. Oh, and the terrain is pretty spectacular.

I think the major attraction is the historical significance of the Nariz del Diablo. Constructing this secion allowed a railroad to connect the three major centres in the country, Quito, Guayquil and Cuenca. It crossed the barrier of the Andes! And, I suspect politically it was necessary for the unity of the country. Rails have a way of doing this.

The other big part of the tourist draw is the promise that you can ride on the roof of the train and get a bit of an adventure in. Unfortunately, the story goes that this past summer some deeply unfortunate Japanese girl encountered a garrotting incident involving her and an overhead wire of some type. They don't let passengers on the roof anymore, which saddens me immensely - especially given the particular car I was in had railings and seating on the top!

The train ride itself takes most of forever. We departed Riobamba at 7 AM, and arrived at an intermediate town, Aloasi, sometime after 11 AM. It is only after that point that you descend the Nariz del Diablo. The ride on the way had some stellar views of Chimborazo, sure, but it also had a few stops where one could load up on souveniers if one so desired. I would have preferred to take a helicopter to this town and just ride the train from there.

The train itself was Gringo Central. I don't think there was a single Ecuadorian local on the train, except for guides visiting their rich clients as they amble down the tracks. I saw an inordinate number of German or German-speaking individuals, in fact. I sat with a retired Swiss trio (definitely well-heeled, what with their hacienda-staying and private-guide-hiring and all that) and spent some time chatting with an amiable German fellow travelling with his sister... Lots of Germans, or if not Germans then Austrians and Swiss-Germans. Even on Cotopaxi yesterday, there were three Germans having a blast singing songs like "eine Bier, eine Schnapps, eine Bier, eine Schnapps" - my kind of crew, especially had they also added in "eine Calvados, eine Taylor Fladgate" - but I digress...

So. We ramble down the tracks. I spent most of the time on the outer platform - the rearmost part of my rear carriage, where you get some pretty cool views and can reach out with your camera and take shots of the train turning along the side of a cliff. Also, you have an unobstructed view behind the train. It's certainly very pretty. Moreover, you can see down the cliff to the next set of tracks (IE after the switch-back) and for a moment it's all very impressive. And then you realize that you're just on some silly train ride. Also, the prettiness of it all pales in comparison with, say, the Lugu Lake bus ride I went on last May (which was another pointless trip with a huge transportation component, but a lot more memorable).

We eventually made it down the Nariz del Diablo, two switchbacks & all, stopped to take some shots, and slow-hauled back up the Nariz and into Aloasi. Then, an interminable bus ride back to Riobamba, which brings me to the present.

It took the better part of 9 hours to check out this railroad. Was it worth going? Maybe - I needed a rest, regardless. Was it skippable? For sure. Would it have been better on the roof? No doubt in my mind, but how much better? The reality is that I'm spending a day in Riobamba anyway (as a jump-off spot for Chimborazo), this is the prime tourist attraction and there's nothing else to do here.

Tonight, I'm in Riobamba doing some more relaxing. The plan is to reunite with the people I met on the train earlier today and look for some guinea pig - a Riobamba specialty. Then, I need a good night's sleep since tomorrow I'm heading to Chimborazo for one more high-altitude strength-sapping climb. On Tuesday I descend to Baños, in the shadow of active Mt. Tingurahua, for hot springs and R&R. Not sure what the plan is for the remainder of the week - there was talk of going to Ingapirca (the biggest, and possibly only, Inca ruin site in Ecuador) but the distance may be too much for a day trip. I may stay around Baños and see what adventure I can organize in Sangay National Park (very close by).

Yes, yes, no actual summit but a near-summit. There's a good reason, so read on.

Background: Cotopaxi is a very pretty volcano in Ecuador, a perfect cone, and at 5897m it's also (if memory serves) the world's highest active volcano. "Active" is a strange term, mind you, since it actually hasn't erupted in decades Compared with Sangay, also in Ecuador, which has been erupting continuously for decades. Ahem.


Yesterday at 11, I was picked up from Patricio's to go and make an attempt on this mountain. My guide for this trip was Carlito, of Illiniza Norte fame, and more on him later. The logistics involve arriving at the Refugio Jose Ribas, at 4800m on Cotopaxi (basically a rather nice alpine hut) mid-afternoon. I would then have dinner at the hut and attempt to go to sleep at 7 PM, to wake up at midnight and set off at 1 AM. The ascent takes 6-8 hours, with another 2-3 hours to come back to Ribas.

The immediate question everyone asks is: why on earth would you climb this bloody thing at night? The reasons basically boil down to the temperature of the snow and lack of sunlight. This is a glaciated volcano! Unless you enjoy wallowing in wet snow in the beating sun, you don't want to be out there during the day. Also, cold snow is compact, stable, and is far less likely to avalanche - although this isn't a major worry on Cotopaxi (more on this later!)

The first snag is the weather. There are multiple considerations here. First of all, it's been raining and foggy in Quito for a few days. My Illiniza Norte climb ended up totally fogged-over. Cotopaxi is only about 100km from Quito, maybe less! Second of all, Cotopaxi is a big stand-alone mountain (as many volcanoes are wont to be) and therefore creates its own weather, making forecasting weather in the area a bit of a mug's game. You book your trip and roll the dice. Importantly, yesterday morning it was rainy, grey and miserable. This misery persisted into my late afternoon & early evening at Jose Ribas when it was in fact snowing on the mountain. Oh, and because of cloud cover I've yet to actually see this mountain in its entirety with my own eyes.

So there I am, at the refugio, noticing the crappy weather. A bit of snowfall is manageable, but if it turns to rain & freezes a snow climb turns into an ice climb, a whole different kind of animal. Fresh snow isn't exactly everyone's favourite, either; crampons work great in firmly packed snow and ice, but tend to be largely useless in powder. At this point I'm a little bit concerned. Carlito dismisses my concerns, with good reason: you don't know the conditions until you set foot on the mountain. It's entirely possible that it snows at Ribas, but doesn't anywhere higher up. Besides, the snow ended early and there was accumulation of maybe 3-4cm, no more - at least at Ribas.

At around 7 PM, I make an attempt at getting some rest, knowing full well that I won't be sleeping during normal resting hours of "night" and instead will be one of those lunatics who dress up in Gore-Tex (aside: my shell pants & jacket are both made of Gore-Tex knock-offs, but my gloves are the real thing!) and carry a bunch of metal claspy things ("Carabiner? What's that?") and ice axes (mine was at one point described by its manufacturer as "dead sexy") and pointy tooth things on their feet.

My plans to sleep for 5 hours, the equivalent of my Toronto sleep schedule far too often, was foiled by the following considerations:

• Temperature regulation, thank you -18C Marmot Never Summer sleeping bag (although I'd guess this more symptomatic of the other issues)
• Headache, thank you Acute Mountain Sickness brought on by an attempt to sleep at 4800m.
• Heartburn, also thank you Acute Mountain Sickness.
• Snoring, thank you Carlito, situated 1.5 meters away.
• Anxiety, thanks to the overwhelming reality of having to get up at midnight and try to get up a big pile of volcanic rock (covered in snow) shortly thereafter.
• Noise from the downstairs dinner & cooking area.

So, all in all, not really a restful 5 hours. In fact, I think I can count on one hand the number of minutes I may have slept in that timeframe. In any event, the magic hour comes, and after a midnight breakfast of cheese sandwiches and instant coffee, Carlito & I set off at 12:50 AM.

A word about the terrain. Cotopaxi is a steep glacier climb. The typical grade of the snow is somewhere in the 30-45 degree range. There are very few flat spots. And, on top of that, you've got an extra 2kg of metal on your feet and you're doing pretty well all of the climbing above 5000m. The going is slow & tough.

It may be helpful to describe one aspect of how climbing 30-45 degree snow in crampons often works. Typically, a group of people will follow a single line. The first person will kick in a step (this is the hardest job). The one behind them will use the same step, and in the process generally make it deeper, firmer and otherwise better. The third person improves on the 2nd, and so on.

Unfortunately for me, Carlito's crampon skills are shockingly weak! He'd literally mash existing steps into oblivion, and since I was roped in behind him (only two of us sharing the rope - but another team, and later two teams, climbing ahead of us) I had the enviable job of creating my own footholds on snow that has already been disturbed, compacted, and otherwise in bad shape. This is tiring work, I'm at 5000m and barely acclimatized, and finding this whole process difficult.

At around 3 AM, after we've been climbing for 2 hours and miraculously (given my regular stops for air) covered ~500 vertical meters of the total 1100 to go, Carlito suggests we turn back. I get incredulous. There's no way we're turning back after 2 hours when it's very common to take 8 hours to top out - and vertical-distance-wise we're nearly half-way there! I say something about not destroying steps, and going slowly - very slowly - but this is all lost on Carlito. I don't think he understood what I meant by "destrying steps", and I'm sure he doesn't know that "slowly" means "Alex at altitude slowly" and not "Carlito on his home turf slowly". And yes, I fully appreciate the irony of demanding someone walk uphill slower for my benefit...

We proceed in starts and frequent stops. I'm unhappy with the service I'm receiving, to put it mildly, and I suspect that Carlito just wants to go back to the refugio and sleep - the climb be damned. He gets paid either way.

We climb, and we climb, and climb some more. The weather has a tendency to suck, with intermittent fog and wind. Visibility close to zero. The snow slopes are never-ending, and since this is in the dark you don't even have any idea of what else is surrounding you on this mountain. Oh, and they're remarkably consistently steep. Carlito would say something like "only 30 minutes, then flat" and I'd find out an hour later that "flat" refers to a 5 metre section between two larger bits of steep. The legs are on fire. The lungs are not cooperative. It's tough going, and I'm paying for the pleasure.

Dawn starts to break. We pass by some seracs ("Uh, lets not linger here...") and end up on what appears to be the final snow field leading to the summit. It's even steeper than the usual steep. Carlito starts up, and this is when I realize something deeply shocking:

Carlito does not know how to effectively use his crampons. Specifically, he does not know how to front-point (a technique where you shove your foot into the snow, toe first, and grab it with the front points - pretty much the only way to climb steep snow & ice). This is a guide - inexperienced, but a guide nonetheless! He's certified by the local high-altitude mountain guiding body! I say "Hey, watch this" and demonstrate how front pointing is done, with a bit of explanation in simple english. He's flabbergasted at my ability to move up on steep snow without sliding backwards at every step. I think a lightbulb turns on somewhere.

We proceed up the snow, this time more effectively since he's no longer wasting energy on crapon technique not suited to what we're doing, and not destroying other people's previously-built steps. This warms my glacial heart. But it's still bloody steep, and goes on forever. We reach the final traverse to the summit, maybe 100 vertical meters short. The traverse is steep, except you're going across the snow (hence "traverse") and not up it. Now, recall that there was accumulation the previous evening. This snow is loose! I take a few steps. The snow isn't stable. I'm not able to pound down a solid step without watching snow collapse all around it. I take a few more steps and start to get nervous.

I get a sinking feeling. Time to man up and make the call to not go across any further. The snow felt like it was about to collapse, with me on it, and send the both of us down to whatever lay at the bottom of that slope (turns out a big crevasse - fun!). I said "we can't stay on this slope, or cross it later" - later, the sun would probably metamorph the snow into a couple of different layers, which could cause a mini-avalanche, or otherwise cause consternation. Carlito objects - the summit is 30 minutes away, he says. We both know that one of the three teams on the mountain turned back for similar reason, while another (with a very experienced guide) proceeded past this point to the summit. At this point I really don't care anymore (might be altitude-induced hypoxia, but the fact remains), and we turn around - at around 7 AM. This may be the first mature mountaineering decision I've had to make.

I'll also point out that on the way down I taught Carlito the descending-equivalent of front-pointing, aka the "heel plunge". And I taught him some skills that I barely have, and that he should have in spades, such as effectively coiling a rope to shorten it. So, why is it that I get the impression that this particular Toronto resident knows more about glacier travel than a guy whose job it is to take people safely up a glaciated peak?

I think the knowledge transfer made a big impression on Carlito, who instantly became friendly and agreeable - I was no longer some neophyte gringo, but instead some sort of higher-order mountain-gringo. The walk down was as pleasant as it could be given that going down the 30-45 degree snow isn't a lot more fun than going up it - it's punishing in a whole diffrent way. I did all the leading on the way down, and we even goofed around on a serac with hero poses (pictures coming).

Incidentally, later on I spoke about the snow conditions with another guide - the one who went to the summit with his client, and one far more knowledgeable and experienced than young Carlito. This guide's view was that this kind of snow characteristic in that particular area is very normal, and actually quite safe. I remain skeptical; I think it's a good idea to listen to the "oh shyte, you may be getting phucked" voice in your head.

Other than the rather punishing overnight climbing, the view from the higher slopes of Cotopaxi is unreal. Even though we never made the summit, the views from high up the mountain need to be seen to be believed. We're above the clouds! There are distant mountains showing themselves off, some of them with nasty lenticulars overhead. And the terrain on Cotopaxi itself is pretty spectacular when you're not seeing it through a headlight; intricate ice formations in the seracs, crevasses that could swallow a small house, etc. It's a mountain wonderland, it really is.

Another thing that irked me about Carlito was his suggestion yesterday that we have lunch somewhere after the climb. "Would it be possible?" is the actual question. Of course it's possible; it'd involve the driver as well, and it'd definitely involve me paying. Why is it that these people are so opportunistic about getting the gringo to pay for things? I'm already expected to pay for the driver's meal, and now this?

Anyway, I agreed - not much choice in the matter, really - and we went for a craptastic lunch today. When the bill comes, I cheerfully pointed out that where I come from, a person who suggests lunch is frequently expected to pay. This isn't exactly true, of course, but I was making a point! Therefore, the argument goes, Carlito should pay. If the man could have turned red in the face, I think he would have.

Despite all the above, I still really enjoyed the experience on Cotopaxi. It was never going to be easy; I'm not looking for a beach vacation. Given that I got within 100 meters of the summit, and that I climbed 98% of the mountain, not having seen the crater isn't bothering me all that much. As far as I'm concerned, I still climbed Cotopaxi, summit or no summit. And I'll point out that to this day, climbers on Kangchenjunga (3rd highest in the world) do not step on the actual summit to observe local religious views...

Right now I'm in Riobamba, solely for the purpose of taking the Nariz del Diablo train tomorrow morning - apparently a wonder of engineering. It's a 7 AM start and takes most of the day. On Monday, I'm going for my 3rd (and looks like final) climb in Ecuador for the time being - Chimborazo. Similar routine to the Cotopaxi climb (stupid-early start), but this one is higher. And, needless I say, I'm also going with a different guide. After that I'll be visiting a spa town with many hot springs and finding new & exciting ways to unwind.