Saturday, December 01, 2007
Cotopaxi: near-SUMMIT
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:
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.
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.
# posted by Alex Perel @ 5:28 PM 
