2000: Cotopaxi
When I was but thirteen or so
I went into a golden land
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Took me by the hand
Walter Turner 1889–1946
Altitude
As soon as the twelve of us started walking down the steps of the plane at Quito airport (2850m, 9350ft) we became conscious of the effort of breathing. At breakfast the next day another effect of altitude was revealed, when everyone started admitting how many times they had gone to the toilet in the night — five was the record. Over the next few days both symptoms got better, although with the altitude and jet-lag I felt falling-down tired for the first few evenings. Among their vast heap of drugs and medicines many people had brought Diamox but, although I quite liked the side-effect of tingling extremities, we followed advice and only took it when desperate. As we got higher the headaches started and any attempt at speed left us gasping. I found that a steady plod was fine, with lots of water and occasional painkillers, though after violently throwing up one morning I set a personal alcohol-free zone above 14000 ft.
Quito
We stayed in Quito for three days, being tourists in the magnificent old town which was celebrating the foundation of the city, taking idiotic pictures of each other with one foot each side of equator, climbing some local extinct volcanoes, getting to know each other, and starting to stack up the ‘ethnic goods’ to take home. Working out the money was easy: the Sucre having finally reached 25,000 to the dollar, Ecuador recently had to choose whether to start printing notes in exponential notation (scientific joke!) or give up, with the result that the US dollar is now their currency. Someone had brought about an inch of notes generously given to him by a previous visitor, which were now essentially worthless except for emergency toilet-paper. Then, as our first case of a serious bowel disorder just got into its stride, we were packed into our bus and off on the trek, the tension already building up between Gonzalo (our city guide who did not like trekking) and Gabriel (our climbing guide).
The Paramo
The Andes pass through Ecuador in two distinct mountain ranges with Quito lying in the valley between, known in the brochures as the Avenue of the Volcanoes. Our route took us down the eastern cordillera from Papallacta to Cotopaxi, in an environment known as the paramo. My guide book says ‘paramo weather is typically cold and wet’, and for the first two days we trudged along in almost constant rain, completely unable to see the increasingly impressive (so we were told) views. Our first camp was next to a bitterly-cold lake at 3600m,11800ft, formed from a lava flow that looked exactly as if it had constructed a massive grey dam. The next day it only rained once, but unfortunately for six hours without stop as we slogged through the mud and mist to the valley below Antisana, apparently a magnificent glaciered mountain. Our packed lunch was eaten standing up — it was like a wet weekend in Derbyshire, and for some bizarre reason I really enjoyed it. We reached the camp after passing a dead horse picked clean by condors, and then the sun came out and we could finally see the landscape of rolling hills interspersed with snow-covered peaks. We climbed a ridge and watched dark clouds surging towards Cotopaxi, rather daunting in front of the setting sun.
The next day we got to ride the ponies back to the foot of Antisana — I was led along on my beastly creature like a five-year old. As we walked higher the plants got lower, often packed densely in rounded protuberances with a similar geometry to corals: paramo has a unique highland ecology, but sadly I can remember nothing whatever of the excellent information provided by our guides. At 4.400m (14400 ft) the vegetation had given out and we were level with the glacier, which we were told is retreating at 10 metres a year. It was hard work, climbing in fine grey volcanic sand, and there was increasing anxiety of what another vertical mile might be like.
Kit and camping
Many of us followed the guides’ example and walked the first two days in wellington boots, which turned out to be surprisingly comfortable. So much for our expensive fashion parade of Berghaus, Lowe Alpine and Helly Hansen. We did treasure our ski-poles and waterproofs, and all the rest of our kit, food, tents, tables, chairs, gas cylinders and so on were piled onto ponies which rapidly overtook us each day. The cooks and horse-men were a constant delight and perpetually full of good humour, usually at our expense. We shared good two-man tents, all except one: he pondered aloud why nobody wanted to share with an 18-stone man with acute diarrhoea. His frequent visits to the toilet tent severely tested the stability of the luxurious folding seat, which also had to be strapped to a pony each day.
A detour
Grumpy landowners forced a detour to a bus and down to the valley again, where some welcomed the toilets at a petrol station — frankly I think it would have been more in the spirit of the trek to have squatted over a hole in the flower beds. Then everyone piled out of the bus at the prospect of guinea pig for lunch — a local delicacy that is presented with a large stick up its bottom, and then flattened out on a barbecue. Quite tasty, and served with an odd combination of chilli sauce and boiled potatoes, accompanied by predictable and tasteless comments about the stick.
The camp that night was by a cold but invigorating river, and everyone swam and shrieked like kids.
Guts
I know I have an obsession with my digestion, but it always lets me down and I was not the only one pleased to have Ciproxin to gobble at the first rumble of an unhappy gut, and so at festive meals in the mess tent, when the toasts to comrades and guides were flowing, I was happy to propose my toast to Bayer for saving me from hours of misery. We always sat around one long table, breath visible in the cold until the wonderful soup and packed bodies had built up a solid fug. I remember the fresh fish caught by hand, or stunned by stones, in a stream, strong brown bread, and gallons of tea — which doubled as hot water bottle and night drink.
Preparation for the ascent
Now we were properly acclimatised, we laid out our kit for inspection by Gabriel: double socks, rigid plastic boots, crampons, thermals, light layers, fleeces, waterproofs, double gloves, head-torches, balaclava, goggles, poles. The ice axes had been left behind in Quito by mistake. The standard arrangement is to drive to the refuge on Cotopaxi at 4800m (15700ft) which is just below the glacier level, try and get some sleep, and then start climbing in the middle of the night, with the idea of getting up, down, and off the glacier by 10am when the sun starts making it dangerous — an avalanche killed ten people around the refuge in 1996. Up to three people are roped behind each guide. That night we saw the lights of the refuge on the mountain, and in the morning sat in a row with binoculars watching that day’s climbers coming down. We were desperate for good weather.
The bus took us up as planned on a twisting and nerve-racking dirt road. A minor blizzard was blowing as we went through a slightly farcical crampon practice, which was fun but did not exactly fill us with reassurance. Even at this stage some of our party decided not to try for the summit, generously feeling that they might make it difficult for others. Then we had a meal and at 6pm climbed into our bunks, in three tiers and packed together without gaps like a mortuary. The laid-out kit, careful plans and anxious feeling of imminence gave a small taste of what it must have been like on June 5th 1944.
The ascent
Some of us managed to sleep, and were woken at 11.30 to find people moving quietly around, illuminated by head-torches, re-checking their kit and being helped on with their harnesses like toddlers getting dressed. Outside we whispered our relief at it being a perfect moonlit night, and watched an Andean wolf (really a kind of fox) scavenge unconcernedly around the sheds. We set off up the path to the glacier in tight formation at 1am, with the moon so bright that the torches were unnecessary. The lights of the towns in the valley mirrored the stars in the sky. There must have been about 25 people going up that night, and at 5100m (16700ft) we reached the snow and floundered around on a steep slope putting on crampons and getting sorted into teams behind guides — instructions were to keep the rope taut, go slowly, breathe out and step hard into the snow (around a foot deep after the blizzard). Then we started.
The ascent was a strange event, not just in terms of the effort and the environment, but also as a rather powerful sociological experience. I ended up climbing in four different teams, being passed between guides when they felt appropriate, including climbing with an entirely separate group whom I had never met before. I just got hitched onto their rope and off we went, in the dark, steadily plodding steeply on, watching and trying not to step on the rope travelling along in front. The guides carried aluminium bridges in sections but the route across the crevasses was marked and safe, although I was certainly frightened when rounding a very steep slope and looked down a long drop, the expanse of snow looking beautiful but threatening in the moonlight. I wished we had our ice-axes, although I would not have known what to do with one.
Finally I got re-attached to my original partner, a marathon-running lady even older than I am, and we slogged on and on. At 5.30 it started getting light and we still seemed a long way from the top and I was so anxious that we would have to give up. Our guide Juan said we had two hours of the most difficult bit to go, but that we would make it, and something just clicked and we were so happy because we both realised that in our slow steady way we were going to get there. That moment was, I think, better than actually getting to the top.
So on we went, in daylight now, having looked up briefly to witness a magnificent sunrise. He was right — the worst bit was at the end, with a slope of at least 60 degrees covered in thick powder snow up to our knees, around a threatening black rock face known as Yanasacha. We went up two steps at a time, stabbing our poles in the snow: breathe-stamp-breathe-stamp-stop. Ahead of us someone dropped a hat and it rolled down the apparently endless slope and disappeared. By now I was too tired and determined to be frightened. Eventually the slope became more gradual, the sun became blinding, and quickly we were at the top, hugging and crying and gasping at the view of the dark crater, the smoking sulphurous fumeroles of the volcano, and an astonishing view away down the Andes. It was 7.45am. The official altitude is (5897m, 19350ft), a few metres higher than Kilimanjaro, and my sunscreen had frozen (perhaps they don’t test it at sub-zero temperatures?). I managed after a struggle to light incense for Danny. We realised that our little team of two had been lucky in going up slowly and steadily, while the other 5 who got to the top had gone faster and suffered more.
The descent
After about 20 minutes at the top we raced down the mountain in new teams, stamping in the snow, sweating in the dazzling sun, and still trying to keep the ropes taut. We realised what beautiful scenery we had climbed through in the dark, but rushed on with brief photo stops. We were overtaking another team when I stepped off the marked path and dropped into a crevasse up to my armpits — I was too busy laughing to be worried and I think it was not a long fall, and I got dragged out by the rope like a sack of potatoes. We were down to the refuge in two hours. Great relief, a splitting headache, congratulations and soup dished out, but all I could think of was getting to bed.
And eventually, after a tortuous bus ride, we got to a graceful hacienda with clean sheets and a toilet that flushed. Heaven.
Of course, I have had to leave out all the best and libelous stories about my co-trekkers, but they should note that I have them all filed away for future reference. Thanks to all of them for being such a supportive and eccentric bunch. Our trip was arranged by Charity Challenge (www.charity-challenge.com), and the local organisers were Explorandes (www.explorandes.com). I was collecting money for the Karuna Trust (www.karuna.org).
