My First Summit AKA The Hardest Thing I’ve Ever Done

(Part I)

This is a story about a four day trek to summit Nevado del Tolima, the second tallest volcano in Colombia’s Parque Nacional Los Nevados. It is broken up into four parts. The first day is below.

The Fairytale Beginning

I haven’t seen too many horror flicks in my life but all the ones I’ve seen start off in a similar way: a group of people are going into the woods in a beautiful setting when something goes drastically wrong. This story is kind of the same.

The day starts at 9 AM when our guide Rodrigo shows up in a Jeep Willy at our hostel in Salento. Rodrigo, is about 5'7" with a compact climbers build and the kind of rugged, leathery face that you earn after 20 years of exposure to the elements. Brittany and I hop in the back as we begin the twenty minute drive from Salento to the Cocora Valley where our trek will begin.

Salento itself is one of the more beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Bucolic pastures and free roaming Holsteins fill a narrow valley bordered by rolling hills dotted with avocado groves and orchards. Beyond that lush jungle encroaches into the farmland amorphously through the hills up, down and sideways like a jerrymandered congressional district. The best way I can describe it is to picture Napa Valley or the setting of a John Steinbeck novel and then lift the whole thing up and place it inside the jungles of Vietnam. That’s Salento. Like nothing I’ve ever seen.

After 20 minutes in the Jeep marveling at what we are viewing, we arrive in the Cocora Valley and are treated to another stunning view — scattered throughout the pastures are Cocora’s iconic 200 foot wax palms that seem to touch the sky. We look at each other as if to say “Where are we? It’s like we’be been transported to Shangrala.

To summit the volcano we will climb nearly 10,000 vertical feet in three days starting at 7900 feet in Cocora and reaching above 17600 at the summit or roughly the same height as the base camp of Everest.

Today’s portion of the trek will actually be the largest climb, 4000+ vertical feet beginning at 7900 feet ending above 12000 over the course about 10 miles. We plan to do today’s hike as light as possible, just a day pack with food and about 4 liters of water.

At 9:20 we give our trekking gear and clothing to the vaqueros who will take it up to camp for us by horseback. At 9:30 we start.

The hike begins like any other normal hike we’ve ever done. For 45 minutes we walk along a dirt path enjoying the beautiful hills and the wax palms of the valley.

After 45 minutes, we leave the valley and enter the jungle. About ten minutes in, we hit a stream. We spot two couples decked out in running gear (leggings, dry fit tee shirts, bright colored running shoes, etc) trying to cross the river using stepping stones. They are getting all wet. It seems dumb. We take the bridge that is 20 feet away. They see us and follow. “Oh, there’s a bridge here and we can stay dry. Let’s do that.” I feel badly for them. They seem ill prepared for any hike they are going on, even if it’s just a 2 hour day hike.

Another 2.5 hours though the jungle and we reach a stopping point. It’s a little research station that also doubles as a hiker cabin where people can sleep overnight. We’re feeling a little winded from the altitude but generally good at this point.

We sit down on some steps and Rodrigo brings out two bowls of brown liquid. For a split second our hopes rise as we think maybe, just maybe, it's miso soup.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Agua Panella. It’s a traditional Colombian drink.”

“What’s in it?”

“It’s sugar water.”

“Oh, like Coca-Cola.”

“Yeah, I guess so, but healthier. It will give you energy”

I slurp mine down. It’s warm and delicious, sweet with notes of caramel and honey. Brittany doesn’t finish hers and I slurp the rest of hers down too because eating her leftovers is one of my top 5 life skills.

After about a 20 minute rest we leave. As I get up, I notice for the first time that my head is pounding — a headache from the altitude that would last for the next eight hours. This is where the fairytale ends and the nightmare begins.

About ten minutes after leaving camp, we cross another river. Brittany slips and her foot dips in. We stop and Rodrigo pulls outs two pairs of gaitors, pant coverings that extend from your below your knee to the tip of your boots.

“What are these?” I ask.

“They’ll keep your clothes from getting muddy and help keep your shoes a little bit drier. Trust me, you’re going to want them.”

Mud City

A few minutes later I understand why. We were about to enter Mud City. For the next three and a half hours we would walk up incredibly steep terrain through dark, thick mud*

*I use the term “mud” liberally. The trails we were climbing were multi-use and frequented by as many horses as humans. Deep down inside we knew what it was and days later we estimated that what we were actually walking in was a 70/30 mud to poop ratio. But on that treacherous first day we called it mud because calling it shit-mud would have been too devastating to our psyches.

With the mud, you basically had two choices. You could trod through the middle of the path where the mud was ankle deep and would suction your boot to the earth. Or you could walk along the sloped banks where the mud was thinner but more slippery and you risked not just getting your shoes covered in poop-mud, but slipping and falling down into the whole disgusting mess.

So pick your poison. Choose the lower risk option and you quickly drain your physical energy, lifting yourself out of the heavy mud with each step. Choose the higher risk option and you sap your mental and emotional energy, your mind constantly scanning to find the safest place to put each foot, your heart pounding in perpetual fear that you are one slip up away from falling face first into poop-mud city. For the most part, while our legs were still fresh and our spirits still high, we opted for the latter, trying to avoid the poop-mud as much as possible.

Saying that the mud was challenging would be the understatement of the century. The mud was devastating. Combined with the steepness of the climb and the thinning oxygen levels, it zapped all of our energy.

To put it in perspective, during one particularly steep and muddy section, it took us an hour to travel one-third of a mile.

I was later told by a fellow hiker that the entire first day trail is about 10 miles. You cover about two thirds of the distance in the first three hours by the time you get to that first stopping point where we had the sugar water. In the dry season, you can finish the final third of the trail in another 3–4 hours. But in the rainy season, the last third of the trail will take twice as long as the first two thirds. So at this point, you’re looking at an additional 7+ hours of steep, muddy and mostly uphill climbing.

The Moment You Know You’re Kinda Fucked

We had been planning to stop for lunch at 3 PM, two hours after we had reached the research station. But after an hour and a half of mud we needed a break. Dead tired, hungry and out of breath, we stopped at 2:30 for sandwiches and some rest. We asked Rodrigo how much further.

“Probably another two hours and we will reach the tree line where the jungle ends and it gets less muddy.”

When we heard this news our hearts sank. For the first time I begin to realize we were in a lot deeper than I had thought.

Two hours!!?? We thought to ourselves. Fuuuuuuuck!!!! This whole hike was advertised as 6–7 hours total. Another two hours would put us at 6.5 hours of hiking and we wouldn’t even be done yet. How much longer could it be? I was too scared to even ask.

If the mud didn’t kill us, the runaway horses would. Shortly after lunch, Rodrigo who is about 10 yards ahead of us, yells out:

“Etan!!! Get off the trail, now! Step to the side!!

Brittany and I move off the trail and about 10 seconds later two horses without riders come bounding down the trail, heads down, followed by the vaquero on horseback who had taken our gear to the top hours before. I’m glad Rodrigo was ahead of us. There’s nothing more embarrassing than getting killed by the horse carrying your luggage.

After the horses pass, we give one another a knowing look.

My friend Chad always used to tell me, when you are in a bad situation you can either laugh or you can cry. I thought about him in this moment and chose to laugh.

The next two hours were horrible. By 4:o0 as we were nearing the end of the jungle, we were straight up delirious.

After every particularly hard section, where it seemed like it couldn’t possibly get any harder, it inevitably it did. A steeper, muddier section would appear from around the corner and slap us in the face. We had no choice but to laugh. We had no idea how much longer this nightmare would last and crying now with so much distance still to cover would do us no good.

We are mentally and physically drained at this point.

“You think this is what basic training in the army must feel like?” I ask Brittany.

The Paramo

Around 4:30 PM after seven hours of hiking, we reach the tree line and enter into an ecosystem called the Paramo. The Paramo is alpine marshy area dominated by a plant that only grows in the Andes. The area reminded me of Joshua Tree National Park, if Joshua Tree wasn’t a desert but instead a wet marshy, swamp.

It’s a refreshing change and being out of the thickest deepest jungliest mud feels like a blessing. I can do this, I think to myself. We’re almost there.

After an hour of hiking through thick brush, the confidence I gained upon reaching the paramo begins to wain. When will this end? I want to stay positive because I know Brittany is feeling the same way. If I start panicking, it’s not going to help the situation.

I start to play mind tricks to keep a positive attitude. My goal is to spot five beautiful things in the next five minutes. I can only spot four, and one of them included Brittany.

The Shortcut

At 5 PM, Rodrigo gives us a choice. We can go the normal route or we can take a shortcut that is faster but steeper. We don’t think twice. We want this to end as soon as possible. We choose the shortcut.

“How much longer?” we ask.

“Maybe another two hours or so.”

I let out an audible sigh. It’s always another two hours. I begin to think no matter where on the mountain we were he would be telling us the same thing. I begin to lose faith in his answers.

After an hour of steep uphill hiking, we reach the top of a ridge. The wind is fierce and cuts right through you. Hands go numb. I put both trekking poles in one hand and put the other hand in my pocket. I switch off, alternating poles and pockets for the next hour.

Around 6:15 PM the sun falls below the horizon and darkness sets in. We hike in the dusk for about twenty minutes, Rodrigo charging ahead by about 20 yards. You would try to follow him with your eyes but at a certain point it got too dark and he was too far ahead. Our guide was nowhere to be seen. It was time to stop.

The Darkness

This is getting truly scary. We’ve never hiked in the dark before and we don’t trust him that this is ever going to end. There are too many unknowns to feel safe.

“Rodrigo!!!” I yell out. “Where are you? We need to stop!”

“I’m right here. It’s time to put on our headlamps,” he says.

The only problem is we don’t have any. We were expecting a 6–7 hour hike and never anticipated we’d be hiking in the dark nine hours after we started.

Rodrigo has one headlamp. The best Brittany and I can muster up are our cell phones which we were hoping to use to take pictures over the next four days. He gives his headlamp to Brittany and Rodrigo and I navigate using the cell phone flashlights.

By this time it is pitch black. Our nerves are frayed. We see a sign that says 5.3 KM.

5.3KM to what? I think to myself.

Brittany yells out to me, her voice an octave higher than normal, “Is it 5 kilometers to the end?”

“I don’t know,” I yell back and keep on walking.

Rodrigo had told us the last part would be downhill and we had about an hour left. I do some quick calculations in my head. Five KM equals about three miles. If we are going downhill, we could walk at a twenty minute per mile pace and cover three miles in an hour. I had no idea if we were three miles away still, but the idea of three more miles nearly put me over the edge. I wanted to give up.

I realized in this moment how powerless we were. Because we had hired a guide, we hadn’t done any research on the trails or the landmarks or what we should be looking for in the signposts. We were vulnerable, exposed and helpless. Dead tired and in pain, I came to realize that our safety was completely in the hands of a man we had met just eight hours before.

The End is Near

A short while later, we see a gate. “Is this the gate to the finca (farm)” I ask jokingly not getting my hopes up that we were at the finish line.

“Yes. This is it. But we still have a little ways to go.”

For a brief second, happiness overcomes my entire body. But it fades as quickly as it entered. I’m too jaded at this point to take it at face value. I know some new obstacle is waiting around the corner.

Very quickly we come upon our last obstacle. Once inside the first gate, we had a steep, muddy thirty minute walk over rocks, puddles, and slippery mud. Our legs were like jelly at this point and you couldn’t trust them fully to hold your entire weight. Several times, my legs buckled under me for a split second before I regained my balance. Other times they seemed to be disconnected from my brain stepping right when I told them to go left or stepping left when I told them to go right. The air was thin at 12,000 feet. It was hard to think. I still had the dull pain of the headache in the background that had lasted now for close to six hours. While uphill was harder, downhill in the dark of night, was far more dangerous. For the last 30 minutes, it felt like we were only one slip away from a broken ankle or a torn ACL.

The Finish Line

We are getting closer and we can feel it. Rodrigo points off towards the left and says, “down there, you can see the light of the finca.”

I can’t see shit. But for once in the last four hours I fully trust him. A few minutes later, I think I hear the neyying of a horse.

“Was that a horse?” I ask excitedly.

“No.”

My mind was playing tricks on me but I knew we were close.

A few minutes later I smell something unmistakable. Cow shit! I had never been so happy in my life to smell cow shit. This was our poop at the end of the tunnel.

It was 7:30 PM when we opened a second gate to enter the finca where we would be staying. Dead tired and with our emotional gas takes on empty, we follow Rodrigo into the kitchen where two Colombian women hand us hot cups of agua panella, the delicious sugar water drink we had seven hours before. It warms us up. We’re alive. Miserable but alive.

The Finca

While Rodrigo made the sleeping arrangements for us, we went into the gear room and sat down on the only empty bench we could find. An American probably in his late twenties is heating up some food over a camp stove. We begin talking to him and tell him of the ten hour nightmare we just suffered through.

“Oh yeah, I got in just a little before you. It was horrible. I’ve spent six weeks on the PCT [Pacific Coast Trail] and this was the single hardest day of hiking in my life.”

While we were on the trail, Brittany and I had begun to doubt ourselves. Were we just wimps? Were we mentally weak? We felt like losers. But as we started talking to other hikers, we began to feel better about ourselves. Everyone had the same story. It was universal. This was the shittiest hike anyone had ever done. While this didn’t physically make us feel any better, it helped mentally. Immediately I felt a common bond with the these other people who had all just gone through hell and back.

At dinner, we were almost too tired to eat but we decided to eat it knowing we probably burned 10,000–20,000 calories on the trail and needed to replenish our strength.

Now that I knew I was safe, my headache which had been hiding in the background for the last six hours behind aching legs, frozen fingers, and shallow lungs, came to the forefront with avengence. My head killed. I took a Tylenol PM and my anti-altitude sickness medicine and hopped into the dirty bed under a mound of blankets. It was 8:30 PM. I had to go to the bathroom but I was too tired to get up.

It was one of those times* where you ask your partner only half jokingly, “I don’t know if I can get up. Would you care if I just pee the bed”

*by “one of those times” I mean the only time

Too tired to respond with even a monosyllabic answer, a weak thumbs up might be the only response you get.

Okay. Lights out. Two minutes later I was sound asleep.

Reflection

The best way I can describe this hike is that it took you to your physical, mental, and emotional breaking point (about seven hours in) and then it held you there for another three hours.

I think this may have been the single hardest thing I’ve ever voluntarily chosen to do. In reflecting back on it over the last few days, I have thought about other hard things I have put myself through in my life: studying for the Bar exam sixteen hours a day for two months; the first two years of starting GiveForward working three jobs and fifteen hour days for almost no pay; running a marathon in a nylon banana costume in 85 degree weather.

Studying endless hours for the bar exam takes far more mental toughness than this hike did but it doesn’t really affect you emotionally or physically as much. Similarly, running a marathon in a banana costume in 85 degree weather took a bigger physical and mental toll on my body and mind, but there was little to no emotional aspect to it. The only thing I can think of that has been comparable physically, mentally and emotionally was the early years of starting GiveForward, but there, it was spread out over several years with tons of fun and extreme high points in between to balance out the grueling nature of the undertaking.

This single day of hiking was different. It was physically grueling, emotionally challenging and a pure mental mindfuck, all in a super-concentrated ten-hour nightmare.

The interesting thing to me is that if you asked me if I wanted to do the hike again today I would say, “sure no problem.” The third day of the trek was actually 40% longer than the first day (14 hours). The big difference was that by that point I knew exactly what to expect.

By far the thing that sucked the most about the hike and what made it so challenging physically and emotionally was the fact that expectations were not properly set at the beginning. Almost every hiker at the finca, including us, expected a 6–7 hour hike. And almost everyone there had taken about 10 hours to reach to reach the finca. For most of us, it was about 50% longer and 50% harder than what we had mentally prepared for.

For others, it was even worse. That one foursome that I mentioned in the beginning of this story who were all decked out in running clothes started their hike around 9:15 in the morning and would arrive at the finca at 11:30 PM, a fourteen hour nightmare that I can only assume ended in multiple divorces.

The problem was that all the literature about the hike only includes time estimates for the dry season when it actually does take 6–7 hours. We did the hike in the rainy season, but no one explains this to you and there is no asterisk anywhere noting this. We were a little peeved with our guide Rodrigo. He didn’t know how bad the conditions would be but once he knew he should have reset our expectations rather than leaving us in the dark (metaphorically speaking, even though he literally did leave us in the dark one time as well).

I think in trekking and in life, when you don’t know what’s around the next corner — when you don’t know when something difficult and painful is going to end, it scares the daylight out of you and everything seems like an uphill battle. But when you know what to expect, when you can see around the next bend, everything becomes much more manageable and enjoyable. It’s a lesson we won’t soon forget.