Caressing the moon´s neck

I finally decided to go ahead and drop $200 on a guided hike up Volcan Cotopaxi. Though a substantial hunk of my travel funds, to hell with it! No more hemming and hawing. This is big. Buy the ticket; take the ride.
At 5897m (19,347ft), Cotopaxi (meaning Moon´s neck in Quechua) is one of the highest active volcanoes in the world. Apparently its most recent eruption was in 1940.
At the tour office, after watching my stack of 20s disappear into a cashbox, we sort through rental gear, trying on boots, jackets, crampons, snowpants, et cetera mountain gear.
I´m joined by a couple from Holland and two guides, Joaquin and Juan Carlos. We hop in a rickety gas-reeking truck and head out north from Latacunga.
The park is a protected area, but mining companies have gotten around that pretty easily, as Joaquin points out. The soil is dark brown--almost black--and nourishes a thick variegated green carpet--except where more companies have planted pine trees for export to Chinese paper factories. What a world.
Other than the pines, we see cacti, agave, spiky grasses, and hundreds of other plants whose names are unknown to me. Not much fauna, though. Supposedly a few endangered condors make their home here, but we see none.
The road cuts through the volcanic sediment, which is very pretty. Lucky, because clouds obscure the cone, so at least we have something to look at over the rough road.
We get to the main park office to pay. I catch a glimpse of some indigenous women selling clothes. I hop out. How could I resist the opportunity to haggle for an alpaca-wool zip-up hoodie?
The truck labors up to the parking area from where we´ll hike a steep 200 meters to the refuge where we´ll eat, sleep, and then begin the true ascent.
A biting wind souses us with sleet in the parking lot as we struggle into the rest of our gear. Welcome to alpine activity!
Heavy boots with crampon tabs bang the shins and try to gobble socks. Gaiters protect pantlegs from snow. Tucked into the boots, thermal pants under waterproof snowpants. Three shirts (thermal, fleece, alpaca) stuff my pink jacket--hombres ciertos llevan la rosa!--whose pockets hold liner gloves and heavy-duty mittens. My already overheated head is hidden under a hat and two hoods. Hanging over my chest, a pair of sturdy sunglasses. The real gear, crampons and an ice axe, are strapped to my pack along with my sleeping bag and water bottle.
Geared up and good to go.
The ground rises up, heavy sandy gravel. Walking on it reminds me of the dunes back home: walk three steps, slide back two. At some point while watching my feet plodding along left right left right, I pass the cloud into the sun. Blood pounds in my ears, lungs wonder why I´ve given them such thin material to work with.
I stop now and then to take photos and check my progress (but really to catch my breath).
This is a strange landform. It´s more or less flat all around, and then BAM a volcano. None of the gradually ascending foothills I´m used to in continental-rift mountain ranges. The valley below is a deep mottled green. Beautiful.
Plodding, trudging, side-stepping, v-stepping. Ragged breath from my lowland lungs.
Juan Carlos trots past me, and of course, I try to pick up my pace--but to no avail. My blood is languid and sluggish. He soon disappears into the refuge--a yellow-roofed building with smiling windows and a welcoming patio.
Just a few more meters!
Plodding, trudging, side-stepping, v-stepping.
Finally inside. Warmth, rest. Foggy breath and people in winter garb playing cards and telling stories in several languages. Guides in the kitchen preparing food. Homey wooden tables, and a scuffed floor of pine planks. Bright windows and dozens of bunkbeds upstairs.
Outside on the patio, a beautiful view--when not obscured by cloudbanks--of the valley below and the snowcapped cone above. Doesn´t look too hard from here...
Atop the world, and not even there yet.
Back inside for the sweet relief of hot tea, crackers, and spinach soup. My body starts to get used to the altitude as the Dutch couple and I discuss higher education.
After lunch I move around the cabin snapping pictures and feeling very much the tourist--but fuck it: we´re all tourists here.
Naptime.
Can´t sleep.
A spaghetti dinner at six and some instructions in mixed English/Spanish from our guides. The gist: always listen to the guides, and the summit is not the most important aspect of this trip (bullshit!). I nod in agreement and ask very specific questions in spanish.
The sun heads toward retirement, silhouetting enormous purple anvil clouds in the west.
Naptime.
Too excited to sleep!
Eleven p.m. wakeup comes all too soon.
Out of the cozy sleeping bag and into the rented gear! Time to go.
The stars overhead are glorious, swaddled by the MilkyWay. I´ve already seen a shooting star. Not as cold as expected, but I´m grateful for the new alpaca.
Crampons and ice axes in hand, we start up the path toward the snow. Slow going--I long for the bite of crampons in ice.
Finally, the real fun begins. By headlamplight, we strap on our bootblades and scurry up the mountain. Lovely going--fresh legs; delighted demeanor. The snow sparkles like the sugar I scooped into my insta-coffee.
A quick lesson on self-arrest techniques before tying in, I with Juan Carlos, and the Dutch couple with Joaquin. The snow crunches; the stars twinkle. Mars watches our progress over the peak which is visible only as a space devoid of stars.
I´m loving every step.
This is dangerous--not because it´s unsafe, but because I´m quickly realizing that I could be enamored of mountaineering.
JC and I take the lead, stopping (and resting!) every so often to let the others catch up.
I prefer to hike sans headlight, but when JC notices, he scolds me and makes me turn it on. The stars vanish.
A storm rolls over us, blowing sharp snow and coating us with rime. We hunker in a hole and the guides bring up the possibility of turning back due to weather.
NO!
"My vote," I calmly announce, "would be to continue on, but you guys are the experts, and we´ll defer to your judgement."
But goddamnit I didn´t spend a tenth of my budget to almost summit Cotopaxi!
After a solid rest, we climb out and brave the blustery winds, ice axes at the ready and crampons kicking firm.
Turns out we have chosen wisely: the storm blows over, revealing the stars once again.
Oh my god is that...? Is it...? Really...? Yes.
When you see the Southern Cross for the first time...!
Then it´s driven from my mind by the steepest section yet. By this time I´m getting tired. Juan Carlos takes my ice axe as we wait for the others, and pounds it into the snow up to the hilt. Then he hooks me to it with an anchor and begins climbing a vertical section of about 30 meters of frozen snow.
I sit and rest, banging my hands together to get the blood flowing again. Everyone else ascends the fixed line between JC´s anchor above and mine below, and I´m left alone to watch the stars. Down below, the distant lights of Quito look like a lake of lava.
Then it´s my turn.
I expect a tight belay as I hack my way up the face, truly ice climbing! but the rope is a slack loop below me. I´m essentially free climbing ice...
Sweet!
At the top, warm and exhilarated, I hear Juan Carlos say in English, "Twenty meters more."
"Mentiras!" I scold. There must be more than that.
We slog up the final slope as the eastern horizon glows with the rosy promise of dawn. It´s a strenuous twenty meters (more like sixty--crosslingual numbers are difficult) but finally!
We´ve made it.
Hugs all around once the others reach us, and we greet the sun while keeping a weather eye on an approaching cloudbank.
No time to rest atop the world: gotta get down before the snow blows in earnest.
An uneventful and horribly exhausting descent, and home for hot showers and soft hostel beds.
Vale la pena? Claro!



for pictures see: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=48930043&id=2205691#/album.php?aid=2579641&id=2205691