By Andrea Hulser

I must be mad. Turning over the cold steel, spiked, bear-trap-like contraption in my thick impermeable mittens, I watch Fausto demonstrate how to attach this thing onto one of my moonboots. My moonboots are what I have christened the bulbous, plastic mountaineering boots which I am wearing along with these jaws-of-death crampons on the icy glacier near the base camp of Cotopaxi, Ecuador´s second highest peak and the highest active volcano on earth. At 15,748 ft (4,800m), I am learning for the first time how to use crampons, harness, and ice axe.

I steal another glance at the snowy path stretching upward into the clouds above us. The volcano looks so docile from this vantage point. I am worried that looks can be deceiving.

“You´re sure no technical experience is required?” I reiterate for the third time that I am a novice climber.

“Nada,” Fausto replies. “The biggest risk is altitude sickness. Drink lots of water tonight.”

“What percentage of people die on ascent? Just curious.”

“Very few. 13 climbers in a freak avalanche a few years ago. It is rare. Chica, you worry too much.”

“Perhaps, but what percentage make it to the top though?

“Depende. Tough to say.”

“Hmm. The odds aren´t stellar, huh? Do you think we´ll make it to the top?”

“Depende. Tough to say. Drink lots of water tonight.”

With this, Fausto finishes adjusting my crampons, snapping them to my moonboots with a flourish to assure me that they will not come off while on a steep ice face or over some neverending crevasse. A reverberating ominous metallic crunch as they click into place punctuates this thought.

Dear God. What AM I doing? I must be mad.

*****

Randy and I got it into our heads a few weeks ago that it would be a good idea to try to summit Cotopaxi, the second highest volcano in the Ecuadorian Andes which, at 19,643 ft (5,897m), allegedly offers a challenging but manageable climb without undue technical difficulty.

Upon arriving in Quito after five weeks of volunteer work in the cloud forest of northern Ecuador, Randy and I do some legwork into the climb and settle on a potential outfitter. We get all the information on the climb, and then leave to meet up with our British friends and fellow volunteer veterans, Amy and Rob, to give them the scoop. The best way to acclimatize is to gain altitude slowly; to climb high and sleep low. In order to maximize our odds at summitting, we decide on a 3-day, 2-night trip that enables us to do a preliminary acclimatization hike, sleep at the first refuge at 12,467ft (3,800m), and then climb further up to the base camp, and finally attempt the zenith on night two. We arrange to leave the next day at 8am.

Excitement courses through my veins. Never a thought to failure. Somehow it never occurs to me at this point that this will be difficult or painful. Perhaps I am not giving the mountain enough credit or respect. But in my mind, knowing remarkably little about this, I am utterly confident.

The drive up to Cotopaxi National Park the next morning in our rickety banana-colored bus takes 2 1/2 hours from Quito. In the hazy distance, the volcano looms remarkably larger than it has seemed before in photos. We pick up our guide, Fausto, on the outskirts of the capital. He is a friendly, compact man wearing a canary yellow North Face jacket and a cap of Chimborazo that a previous group of Italian climbers have given him as a gift after reaching the summit. He grins back at us, a large hollow space showing between his front two teeth, and asks us whether we have done any climbing before. Rob and Randy nod yes, once, while Amy and I admit that this is our first trip. Two one-timers and two never-beens. "Nuevos a la montaña, entonces" he says and tilts his head back and laughs. A big, hearty, gap-toothed laugh.

Not very reassuring.

The entrance to the park is beautiful, with introduced pine trees and llamas wandering all over the dry, scrubby land. We seem to have gained altitude very slowly, but the sign beside the thatch-roofed refuge reads 3,800 m (already 3,280ft, or 1,000m, higher than Quito). Perhaps it is psychosomatic, but the air feels thinner and more oxygen-stingy already as we step out into the biting wind and scurry into the lodge.

In the dining area, I discover a thin, full color brochure on Cotopaxi, complete with an entire page of detailed climbing information. Much more detailed than any I have seen before. Pictures too. This is when I start to get apprehensive.

I bring the book upstairs to share my consternation with my fellow climbers, convinced that they too have perhaps not fully understood the magnitude of what we are getting into. I point out the photos of the mountaineer taking a huge step (crampons blazing in full glory) over a deep, endless crevasse in the snow; the vertiginous trail winding up much-steeper-than-anticipated ice faces; the sheer drop into nothingness below the man hanging on to a cliff by mere ice axe.

“Oh my God,” Amy breathes.

“Bloody hell,” says Rob.

Good. Everybody else is duly scared now as well. My job is done. I read aloud the parts warning inexperienced climbers against attempting ascent (especially in August – November, when the winds are highest and most dangerous, and may I point out, today is August 29); the summit being 6,000 ft (1,828m) higher than Everest if measured from the core of the earth; the fact that this is the highest active volcano on earth.

“Active?” Amy asks.

“Bloody hell,” says Rob.

“I must be mad,” I say.

Fausto comes in to find us looking a little deflated. "Vamos, chicos," he chimes. Oh Dear God.

Our five hour acclimatization hike takes us near the volcano Rumiñahui. It is a pleasant, well-paced trek over a rather sterile understory but with incredible views of the mountains and volcanoes rising in a colorful amphitheater all about us. Two majestic Andean condors soar gracefully in the thermals high above, black wings outstretched to catch the currents. From atop a high hill, we watch the unfolding colors and the condors and the clouds that slowly uncloak Cotopaxi in the distance. It is spectacular.

As the volcano comes into full view, we sit back to enjoy the late copper afternoon. The name Cotopaxi is derived from the native Quechua language, and can be interpreted in several ways: Headless Poncho or Neck of the Moon. Indeed, with the way the snow cloaks the mountain and dips down in the center at the crater, the image before us is of a headless being swathed in a brilliant purplish-pink poncho, under the shadow of the emerging moon. It is watching us. It is summing us up.

*****

On Saturday, we hike to the base camp refuge at 15,748 ft (4,800m), a difficult slog that ends finally in a bigger triumph than perhaps it should, given what lies ahead.

After a brief rest and some lunch, we head off toward the glacier to practice with our guide and new equipment. This is where I learn for the first time how to use crampons. I crunch about on the dirty snow with the pointy metal contraptions hooked to my hard-shelled boots, and thrill at the steadiness I feel despite the winds.

For the next two hours, we learn how to maintain balance on the snow, how to climb vertical faces, how to use our ice axe properly, and finally, how to perform safety stops on a steep face.

Once we are fairly confident of our new skills, we head back to the lodge for an early dinner and rest. It is 6:00pm and we will be waking at midnight along with the other hopefuls to begin the ascent by 1:00am. The climb must be started in the dark as the danger for avalanches is less at night when the snow is hardest; during the heat of the day the conditions are too soft and sloppy. It is imperative that we reach the “piedra negra”or black rock approximately 650 ft (200m) from the summit by at the latest 5:30am or be forced to turn back prematurely. From the black rock to the apex is the hardest part of the climb, and one needs a healthy store of energy, adrenaline, and time from there to reach the zenith.

Upstairs in the climber´s quarters, it is bustling with activity. All the beds are filled with sleeping bags and climbing gear, spilling over onto the hard wood floors. People of all nationalities and ages jabber excitedly in their various stages of readiness for the night. Some are unpacking, some – like us – are returning from dinner and getting ready for bed, some are already tucked securely into their sleeping bags and miraculously look asleep. It will be difficult amidst the din to get the much-needed rest, but I am exhausted, and hopeful sleep will eventually come without too much trouble. We say goodnight, and I whisper a little prayer to the Gods of Higher Altitude, then burrow deeper into my sleeping bag, determined to close out the world for the next few hours.

*****

The next thing I know, flashlights gleam all around me, people are shaking out of their sleeping bags, and the bunks are chaos once more. Crampons, ice axes, and carabiners clink together in metallic pings on the floor. Electricity and excitement course through the room. It is midnight, and the volcano outside awaits.

At 1:15am, we step out into the chilly night. It is 25 degrees Fahrenheit, with winds from the southeast at approximately 30 – 40 mph. Our headlamps are firmly fastened over balaclavas and under wool caps and hoods, our crampons secured to our packs, and ice axes firmly in hand.

The shy quarter moon tints the landscape an eerie bluish blush, and a billion stars shine overhead. I have never seen more shooting stars in a single sitting, and take this to be a lucky sign for our journey.

I climb second in line on the rocky path winding up to the glacier, following closely in Fausto´s footsteps. He cuts a geriatrically slow but steady zigzag pace through the gravel. It is tough to keep a foothold, and the wind keeps battering us back. But with these short steps, one foot literally trudging just in front of the other, we advance at a rate that doesn’t leave me breathless. With each step, my confidence level grows.

Then we hit the glacier. The first ice face is extremely steep, and we find ourselves using our new climbing techniques immediately. I kick in my toes, grinding the front spikes of the crampons into the slick blueish face, calves screaming from the unusual exertion as my lead leg strains to lift my body. My left leg follows, gripping the slope with all spikes as I have been taught. By the time we reach the top of this short segment five minutes later, my body is going into a mild state of paranoia and panic at the thought that this is actually characteristic of the terrain we will encounter over the next 8 to 10 hours of our lives. I feel I have had a rude awakening.

Nevertheless, we plow forward in a taut line – Fausto, then me, then Randy – connected by the rope linking our fates through the carabiner at each of our harnesses. It is definitely true that climbing is as much about mental determination and toughness as it is about physical stamina. Pushing all thoughts of pain and uncertainty to the far recesses of my mind, we advance. I can see the lights of other climbers above and below us in the distance; at somewhat regular intervals, we alternate with our friends and their guide and another group of three brightly-clad Australian mountaineers.

The snow underfoot has a remarkable range of textures and sounds that fascinate me, ranging from smooth mirror-like surfaces to ridged bands of fluted, feather-like scales, long icicle formations of glistening cerulean ribbon, and constellations of opaquely glowing ice shards that crunch like fresh peanut brittle. Flanking us at intervals are towering formations of deep sapphire ice that rise into the night like silent sentinels, bidding us passage forward. We tread carefully over narrow snow bridges that yawn down on either side into gaping crevasses of endless midnight. We do not pause near these fissures however. There is no screwing around here.

By 5:30 am we approach the fabled black rock and I ask Fausto whether he thinks we are going to make it. He looks at me very seriously and says that that is not a question he can answer. It is for us to say. The hardest section is still to come. Can we do it?

I pause for a long minute. The pain seeping through my entire body combines with a fear of the unknown, welling up inside in a paralyzingly lethal concoction. But I push it away. Of course we will continue.

The last face is every bit as vertical and treacherous as promised; with a pitch of approximately 40 degrees, it is steeper than any we have encountered thus far. I thrust my axe into the ice to secure my grip, arms trembling from exhaustion, then force my crampons into the slope in a hypnotic trance, focused always on the ever-narrowing gap to that place where the vertical disappears. We are tired but dogged, and have just enough energy to vaguely be disappointed at ceding the lead in the last 15 minutes to the group of Australian climbers with whom we have been leapfrogging the whole way up. It is ironic, I think in between heavy breaths. We have been worried whether we will make the summit at all, and now that it is in our reach, we are miffed at losing a title we were never shooting for - first to the top! All thought evaporates as the pungent smell of sulfur hits me head on and the ice face before us falls away into a lightly dipping snow bowl of rose colored dawn. Fausto smiles broadly his gap-toothed smile and extends his hand. “Felicidades, chicos,” he says. “Ya han llegado.”

Five minutes later, Rob and Amy emerge over the crest and crawl on hands and knees onto the narrow band of flatland. We can barely speak, but elation is ours. After five hours and ten minutes, we have all made the summit. We can see the huge gaping crater at our feet, smell the sulfur spume, watch the golden-pink lights of daybreak tint scarlet the wispy clouds, see in the distance the shadow of Chimborazo and the impressive mushroom cloud of ash emanating from the erupting volcano Tungurahua. We have reached the top of the world.

*****

Hours later, back at the refuge, we learn that all through the night, disappointed climbers in a steady stream have returned from failed attempts. Only about 10 of the 40 or so hopefuls actually summitted that night. As we sip hot tea and munch on crackers and cheese, exhausted and barely able to raise the crackers to our mouths, we wait for our ride to take us back to Quito. Fausto remarks that next on our list could be Chimborazo, at 20,702 ft (6,310 m), the highest volcano in Ecuador.

“Bloody hell,” says Rob. “Bloody hell.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Amy laughs.

“We could have been first though,” I whisper, and get crackers tossed at me in joking exasperation.

I have no particular aspirations to climb the technically difficult Chimborazo. But all too quickly my body forgets the pain and luxuriates in our summit, allowing even the slightest sliver of ambition to slice through my rational veneer.

Never say never, I think.



And then: I must be mad.