wine and volcanoes

part 2:  bitch-slapped


the bus rambles down the old incan cobblestone road, rattling resin fillings loose from my cranium.  i slide open the window, much to the horror of the other passengers, who are bundled up for the brutal 68 degrees outside. i lean out to feel the cool humid air in my mountain man beard, big stupid smile plastered all across my face, heart profoundly full of the happiness that only comes from complete physical exhaustion.  on my way back down from the summit of iliniza norte, back to the throbbing, copulating masses of syphilization.

really i'm just passing through town, on my way up the other side of the valley.  heading to a chill mountain hostel for a day of rest.  we reach the still city. our bus terminates in the trash-strewn streets of another concrete wasteland, called in the local dialect machachi.  

it's hard to blend in here as an extranjero, and i am quickly smothered with offers of transportation.

"meester!  taxi?! we go?"

i reflect back on my at-the-time-lucky-but-now-recognized-by-most-major-scholars-to-be-visionary decision to learn spanish.  this is where i have the edge.  i lay on some quick castellano, cutting off the ends and slurring it all together for them in true andalusian fashion.  the drivers are perplexed at this gringo in their midst que habla.  i expeditiously cut the ridiculous price quotes down to size and am soon on my way for 1/4 of the initial offer.

my driver is chatty, and only more so because of this common tongue we share.  we talk for most of the hour-long drive, about what it's like having been born in machachi and spending your entire life there.  i am intentionally vague about my travel history with him, attempting to conceal some of the disparity of economics and opportunity between us.  it's not fair that i've had an incredibly blessed and leisurely globe-jaunting life.  how can i explain that ecuador is the 47th country that i have visited to someone who hasn't left their hometown?

we reach the hostel. i unload my gear, strip down for a quick shower, and plop my tired bones into the jacuzzi, soaking in the unparalleled views:

the blue sky doesn't last long.  soon fog rolls in, and a soft mist begins to fall upon the fields of green.  it's rained every single day that i've been in country.  obviously i didn't do enough climate research beforehand.  i thought february was still a good month for climbing but rainy season has definitely commenced.  and what do i have to show for it?  3 summits in the rain and clouds, never once seeing a damn thing.  i stare across the vast plain towards a shrouded cotopaxi, feeling my veins filling with lust for her.  i beseech the spirit in the sky for just one clear morning.  an almost instantaneous response:  rain begins to fall.  hard.  

shit, i think.  if i'm going to be in the rain i may as well stay right here: soaking the nutsack in the jacuzzi and quaffing some icy cold brews.  reflecting back upon the day's climb up 16,818' iliniza norte, through the fog with fernando, my local guide.

why do men do these things? it makes absolutely no sense.  i recall thinking, as we were rappelling down the snow-filled summit couloir, in the clouds, next to the icy paso de muerte (step of death):

what in the hell am i doing up here?

i know that i'm not the first gap-toothed hairy beast to pose such questions:

“what, indeed, are the lasting rewards of mountaineering, or of any passionate enterprise? what is the balance between triumph and failure? what has it meant in the grand scheme of my life? what comes after it?”  -ed viesturs, first american to climb all fourteen 8,000+ meter peaks without supplemental oxygen

i stare again across the misty meadow, a few breaks in the clouds teasing and revealing the snow-white skirt of the next peak on my lust list: cotopaxi is a whole different animal.

the other mountains i've done here were just training climbs in preparation for this.  i look out, lecherous craving in my heart, at this monster's misty shrouded summit:

why, again, am i trying to do this?  an active volcano rising majestically to 19,347' above the salt seas, her siren call inspires reverence and humility.  i feel, deep down where i keep my guts, the normal pre-climb jitters: my asshole quivering like jello.

i try to distract myself.  be logical:  it's all just water, if you think about it.  from the gaseous wisps covering the hard packed ice; and that tiny speck of mostly-liquid saltwater trying to pull itself up to the highest point of all.  ridiculous.

i am not a conquerer.  i go to the mountains to have my ego conquered.  i always view these beasts with great respect.  i go to feel small.  to be squished back down to the squid-shit where i belong.  and any summit i attain is merely due to the peak's generosity of permitting me up that particular day.


******


the next day, fernando picks me up and we drive into the national park. park the truck.  truck it up to the refugio, drinking lots of tea and eating cookies in preparation for our 1 am summit bid.  my first look at the climax from the refuge isn't so bad:

however, this behemoth's immensity distorts all scale.  although it appears like you could reach out and pet it, the peak's zenith is still 6 hours and 3,600 vertical feet away.  it's going to be a long, cold, hypoxic slog up through the dark, winding around crevasses and route-finding our way across the gargantuan glacier.  

from here, the normal route climbs straight up scree to the base of the snows, then weaves its way up and down across snow bridges (requiring a few jumps across crevasses) before finally skirting the massive black rock wall yanasacha on the right side to gain the summit ridge.

walking around outside the refugio, i see a fox, which the locals say is actually a wolf.  apparently seeing one is a good omen.

i go to bed early but it's impossible to sleep.  mountain refuges everywhere, from nepal to mexico to france to ecuador, are always fully stocked with the most egotistical, oblivious, inconsiderate, and insufferable pricks anywhere:  mountain climbers.  they are constantly making noise all fucking night, packing, unpacking, and repacking bags, crumpling up plastic sacks, and wildly swinging headlamps directly into your face.  imagine that:  a headlamp points where your head points.  and you're looking at my face, you fucking idiot!  for the 10th fucking time!  i hope, for the future of the species, that your wiener is not so unwieldy. 

i try to block it all out of my mind, the crushing disappointment in humanity, the boiling rage, the paralyzing urge to murder, and close my eyes and go to a happy place in my warm mummy sack.  just as the last wave of novice packers finish their mind-numbing hunting and gathering, the first wave of climbers are already getting out of bed at 10:30 pm to make breakfast and start uphill.  i realize i won't get a single minute of sleep, even with the earplugs.  trying to meditate on the task at hand is difficult because i can't quite quench the ever-growing abhorrence for my revolting species.

finally, at 12:20 am, fernando comes to get me.  i am already up and dressing.  we swallow a couple cups of steaming hot tea and force down a few more stale cookies.  lace up the boots and head out, last ones gone.

it's fairly starry, but this won't matter if it doesn't stay clear for at least 6 more hours.  and the weather pattern has seen clouds moving in around sunrise nearly everyday. well, there's nothing further i can do about that now.  already called god on the sat phone to request clear skies.  as usual, no answer.  had to leave a message. 

we trudge uphill. after several brain-draining and physically sapping hours, having long since passed every other climber on the mountain, fernando plops down behind a snow berm and says to take a break.  he says we are making great time and are at a great altitude already.  if the weather holds we'll be on top before sunrise, no problemo.  

i ask the time.  it's 4:15 am.  after catching my hypoxic breath, the dim ophidian noggin begins to sharpen and take in other details of my surroundings that it was previously forced to ignore for want of oxygen.  i can see that the stars are gone, and we are surrounded by a mist.  not a good sign.  but, could be nothing. fernando, who has climbed this peak literally hundreds of times, seems unconcerned.  we press on as the darkness slowly lightens. 

finally done with the major crevasse navigation, we come around a corner, topping out on a ridge.  that's when it hits with its full force.  

a gale of blowing snow slams into us, two tiny saltwater climbers roped together.  we each take a sidestep to catch our balance above the steeply exposed slopes on the right, and hunker down at the scrimmage line into the wind.  an unarrested fall here would likely be fatal. a glorious and soaring plunge into the otherworldly crevasse, purging yourself of earthly cares, echoing into eternity from that sweetly-singing deep ice-blue grave.  

this instant blizzard has reduced visibility to 10 feet.  my asshole puckers again in sheer humility as the whipping wind quickly erases any tracks that we have left in the snow.  we find shelter about 100 feet farther up, huddled together behind a snow berm, waiting it out here at 18,400'.  catching our breath and asthmatically discussing our rapidly diminishing options. 

we concur that it's best to stay right here in the lee for a bit and see if things get better or worse. let our brains have more of those o's that legs and hearts have been hogging.  maybe then we can fully comprehend the situation at hand and take appropriate action.

i am reminded, with crushing bluntness, that cotopaxi, just like every other mountain on the planet, doesn't give a shit about me or my ambitions.  i feel alone and very small, deeply regretting pushing the weather so much.

after 20 minutes of blinding whiteouts and monsoon winds, fernando and i are both freezing cold in our down jackets.  we decide to go down slowly.

fernando's intimate knowledge of the mountain is apparent.  although there are no clues as to the route, he always knows just where to go.  left here, right there.  about 45 minutes of crevasse hopping later we get back down to where all the other groups have converged, waiting on us to come down out of the shit storm.

descending through 16,000', the blizzard slackens, then stops.  i look back up at the summit, which is still taking a beating.  and the weather in the distance doesn't look much better.  i have no doubt in my mind that we made the right call to turn around, despite being minutes from the top and feeling good. 

approaching the refuge, i see a guide for another group of clients who turned around long ago.  he is sitting in the snow, watching dawn begin to creep, drinking a cold pilsner beer.  it's almost 6:40 am.  he sees me and excitedly waves me over to share the beer.  we discuss in spanish what a bastard this mountain is and how we have both lived to climb another day. we decide that this merits congratulatory handshakes and hugs all around, and i get some pictures together with my new amigo.

back down in the thick air at 15,000', i feel sensibility and warmth slowly returning to the ol' bag of bones.  i acutely feel the twin disappointments of not summiting and not being elected pope in one day.  well, you can't win 'em all.  but the papacy, as well as this fucker, will be here another day.

on the hike back down to the truck, i think about ed's questions, but still don't have any solid answers.  i suppose that none of it really makes any sense at all.  and in the grand scheme, it probably doesn't mean anything either.

echoing in my ears, the words of another climber who died in an avalanche on annapurna shortly after muttering this phrase:

“mountains are not stadiums where i satisfy my ambition to achieve. they are the cathedrals where i practice my religion.”  -anatoli boukreev