When I first arrived in Ecuador, I was convinced I was the least qualified climber in the group.
The other clients described trips to Alaska, Colorado, and even Nepal. Their climbing résumés sounded far more impressive than my own. When my turn came, I found myself describing a decade of climbing trips to the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Compared to Himalayan expeditions and Alaskan peaks, New Hampshire felt decidedly ordinary.
At least that’s what I thought at the time.
Looking back, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Getting to Ecuador had been an adventure in itself. Only months earlier I had been planning a trip to Colorado. Ecuador wasn’t even on the radar. Then a dispute over vacation time unexpectedly resulted in three weeks off and a plane ticket to South America. Suddenly I found myself flying through Miami on Thanksgiving Eve, wondering whether I had any business attempting twenty-thousand-foot volcanoes.
The flights were uneventful and surprisingly comfortable. Peter, another client on the trip, met me in Miami and we continued on to Quito together. By late evening we had passed through customs, collected our baggage, and settled into the Hotel Quito. After months of planning and preparation, it was difficult to believe the trip had finally begun.
Peter and I spent the next day exploring Quito before meeting the remainder of the team. The city was unlike anything I had experienced before. The altitude was noticeable, the architecture was fascinating, and everywhere I looked volcanoes dominated the horizon. The city seemed to offer a new surprise around every corner.
The following day we traveled north to Otavalo and visited the famous outdoor market. Within minutes I managed to sunburn the top of my head by forgetting my hat in the van. Apparently standing near the equator at altitude requires a bit more respect for the sun than I had been giving it. Fortunately the embarrassment was minor compared to the enjoyment of wandering through the market. Despite my limited Spanish, I found I actually enjoyed bargaining with merchants and exploring a culture entirely different from my own.
Our first acclimatization climb was Guagua Pichincha, the peak that periodically reminds the residents of Quito that they live beside an active volcano. Clouds concealed much of the crater, but the climb provided my first real exposure to high altitude. Reaching 4,698 meters established a new personal altitude record and gave me confidence that my acclimatization was proceeding reasonably well.
I was fortunate enough to visit Ecuador during Fiesta de Quito, the annual celebration of the city’s founding. Instead of spending the day touring cathedrals and museums, several of us decided to attend a bullfight. Although we had only a vague understanding of what was happening, we found the event fascinating. At the same time, it challenged our cultural assumptions in ways none of us expected. It was one of many moments during the trip when I found myself viewing familiar ideas from an unfamiliar perspective.
Soon enough, however, our attention shifted fully toward the mountains.
Our first major objective was Cayambe, Ecuador’s third-highest peak, at an elevation of 5,790 meters. Before attempting the summit, we spent a day on the glacier learning glacier travel and crevasse rescue techniques. For someone whose climbing experience had largely been confined to New England — Mt. Washington stands at 1,916.7 meters — the environment felt almost surreal. Huge crevasses and expansive glaciers were things I had previously encountered only in books and magazines.
Shortly after midnight we left the refuge and began climbing.
Nearly six hours after leaving the refuge, I stood on the summit of Cayambe at 5,790 meters (18,990 feet). The views stretched across the Andes toward other volcanoes that would soon become our next objectives. Standing on a glacier located directly on the Equator seemed wonderfully improbable for someone who had grown up in Ohio.
The summit was deeply satisfying, but what surprised me most was how comfortable I felt. For years I had assumed that climbing at altitude in the Andes would be vastly more difficult than anything I had experienced before. Instead, I found myself drawing on lessons learned during countless winter trips to New Hampshire. The altitude was new. The glaciers were new. The process was not.
Years of battling wind, ice, cold, and exhaustion in the White Mountains had taught me something valuable. They had taught me how to function when conditions were unpleasant. They had taught me how to keep moving when I was tired. They had taught me that discomfort and difficulty were often temporary.
In many ways, New Hampshire had been preparing me for Ecuador all along.
After a rest day at Hosteria La Cienega, we moved on to Cotopaxi. Reaching the refuge proved more difficult than expected. A storm prevented our vehicle from reaching the normal drop-off point, forcing us to carry our gear several additional miles uphill. By the time I reached the refuge I was exhausted and seriously questioning whether I would have enough energy left to climb the mountain.
Sleep proved elusive that evening. Between the altitude and the noise generated by other climbers, rest was in short supply. Once again, shortly before midnight we left the refuge and began climbing toward the summit.
This climb would be very different from Cayambe.
Our guide, Pepe, had climbed Cotopaxi so many times that he seemed bored with the standard route. Following a trench worn deep into the glacier by thousands of previous climbers apparently held little appeal for him. Instead, he proposed a steeper and considerably more demanding route. Shujen and I agreed, attracted by the opportunity to experience something different. The climbing was spectacular, but it came at a cost. By the time we reached the summit, Shujen had been pushed well beyond her limits. What concerned me most was not the route itself but the apparent lack of awareness regarding her condition. What began as an interesting alternative to the standard route gradually became an unnecessary ordeal.
The descent proved even more concerning. Shujen was exhausted, showing early signs of hypothermia, and stumbling repeatedly. Eventually I stopped the team, took her pack, and monitored her condition closely for the remainder of the descent. By the time we reached the refuge she was safe, but whatever admiration I might have had for Pepe’s technical abilities had largely evaporated. Yet despite the difficulties, we had reached the summit of Cotopaxi. Once again, the mountain reinforced a lesson I was slowly beginning to understand. Bigger mountains did not necessarily require different skills. They required the same skills applied for longer periods of time.
The final major objective was Chimborazo.
Of all the mountains in Ecuador, Chimborazo was the one I wanted most. Its summit is the point on Earth’s surface farthest from the planet’s center, and I had spent months imagining what it would be like to stand there.
The evening before our climb, I wandered alone above the refuge and watched the sunset.
Even now, more than two decades later, I struggle to describe what I experienced. The horizon curved visibly. The scale of the landscape was almost incomprehensible. The colors seemed impossibly vivid. As the sun slowly disappeared, I found myself thinking about the countless things back home that seemed so important at the time.
Standing there, thousands of feet above the valleys below, I arrived at a simple conclusion.
No es importante.
It’s not important.
Most of the things we worry about aren’t.
Early the following morning we left for the summit. The climb was difficult from the beginning. The glacier was steep, heavily sun-cupped, and physically exhausting. I wanted the summit badly and continued climbing long after I should have begun questioning whether it was realistic.
Eventually determination stopped being enough.
At approximately 18,000 feet I reached the point where I could no longer maintain a sustainable pace. Every few steps required another rest stop. Progress slowed to a crawl. Reluctantly, I accepted reality and turned around.
At the time, the decision felt devastating.
Today, I view it differently.
Mountaineering eventually teaches everyone the same lesson. Some days you reach the summit. Some days you don’t. What matters is making good decisions and coming home with the opportunity to climb another day.
Although I failed to reach the summit of Chimborazo, I never considered the trip a failure. Quite the opposite. I had climbed higher than I had ever imagined possible. I had stood on two major summits. I had traveled farther outside my comfort zone than ever before.
Before leaving Ohio, Ecuador had seemed far beyond my experience.
Afterward, I realized that the real preparation had occurred during the previous decade on frozen ridges in New Hampshire. The volcanoes were higher. The glaciers were new. The scenery was certainly more exotic. But the lessons that allowed me to function there had been learned much closer to home.
And that may have been the most valuable thing I brought home from Ecuador.
The next step had never been Ecuador. The next step had been believing I was capable of going there.