The Road to Iliniza Norte

April 4, 2007 Nothing can really go wrong after a breakfast like the one we had with Rodriguez. After our morning feast, our host drove us to an empty trailhead in the misty páramo. We began hiking, and within minutes a solitary Andean fox, or lobo de páramo, crossed our path and disappeared into the brush. A few minutes later he reappeared and watched us as we made our way up the rutted dirt road that served as the trail. The lower section of the park - maybe around 4,000 meters altitude (about 13,125 feet) - is used to raise bulls for the ring, and as we climbed we passed a few trucks, and several bulls and calves calmly chewing their cud.

We took regular breaks as the trail steepened, needing every opportunity to hoard oxygen as the air became thinner. We saw few other people on the trail - one group of Europeans descending with a guide, and three teenage boys on horseback on their way to check on the refugio. When we arrived after a few hours of hiking (and just as the rain started to fall), the boys were there, sweeping, mopping, and washing dishes.

Inside the one room hut were several bunk beds, stacked three and four high and holding bare mattresses, dingy and sagging. A row of hooks graced the wall. A kitchen alcove held gas burners, a sink with real running water, and an assortment of dented pots and pans and beat up plastic dinnerware. A fiberboard counter separated the kitchen from the sleeping area, and a single shelf along one of the walls was lined with stools, providing a place to eat. Stored in the kitchen cupboards was a bag of rotten fruit, an open sack of dried pasta, and an assortment of tea.

We hung our wet jackets, laid out our sleeping bags, and crawled in, hoping to warm up before lunch. We were practically snoring as the caretakers prepared to leave. They collected our park fees and handed us a damp box of matches, wishing us luck. Neither of us stirred again until almost 5:00 p.m., when the rain finally stopped and TP rose to asses our surroundings. When I could finally be coaxed out of my cocoon (even by the equator, it´s cold at 4,600 meters) we went to investigate the area, searching for the nearby crater lake. After a 15 minute traverse, we realized we'd missed lunch and returned to the hut for sustenance.

Down to our last 4 matches, we finally lit the stove and heated our dinner and water for tea. A container of pasta, designated for our evening meal, sat untouched and forgotten in Rodriguez's refrigerator while we made do with canned pork and beans and a pile of cornbread from the market in Latacunga. Fed and watered, we were back in our sleeping bags by 8:00 p.m.