Climbing Cotopaxi

A few days ago, we had a letter from some clients for whom we’d arranged a trip in Ecuador. Part of their trip was to spend a number of days in and around Quito, doing a number of treks (which become gradually more challenging), culminating in an ascent of Cotopaxi – at 5897m not Ecuador’s highest volcano, nor even its closest to the equatorial line, but unquestionably the most beautifully formed. A perfect cone, permanently snowcapped, and still active. A volcano’s volcano.

These clients had written to say that they felt we hadn’t adequately prepared them for the climb. And they would have liked to have spoken to someone who’d actually done it. For whatever reason, they didn’t get to speak to me. Even if I’m not in the office, I’m usually no more than a phone call away, and even when I’m in South America, email and skype make distances disappear. I’m sorry we got it wrong – especially since I could definitely have given them some insights.

Plenty of ordinary people have climbed Cotopaxi, people who don’t strike you as being mountaineers or super-fit. However, if you’re going to go out from UK and climb it as part of a two- week trip, you need to be prepared.

Determined (goes without saying really), fit (ditto), and prepared.

Prepared is partly to do with kit, and partly to do with the person. All the people I know who’ve done it either live in Ecuador, or have lived for some months at altitude. Quito is some 2800m above sea level. That’s twice as high as Ben Nevis – but only half as high as Cotopaxi.

Acclimatisation is crucial, the longer the better. You need not only to get your body used to the lack of oxygen in the air, but also to doing, at altitude, an activity which you might not usually classify as strenuous. In the UK, I can cycle along quite happily on the flat for a couple of hours or more at 18mph. When I tried it at 2800m altitude (still on the flat, in northern Chile) I averaged 12mph.

Normally, when we sell a client a trip which involves Cotopaxi, we include several days’ hiking, which gets progressively more challenging, in the lead up to the climb itself. When I did it myself, I had 3 days in Quito just walking about at a trade show, and then went straight into it. Big mistake.

Firstly, I didn’t really have the right equipment. My winter cycling gloves weren’t good enough; my windproof “Buffalo” undershirt was fine as a base layer, but the semi-waterproof anorak I had was woefully inadequate. I should have had a heavy duty, breathable, padded warm mountain jacket. My socks were fine for my Zamberlan trekking boots, but nowhere near enough for the sort of temperatures I’d encounter at night, at 5,500 metres, in a howling wind. I had a head torch with me, but the batteries were clearly the ones in the ad where the bunny stopped drumming first. So were the replacements. They don’t like cold either, and it was definitely cold. I had a silk balaclava and an alpaca wool hat. At least my head and ears were warm.

On the big day, we drove to the Cotopaxi National park and had a decent meal at the restaurant at the entrance. I didn’t realise at this point that I should have been loading up on both protein and slow-release carbohydrate as well as fluid, or I’d have eaten and drunk more.

We continued on by car to the car park at 4500m, and arrived at about 2pm. Here I donned the heavy duty mountain boots I’d been provided with, and the proper mountain jacket I’d persuaded them to lend me. It took me and my guide about an hour, with a full pack on my back, to trudge up the ash and cinder track to the Refuge hut at 4800m. (My guide, incidentally, was excellent in all respects.) I managed this fairly easily, and was encouraged to think I’d managed 1000ft without exhausting myself, and knowing that from now on I’d only have to carry a small day-pack with my crampons and water.

After a snack in the cafeteria in the Refuge, we followed the contours round to an ice-field, where I was to have instruction in how to put the crampons on, and how to use the ice-pick. The ice-pick, whilst useful when scaling steep bits, is most important in stopping a slide. There are very few places on the climb where you might “fall off” – there’s no rock climbing; but just sliding down the slope if you miss your footing is a possibility, and you need to know how to halt the slide as quickly as possible.

I also learned how to fit the crampons and do up the straps. Well, how difficult can that be?

Back to the Refuge for an evening meal. This proved to be a fairly meagre affair. A bit of rice and a well-cooked chicken wing, followed by a dish of blancmange. I could have (should have) supplemented it with a few small packets of biscuits. So, a few hours away from the most challenging physical exertion in my life, I didn’t eat enough. Fuel starvation.

The idea is that because the ice and snow are at their most stable at night and in the morning, you climb at night (helps keep you warm too) and descend in the morning, arriving back at lunchtime or before.

The downside of this of course is that you’re doing an energy-sapping climb at a time when your body is expecting to be asleep. And unless you usually go to bed at 8pm, you’re trying to sleep at a time when you’re usually awake.

The Refuge itself is a two-storey wooden building; downstairs is the kitchen and Youth-hostel type cafeteria; upstairs there are metal bunks to accommodate, I’d guess, about 50 people. Bring your own sleeping bag – three seasons’ warmth at least. There were about a dozen of us on the “night” I was there. Wooden floor, and, as I remember, no heating. The toilet block is outside, about 30 metres from the back door.

What happens is that every half hour or so, someone gets up to go to the toilet. The bunks creak; heavy mountain boots clump over the wooden floor, clump down the wooden stairs – and clump back a few minutes later. Ear plugs might have helped me get more than a few minutes’ snatched sleep.

Set off at 12.30am. I’d guess that the incline is about 450 - but the snow-dusted zig-zag cinder path that starts just behind the toilet block reduces the steepness to manageable. Trudge up carrying small daypack with drinks, snack bars, aspirin (headaches common) and after about an hour, maybe more, reach the permanent snow-line – I’d guess at about 4950m [In 2010 I’m told the permanent snow line is at 5050m].

This is where you put on your crampons. This took me about 20 minutes, or so it seemed. This is the point where the realisation began to dawn that I wasn’t firing on all cylinders - even allowing for the fact that, gloves off, my fingers quickly got so cold that I couldn’t feel them. I couldn’t work out how to thread the straps through the buckles, or where they went next. I finally managed it as the replacement set of batteries for the head-torch gave up the ghost.

Onward and upward. At least I’d had a rest. There’s a fairly well defined path, and I could see the headlamps of the other 10 climbers ahead or behind of me – mostly ahead. The climbing’s steeper now, picking my way up over ice falls or through snow gullies. After another hour of fairly steady going, my guide encouraging me - “we’re making good time; you can do this” - we’d reached 5050m, (the guide’s estimation – nobody had a GPS or altimeter) and my brain was agile enough to calculate that I had another 850m of altitude to go. The gradient apparently gets gentler towards the top (I never found out) but that was still 8 hours’ climbing. Each step was a fraction more difficult than the last, and was not helped by the nagging doubt I’d had for an hour about being fully in control of my limbs and senses.

This was the moment when I knew I wasn’t going to make it. My guide suggested I take more frequent rests, have something to eat and drink, and that this was often the point where successful climbers become most dispirited. But I knew I wouldn’t make it. I might manage another 200 or even 400m, but I wouldn’t make it. I turned back, my guide with me.

I was the first to do so. Of the 11 that started (excluding guides) 6 turned back, and 5 made it. I can make excuses: I was twice the age of any of the others; I hadn’t slept; I hadn’t eaten enough; I wasn’t acclimatised; I needed better gloves and better batteries.

The truth is, I thought I could get through with just being fit and determined; and I couldn’t.

It was just too difficult.

Epilogue: I did this in October 2003, when I was 57. I’ve met a good few people who’re older than me who’ve done it, and climbed Chimborazo (6307m) too.

If I were to try it again, I’d make I was properly acclimatised. I’d take two head-torches – fiddling around changing batteries at sea level in daylight is bad enough. I’ll leave you to imagine what it’s like up there, in the dark.

And I’d make sure I’d read all the nutrition information that’s now available. What to eat beforehand, during, and in the recovery period on an undertaking like this. There are companies that specialise in these sorts of food supplements, but they’re probably not available in Ecuador.

Would I try again? I might – even though I failed, it was challenging and exhilarating.

And I think I could do it.