Laguna del Quilotoa

September 10th, 2008.

Chugchilán to Laguna del Quilotoa: 5.11+ X II ***. This sustained climb to the massive volcanic crater lake town of Quilotoa is unmarked and rewards you with a view at every turn you make, whether it’s the right turn or not. Ask everyone you come across if you’re going the right way, and be very aware of dogs, especially in packs. Expect to take 4-6 hours. Traveling in groups with bigs sticks is best.

Luckily breakfast is included here at Mama Hilda’s hostel. We take full advantage of that fact and get up at 7:15am to do so. Showers still come first. We enjoy the fruit bowl, the coffee and hot chocolate options, and the biscuits with a half-wheel of cheese.

After a bit of grub we are asked by one of the people we dined with the night before if she and her possé can join us for the hike up to la Laguna del Quilotoa. We say sure and now there are a bunch of us trying to figure out how to get the trek started; we have directions after the first footbridge but thanks to Lonely Planet we don’t know how to get there. Eventually a man from the hostel says he will get someone to show us. So our new possé and we split ways to prepare for the intense hike. Alisa and I try to hurry in our packing and take the fast and light approach: no bags. We pocket the camera, three energy bars each, and a water bottle each. We put on our warmest coats for the trek, knowing that at times the sun will ask us to take it off.

Mama Hilda herself waved us goodbye. There are six of us now including the guide, if you will. One of us was handed a stick by the hostel owners for fending off dogs, which are supposed to be a potential problem at one point where we go onto the highway. Highway equals single lane unpaved road used most. The guide shows us where to go and hikes with us for a bunch. He seems young, but it’s hard to tell; As of now I have no gauge with which to decipher age. He tells me that he can do the trip up to Quilotoa in 1.5 hours, and back in an hour. Since he’s been friendly and helpful, we each give him a dollar, all dollar coins. An aside: I do enjoy having coins for one dollar and for fifty cents. Larger coins are harder to misplace and feel more substantial, too.

So we have practically concluded the first part of the journey: the descent. Luckily for this, I am armed with my D’ascent shoes by 5.10. They’re light and have sticky rubber on the bottom. This combination is a precursor for agility and confidence with regards to steep slopes, up or down. A few more winding sand paths and we are at the first and major footbridge (puente) and begin our ascent. Already our new possé and us are showing differences. Although we both take occasional pictures, our smaller group of two hikes faster. We saw this coming, and shared all of the directions the guide had given us with the possé. The guide gave us better directions than the possé because we hiked up alongside him, whereas they were back 20 feet or so. It looks like the two groups will split for the ascent. We’re not even an hour in to this hike and the gap is growing.

As we near the top of the first climb, we look back and see that the two of them that are either dating or married have stopped, probably talking about whether or not they want to turn back and catch a bus or attempt to keep going. We can’t wait for this, so we head onwards and upwards! The view gets better and better as more of the scenery opens up and we crest the partially grass-covered sand hills.

Now we turn right, right? Sure! It’s the large path. We see sheep and flowers and a line of trees on the horizon. Looking back are warped chessboards of hills. The rooks are real, the kings are wearing ponchos and carrying hoes and the castles have rocks holding down the metal roofs. Also, there are so many games going on, it’s hard to tell who’s winning and who’s in what game. It’s all jumbled up and beautiful. We press on.

The path widens for side-by-side walking. We talk more now and the incline eases. Then doesn’t. We stop briefly as a kid runs partway up to us from his farmland atop our first major climb and yells a question of destination. We tell him the laguna and he says that we’re going the right way. He turns and runs back to his family and donkey and planting to do as we whip out the camera for a quick panorama. And continue.

Soon we will arrive in the even smaller town of Guayama. We see a church and huts and colored single-story houses with nothing doors. A man standing behind a tree from our perspective leans out more as we approach and we ask for directions. He tells us and we trust. On our left is an empty paved rectangle with netless basketball hoops on either side. I have yet to see anyone play basketball. We have enjoyed watching a few games of volleyball though (See: Chugchilán, Latacunga).

We walk up and pass by doors of green buildings with little students and little desks inside. The ones who notice us pass by poke their heads out. Soon many heads poke out. And before we know it, there is a group amassing before us, just before we pass the schools by. We stop and chat. They all want a picture and they want money for it! We say no money. Yes. No. Ok, just take our picture then! We do and as we’re setting up to take it, kids come streaming in, running even as I click the button. Cameratime! It’s lunchtime, too, and they all don’t seem to care as much about that as about us. Alisa keeps telling them they should go eat. Some even come with their pans from the lunchline to talk with us. They’re really cute and we say goodbye a few times before heading off with a man assumedly from the town who is sharing part of our journey and conversation.

When we part ways, we take a picture or two. And then meet upon another who seconds the directions of the first, adding that if we went where he went we’d get an excellent view. Qué? We already have excellent views! Thanks, but we’re moving on! Down a canyon we go. And whomsoever goes down must come back up! This happens a few times and our legs get a little tired. We stop and sit on some dirt pile to snack and hydrate and take a few pictures.
Relatively rested, we put one foot in front of the other and make it atop one of the last canyon crossings, right? The trail peters out at a hut, so we backtrack a tad and take the other option we saw at the top of the last canyon. This also peters out at a hut. Qué hacemos? (What do we do?) We see someone in bright orange clothing in between these paths further up than the first hut-end. We march offtrail to reach this person who is accompanied perhaps by her mother and a horse. She points us straight ahead and tells us we should bend back left, even though the highest pointy green shape that we’ve been aiming at all along is further right still. Thanks and goodbye. Then her dog scares us, rearing on its hind legs. She comes up to where we had walked ten feet and tsss-es it away.

We take a breath and hike on through a wide patch of flowers and tall grass. I run ahead and snap a photo or two, as the valleys and canyons open their mouths below the grasslands we’re on now.

We find the trail off to the left and rejoin it, thankful to be back on track. We’re hiking left and up, and around gardens. Suddenly we hear barking - lots of barking. Alisa and I turn to see three dogs charging from a distance up towards us. As wickedly steep as it is here, the dogs seem more than able to make quick work of it. I’ve already yelled, “Run!” several times, each increasingly frantic and emphatic. We run and crest a small bump, running more sideways than up, and gain a downhill where I pass Alisa. Nearing the bottom of this gain soon enough, I expect to find Alisa past me already, but she is not. The dogs are upon us. The noise of the dogs and the fact that there is not one, not two, but three of these dogs is glaringly obvious. Alisa isn’t past me because she has already swiveled to see where they are and to try to make sure they don’t get any closer. What follows are many heartbeats with little oxygen. If Beethoven’s 32nd concerto had a baseline, my heart was on it! We yelled. We held our only weapons (See: Sigg water bottles) high and occasionally waved as if to strike. At first, the dark-haired dog that snarled the most and was the leader in proximity for the entirety of this land-strike kept a distance of say 20 feet. The other two dogs tried swirling around us more in order, I believe, to begin a triangle of trouble. Oh no no says Alisa and I. I stay put, waving my white bottle high and clear, but not in peace, and keep telling Alisa to walk backwards behind me. She does so uphill, as we’re cresting again. Tired and forced to feed on adrenaline, we make slow progress. Uphill, not away from the dogs, whose owners are long forgotten, whose fangs show evermore, glimmering with the meaning of dark clouds, and become less and less timid as this charades of how much pain can I inflict continues. And continue it does. In walking forwards when possible, Alisa points out a pile of rocks. I take one as I sidestep by the pile, and now raise this in my right hand, left hand with Sigg. This doesn’t change much at all. The dog soon gets as close as three feet away. And stops, dead still. As do I, now more serious. In my head I’ve been thinking if one should really attack me, I should strike it and try to stay on my feet since there are three dogs, each with appetite. All the while, hoping Alisa will run with all the oxygen she can find. But as the dog stops, I notice its mouth closer than I’d like it to be and can only think, “Rabies. Did I get the shot?” I don’t know if it saw this seriousness, the casualty of human cognition, but I was able to slowly walk away backwards, Alisa behind me, now not saying anything. As we crest again – yes, again – I turn away from the barks that aren’t quite in our ear canals now and say to Alisa, “Out of sight, out of mind, right? Come on; we have to keep going. Come on!” We charge – no, march – up silky steep sand. I feel like we were in the back of a truck for band practice in a driveby shooting, unable to march away. Our breathing is audible. The dogs grow quieter. The fiasco seems over but we’re still paranoid and ready to be at the lake or in a bus.

We gain a whole lot of elevation and consider ourselves safe by a pine forest, the second forest since before we came upon Guayama. Here we take a picture - one more picture between the incident with the dogs and us. Coming around the forest, we see a group of non-local hikers coming down, maybe one hundred meters ahead. Our eyes sigh a blink of relief. We slowly do our part to meet them. They are mostly middle-aged people who speak French. We warn them of the three dogs, but their group easily numbers one dozen, half of them with a pair of poles; good news for them. Our good news is that the hike to the lake shouldn’t be more than an hour from where we’re standing and there are no dogs. Although this hope box of words doesn’t quicken our pace, it does lighten our minds which heretoaft carried bags of wet concrete. Now that we don’t need that extra weight, maybe the roads on the Quilotoa Loop can use it!

The temperature falls, one drop at a time. I put my jacket back on. The sand path grows wider and we can see that the top must be close. I hesitate and drop the rock that I’ve been carrying, jogging the rest of the way to the top, peeling the camera out of its long sock as I go. My mouth opens and the scene is amazing. We are on the broken glass rim of the volcanic crater lake, far above the hazel blue lake itself, darkened by the searing clouds above us. Somehow the air is full of energy and whirs through us, nearly lifting us back to Chugchilán. We are happy at the site and arrival, but exhausted and ready to be warmed and secured in a bus, a hostel, a dining room – anywhere.But first! Quick, take pictures of this amazing lake and the trail on the rim, high above! If you look down into the lake from the rim, there are actually beaches and huts and some people there even now in this windstorm! Now, we know that the town of Quilotoa is one quarter of the way around the rim, but we don’t know which direction. Guessing right-hand, we past three more major sand areas, as told in reverse by Lonely Planet, which for some reason only gives directions from the lake to Chugchilán. Maybe the easy way is the most commonly preferred way? Thankfully, we guessed right-correctly.

We come upon two little kids who accept some water from each of us and agree on a price of 75 cents to take us to the town of Quilotoa and show us where we can catch the bus back to Chugchilán, which leaves at 2:00pm. Apparently we made good time because this trip that easily takes 4-6 hours we completed in three.

Looking for the bus to Chugchilán, we ask one that goes to Latacunga – not for us! - where we can find such a bus! The driver inside points and we continue down the town road and more people direct us to wait at a hostel for the bus to Chugchilán. We gladly hike there and wait inside for over an hour. Catching the bus is wonderful. We almost hitchhiked instead since it was offered, but the bus was right behind the truck so there was no reason to. Back at our hostel, we rest and write and muster patience for dinner, still hours away! All of this, of course, is accompanied by recounting our ridiculous adventure today with all of its surprises.

I think we'll have a love for hiking and a fear of dogs for quite some time to come!