Except when you don't. Because, sometimes, you won't.

There is a lot that can be learned from failure.  Failing 5 times, however, indicates that a certain stubbornness of character may have been inhibiting those generous heaps of said learning.  Or, perhaps, as five times is a precise stubbornness, it could just mean that I'm a little slow.  Regardless, I won't need a sixth.

I give you Andy vs. the Volcano (who knew this would be so one-sided?).

Volcán Cotopaxi is the centerpiece of Cotopaxi National Park, just an hour south of Quito once you finally get out of the city, heading south on the Panamericana highway.  Peaking at 5,897 m/19,347 ft and having last erupted in the 1940s, it is one of the highest active volcanoes in the world.  Additionally, this ridiculous, glaciated volcano can be seen from Quito on clear days.  Although these are somewhat rare, as it has to be clear in and around both Quito and Cotopaxi, the result is that the volcano is very closely associated with the city, and is a popular climb for visitors and residents alike.

Cotopaxi, from the roof of my apartment in Quito.

The process has changed a bit since the refugio closed, but basically, as hopeful climbers, you will arrive at the parking lot on the mountain at about 1 pm.  You then tote all of your gear and food up to the refugio, which is a sweaty, somewhat panting climb of about 45 minutes with that weight.  Finally, you will claim a cot and crawl into your sleeping bag, emerging only to use the restroom and to eat lunch and dinner.  You get as much sleep as you can until 11 pm or midnight, when you wake up, put on all of your gear, and eat a little more.  From the time you start (usually between midnight and 1 am), the average climber takes about 6 - 8 hours to reach the summit, and about half of that to descend.  Not being able to stay at the refugio adds some time to your climb, but it is easier to sleep and rest at lower, warmer elevations (the refugio is at 4,864 m/15,953 ft).

The tilt of the world up here can become unsettling, and I
always feel a bit like an intruder on borrowed time.

Failed Attempt 1: The Eye-Opener

This very first attempt was made in December 2010 after having been living in Quito for about four months.  Before moving here, most of my experience had been hiking and backpacking trips.  I had some climbing experience as well, but not much, and nothing above 11,000 feet.  In short, none of us knew what we were getting into.  This was the first and last time that I saw good weather on this climb.  Unbelievably good weather.  The problem?  It was the first day of good weather in months, so after climbing to about 5200 m/17,000 ft, we had to turn around because all of the accumulated snow from the previous weeks was creating avalanche danger.  We did get high enough to learn that this was nothing like anything any of us had done before.  Not only are you walking up an outrageously steep slope of snow and ice, you are doing so in an oxygen-deprived environment that turns even mundane physical tasks into soul-driven efforts.  I will also never forget how overwhelming the stars were that night with such little atmosphere and light-pollution to diminish them, and how during our descent, they dissolved into the grays, purples, and oranges of one of the most spectacular sunrises I have ever seen.

Lisa, Alyssa, and I enjoying our consolation prize.

Failed Attempt 2: I Can Smell Your Sulfur

On the second failed attempt, we made it much further.  Almost to the top...we were within 200/650 vertical meters/feet from the summit when altitude sickness and exhaustion got Lisa, and we had to turn back.  The weather on this trip could be best described as a constant, cruel, icy wind that enjoyed pointing out the flawed description of our climbing apparel as "impermeable."  The layer of ice coating our gear stayed about one inch thick, as new ice would accumulate to compensate for that which was melting from our body heat and slowly dampening our inner defenses of long johns and fleece.  While there was no sunrise this time, just a slow, indiscernible transition from black to gray, Cotopaxi is beautiful in many shades.  Because we got so much higher on this attempt, the ice falls and glacier formations were presented to us.  The silence of isolation, the eerie, dreamy light, and the gray void around us made it easy to imagine that we were walking through an alien world.

This is the view from the summit into the crater of Cotopaxi,
where puffs of smoke remind successful climbers that this
is still very much an active volcano.  Photo credit.

A short break near an ice formation, of which I was quickly
becoming a part.

Thawing out on the descent is not a very comfortable process.

Failed Attempt 3: Rough Initiation to the Heart-Breaker Route

On this attempt in October of 2013, I couldn't convince anyone to come with me, so I went on my own.  This is more expensive, but I just knew that this was going to be it for me.  I had sniffed the summit on the last attempt, which gave me a lot of confidence.  Also, as other climbers will likely agree, a mountain is easier to climb when you know what to expect.  The last attempt had given me knowledge of the normal route, and I felt that this was a big advantage.  I could tick off checkpoints, and know during the most difficult stretches about how much time they would take.  The psychological battle, I thought, would now be easier.  Unfortunately, due to glacier conditions (the damn things are always moving), the normal route was closed and my guide and I took what is known as the Heart-Breaker Route.  Rather than zigzagging up the glacier and going through really neat formations, this route leaves the refugio, goes below the north face of the glacier, and then straight up.  I mean straight, fucking up.  I cannot over-emphasize how straight up this is.  Also, there was once again bad weather, this time rain.  We left the refugio and hiked for about 20-30 minutes before deciding to head back to wait for things to clear up.  After shivering inside in my wet clothes for almost an hour, we gave it another shot.  This is the state I was in as we got to the glacier, and the Heart-Breaker Route lived up to its name.  At about 5200 m/17,000 feet, I once again had to turn around, this time because of my own altitude sickness and exhaustion.  

In yellow is the normal route, now closed after climbers died in an ice fall.
The Heart-Breaker route cuts further right after leaving the refugio, and then goes
straight up (as I believe I have mentioned) until meeting the normal route at the
crevasse labeled in the picture at 5,500 m.  Photo credit.

Failed Attempt 4: Keep an Eye on Your Guide

In one of the most absurd experiences of my life, the fourth attempt was ruined by our guide, who decided to get drunk before our climb.  A big change that had occurred between the last time and this one is that you could no longer stay at the refugio and start your hike from there, due to construction and renovations.  As a result, my friend Mike and I had to stay at a hostel just outside of the park.  While we were resting and preparing for the hike, our guide apparently saw this as a chance to throw back a few drinks.  A lot of drinks, as it turns out.  Unaware that this had transpired, we geared up and got into the car with him at about 10 pm.  He was not a very good driver to begin with, so when he continued driving erratically, we didn't immediately assume he was drunk.  That he would do something like that was not even a thought in our minds.  We entered the park and were heading towards the parking lot where we would begin our climb (adding close to an hour to the ascent), and were pulled over by the park guards for a) speeding and b) not properly checking in.  Again, still far from the assumption that our guide was drunk, we were now thinking that he was just fairly inept as he argued for 45 minutes with the guards before they ultimately let us continue.  Finally, we started the climb, with the guide in front, me following, and Mike in the back.  Right away, he was stumbling and unable to walk in a straight line.  He couldn't get his headlamp to turn on.  You know, by hitting the only button that it has.  He fell completely down twice after tripping on large, obvious rocks in the path.  During breaks (he needed 3 of them in less than half an hour), he could barely keep his very bloodshot eyes open.  And then there was the smell.  This wasn't detectable in the car, but once he started walking and sweating, the rum was pouring out of him.  Mike and I let this go on until it was blatantly obvious, and asked him several times if he was "okay."  When he didn't take this out, we told him that we were turning around because he was drunk, and we wouldn't be tying ourselves to him while he led us across a glacier.  In a classic drunk line, he told us that he had only had two beers and was fine.  This was obviously not the case, but when I told him that even this was too many, he said I was a pansy if I was drunk off of two beers.  Mike and I took the keys from him, and while I drove back, he heckled my driving from the back seat for 20 minutes before finally, thankfully, passing out.  The following morning, Mike and I walked to the Panamericana, flagged down a bus, and headed back to Quito on our own rather than riding with our guide.  We went to Ecomontes, the tour agency we had booked through, and were able to get our money back.  We put this towards the final attempt.

Every story needs a villain...

Failed Attempt 5: The Last Chance

Two weeks after the drunk guide, Mike and I found ourselves back on the mountain.  The weather forecast was promising the end of the rainy season and an unhindered climb to the summit.  The weather forecast was wrong.  With sustained winds of 50-70 km/hr and rain, sleet, and snow the whole way, we made it to about 5,300 m/17,400 ft before I once again had to call it off before reaching the top.  Being cold and wet puts additional stresses on the body at high altitudes, and apparently that is my breaking point.  Altitude sickness is no fun.  When I stopped to catch my breath, I felt fine, and got angry at myself for taking a break and interrupting the rhythm of the climb.  But then the nausea returned and increased with each step forward, and my eyes started to swim.  This is not a good feeling to have when climbing up (have I mentioned yet that it is steep?) the tilted shelf of a glacier.  Your cramponned feet have been jammed at odd angles into the slick slope, and the weight of your own body pressing on them is a constant reminder of your own potential energy, ready to carry you sickeningly downwards with a single misstep.  You want to feel at your best while doing this.  At altitude, you settle for feeling okay.  You turn around when you don't, and so I turned around.  Mike would have been able to keep going, and I hate that he couldn't because of me.  The weather made summiting unlikely anyway, although a few groups managed to get there that day.  What is really frustrating is that I have been that high and higher and been fine.  But I need to realize and admit that over 5,200 m/17,000 ft, I become unreliable.  My conditioning doesn't seem to matter.  If I encounter bad weather, it is very likely that I will have to turn around.  The problem is, at this elevation, there is quite often bad weather.

This mountain's got me all hung up in a prickly perch...
Photo credit

Where do I go from here?  Well, luckily, most mountains in the world peak below this elevation, so I can definitely maintain this hobby when I move to Barcelona at the feet of the Pyrenees next year.  Also, as mentioned previously, I love backpacking and hiking trips, and I have gotten away from that since I have been in Ecuador.  Here, most of the "hikes" are really climbs, and so I embraced it.  But perhaps the time is approaching to throw a week's worth of supplies in my pack, find a trail, and get back to my roots.

These failed attempts at summiting Cotopaxi hurt my ego a bit.  But while my oxygen efficiency may have been proven sub-par, there are some positive takeaways as well.  I threw myself at this mountain, and left nothing on the table.  My natural stubbornness was honed into a productive focus as I trained and prepared for each attempt (though I may or may not have participated in a flip cup tournament the Friday before the first climb).  I pushed my limits, but ultimately, made good decisions about what was important, and always made it home.  And having learned these limitations, I will be leaving here in a few weeks at relative peace with the fact that I wasn't able to achieve this goal.  I will not be trying to climb this mountain again.  Probably.