“I bet the French teams can roll in whenever they want, right? This is bullshit! We are still in the fucking race!”
Nancy came up, grabbed my arm, and stepped in front of me. She spoke to the official in French. He shook his head and answered her, speaking rapidly.
Nancy nodded and replied, then turned back to me. “We’re out of the official race. We are in the Trans-Ecuador group now. That’s it.”
Nancy, Scott, Steve, Tony, and I sat in a circle on the damp ground. Mom, Rolf, and Kurt stood around the edges, listening. We had to decide what to do. We talked about how great it was that we had gotten this far and how good it would feel to take a hot shower and sleep in a real bed. We talked about skipping ahead to the bicycle leg; that would get us out of the altitude, and maybe then we’d all feel better and be able to finish strong. It made sense to bypass the volcano.
Finally, Nancy, who had been quiet during the conversation, spoke up. “People come from all over the world just to climb Cotopaxi. We’re here. I would really like to go to the top.”
We turned and looked up at the peak in silence. Nancy was right. We might never have this chance again. My stomach churned with indecision. The choice was clear: comfort or pain.
After a minute, Steve said he wanted to try. Tony and Scott said they did, too.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Our crew helped us get our mountain gear together. I said a quick good-bye to my mother. I knew she was worried about what lay ahead for us. “I will zee you at les bicyclettes,” I said to her in my best Inspector Clouseau French accent.
Our next destination was the Refugio José Rivas, the mountain hut at nearly sixteen thousand feet that was serving as CP #17. The Raid had stationed doctors there to make sure everyone was healthy enough to try for the summit. Steve’s cough worsened as we climbed. By the time we arrived at the hut, we all knew it was bad. He was coughing up blood and seemed disoriented. We took him straight to the doctor. The news was terrible. Not only did he have severe bronchitis, he also had a blood oxygen saturation level in the high fifties—dangerously low. The officials told him he had to be helicoptered out immediately. He was crushed by the news, but we all knew there was no choice. I hugged Steve, sharing in his sadness.
Now we were four. We had to start for the summit at 1:00 a.m. so we could be off the mountain before the sun made the snowpack unstable. We had a few hours to rest, but as usual, I couldn’t sleep. My head ached, my chest felt congested, and I had developed a dry cough. I just wanted to get going. Finally, it was time to gear up and pass a final medical check. I fought to suppress my cough because I didn’t want the French doctor to listen to my chest. I cracked a couple of jokes that he did not find amusing, then he waved me along.
In darkness, we started up the exposed face on slippery volcanic scree. After about an hour, we reached the snow line and switched to heavy boots with crampons. We pulled out our ice axes and roped up. I was at the lead; Nancy was at the back. The sky was cloudless and the stars were hard white points as bright as I’d ever seen them. We climbed slowly, each step a project. Lift the foot, move the foot, place the foot.
It was difficult enough to climb at this altitude under normal circumstances, but we had started out exhausted, dehydrated, hungry, and oxygen starved. We forced ourselves to push on, following a circuitous route that crossed snowfields, skirted crevasses, and passed wind-sculpted ice formations that, when illuminated by our headlamps, looked like breaching white whales. Several hours into it, I sucked on the hose connected to my hydration pack and got nothing. I realized I hadn’t cleared it after taking my last drink, and the water line was now frozen solid. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten something so basic. There was no point in saying anything about it to my teammates. I would simply have no water from here on out.
At about seventeen thousand feet, we took a break. On the eastern horizon, the dark sky was shot with broken shards of orange and gray. Wind swirled around us. Sitting in the snow, I felt oddly detached from my body, as if I were looking down on myself from above. I breathed deliberately and slowly, trying to focus on where I was and what I was doing. Everything was blurry. And then I heard music. Beautiful echoes—a guitar and a flute playing a lilting, intricate melody. I closed my eyes to listen. When I opened them again, I half expected to see a small Ecuadorian band marching up the trail. I caught Scott’s eye and pointed to my right ear. He gave me a puzzled look.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
“Hear what?”
Nancy and Tony looked at me with quizzical expressions.
Maybe it was some atmospheric phenomenon, an upwelling of sound from a village far below, like smoke curling away from a fire; maybe it was in my head. When I first got sober, I was told that if I was patient, if I kept trudging the road of Happy Destiny, as they said in AA, I would be amazed by the gifts that would come my way. I thought this music, wherever it was coming from, might be one of those gifts.
I looked up at the summit and thought of tough races I had run; those last excruciating miles when you didn’t think you could go on. This was so much harder. But it was not harder than quitting drugs. It was not harder than staying sober. I knew I had already done the hardest thing. I knew I could make it to the top.
“Ready?” Tony said.
“Ready,” we all replied.
And then, somehow, we were on the summit. It had taken us almost seven hours, but we had done it. We cheered and hugged each other and turned to take in the view. Snowy peaks seem to float above a layer of silvered clouds. To the north, I recognized the silhouette of Imbabura, the majestic volcano from that first morning in Ibarra. I pulled out a photo of my boys from inside my jacket and kissed it twice, with tears in my eyes. I loved them and I had been away from them so much.
We stayed on top for about ten minutes, foggy brained, elated, freezing, pummeled by wind. Then we started the long, slow descent. When we finally reached our crew, the reunion was joyous. We told Rolf, Kurt, and my mother about the climb, and when we were done, I asked them how they were.
“Good,” Rolf said. I saw him glance at my mother.
I took a long look at her. Her eyes were swollen and her color was off.
“Great,” my mother repeated in a tone that I recognized meant not so great.
“What?” I said.
Rolf said he had found my mother shivering uncontrollably in her tent the night before. She’d been hypothermic and unable to speak. He had covered her with every warm thing he could find and made hot-water bottles to put in her sleeping bag. Then he had gotten into the sleeping bag with her.
“She came out of it,” Rolf said.
“Mom, you should have told them you felt bad.”
“I don’t know what happened. I was so cold, and the next thing I knew I was waking up from this strange dream.”
“With this strange man,” Rolf said.
My mom laughed.
I felt sick that my mother had gone through this. I knew hypothermia could kill strong people. My mom was tiny, nearly sixty years old, and smoked and drank too much. I had brought her to Ecuador for an adventure; I never imagined she would be anything more than uncomfortable. But she could have died.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“I’m fine now, Charlie. Perfect. Now, Rolf has to tell you something.”
“What else?”
“The officials said you have to bypass the biking section and go directly to the river.”
- - - -
The air got more humid and more deliciously infused with oxygen as we drove toward the jungle. By midafternoon, our truck had reached the banks of the muddy, fast-moving Río Toachi. The Raid staff stationed there said we had to hurry—that if we didn’t launch immediately, we would not be allowed to continue.
We changed clothes and flung our gear into the blue raft. I was at the back, trying to rememb
er what I had learned in my paddling certification course as we bounced and rolled through Class III and IV rapids. We were soaked and nearly flipped several times. Through it all, I couldn’t stop smiling—none of us could. Even Tony, who had been subdued since we had gotten off the mountain, brightened up. To be moving fast with little effort and to know there was no chance of getting lost—it was bliss.
The Raid rules said we had to get off the river before nightfall, so we beached the raft at twilight. Sitting on big, round river rocks, we watched the sky go dark, swatted at mosquitoes, and listened to the night noises of the jungle—rasps, whines, shrieks, and clicks.
We had studied the map and knew we were close to the finish. This was likely our last night together.
“How good will a shower feel?” I said.
“And a bed,” Nancy said.
“First thing I want is a cheeseburger,” Tony said.
We sat in silence for a long time.
“I feel so bad for Steve,” Scott said. “Missing this.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s been fantastic. Even the parts that completely sucked.”
At dawn, we slipped the raft back in the water. Within a few minutes, we came upon the next checkpoint, where we would trade the rafts for inflatable canoes. After we beached our boat, Scott and I started inflating two limp canoes with foot pumps. Hissing sounds came from both boats. We looked over at the race official, who shrugged, as if to say, This is what you deserve when you are so slow and arrive at the back of the pack.
We used patch kits to fix the holes and pushed off. Tony was noticeably shaky.
“You don’t have to paddle,” I said. “Just enjoy the ride.”
The current carried us through a high-walled canyon, past terraced farms and ramshackle villages. Women were doing their wash on the riverbanks. Dogs barked, children waved and shouted. It was humid and hot, with no breeze at all, even on the water. A fish jumped ahead of us and left a circular wake.
“Something stinks,” Tony said. The farther we went downriver, the fouler the smell. Clumps of raw sewage floated by.
“What’s that?” I pointed at what looked like a dead body. When we got close to it, we saw that it was the bloated carcass of a pig folded around the trunk of a submerged tree.
We abandoned the idea of using our water purification tablets; nothing was strong enough to make this river potable. Instead, we decided to go ashore at a village to see if we could buy drinks. I had been in charge of the team money, but realized that in my rush to change clothes before the water leg, I had left most of the cash in my other pants—which were now with our crew. We only had a few sucres among us. I started up a muddy trail, and when I came upon a small boy, I said, “Tienda?”
He led me up to a tiny shop. I smiled at the shopkeeper and pointed at Fantas, Cokes, bottled water, and a big box of Ritz crackers. Then I put my money down. She shook her head. I took off my digital watch, laid it next to the money, and pushed it toward her. We had a deal.
Revived by my loot, we took to the river again. At last, we spotted the checkpoint where we would switch from canoes to sea kayaks for the final forty-mile stretch on the Río Esmeraldas. We went ashore and I handed our passport to a race official.
“You cannot continue,” he said without making eye contact.
There would be no negotiating. We were done. We were told to get into a motorboat that would take us the rest of the way. The boat chugged down the murky river through low green hills until we reached the broad delta, where it emptied into the Pacific. From here, we turned south along the coast, slamming through teeth-jarring waves. We saw container ships and high-rise hotels and smokestacks. At last, we spotted a group of people on the Same Beach in Esmeraldas. It was the finish line of the Raid.
The boat captain cut the motor. “Now, you swim.”
We all laughed. Then we saw he wasn’t joking.
“Swim?” I said.
Nancy spoke to the man in French. She listened and nodded a few times.
“He says that if we want to experience crossing the finish line, the only thing we can do is swim ashore. Then we can walk the last bit.”
Okay, we were going to swim. We all slid over the edge of the boat fully clothed. The water was clear and warm, and I felt it washing away ten days of grime and tension and struggle. When we reached shore, we walked together on the dark sand toward the white banner that marked the end of the race.
Steve was there cheering, and so were Rolf and Kurt and my mother. I saw that she was crying, and I teared up, too. I had done all I could do. We all had. The weather had been horrendous and the course had been difficult and we had suffered. I’d asked for help and been a leader; I’d gotten angry and pissed people off. I’d doubled over in pain and in laughter. Now that it was over, I knew one thing for sure: I had to find a way to do it again.
- - - -
A few days after I returned from Ecuador, Pam and I loaded up our cars and drove with the boys, three cats, and two dogs from St. Louis to our new house on the Monterey Peninsula, not far from where my father and stepmother were living. It was more than a little disorienting—going from the summit of Cotopaxi to a corner booth in an Oklahoma City Applebee’s just off the I-40. I told my family some stories about the race, but I understood that although Pam was proud of me for being sober and chasing my dreams, I should keep the more harrowing tales to myself. I hoped I impressed upon my boys the importance of perseverance and commitment. I wanted them to be proud of me; they mostly wanted to know where I had gone poop.
Once we were settled in Salinas, I knew I should get busy calling insurance companies and lining up dent-repair technicians for the spring hail season, but I couldn’t get myself to pick up the phone. I didn’t feel like doing much of anything. I got to a few AA meetings, though I went to fewer than I knew was good for me.
It wasn’t just fatigue or culture shock. I felt unmoored, adrift. I had been fixing dents for eight years—working in dusty body shops, living in motels, eating crappy road food—and the thought of starting yet another seven-month cycle of chasing storms put me in a funk. I told myself I should be happy that I was successful at it; I’d bought houses, nice cars, even a horse for Pam, which she adored. But I felt trapped by what I had created. The more I earned, the more we spent, the more I had to make.
Something else, though, something deeper than just the prospect of another hail season, was at the heart of my dark mood. I felt it more every day: Pam and I were drifting apart. I had thought this move might be good for us—that old addict belief that everything would be fixed with a fresh start. But being back in Monterey only made it more obvious that our relationship had changed. I had been a drug addict and alcoholic when we met, and our marriage had been built on Pam’s taking care of me, cleaning up my messes. I was grateful for all she had done. But I was a different person now, walking a different path. I loved my boys, but I wasn’t sure I loved my wife—and it didn’t feel as if she loved me. I wondered what it would be like to fall in love as a sober person.
- - - -
One Sunday, my friend Gary invited me to join a bunch of guys at his place to watch a 49ers game. I had been moping around the house, and Pam encouraged me to go. At halftime, I wandered into the kitchen.
Gary was mixing a round of screwdrivers. “Engle, something to drink?”
“Just OJ would be great.” I dipped some chips into a bowl of salsa.
“Second half’s about to start,” someone yelled.
Gary handed me my drink and headed back into the living room, balancing three tall glasses.
My mouth was on fire from the spicy salsa, so I took the juice and downed more than half of it in one gulp. Instantly, my face flushed and my throat started to burn. Vodka.
I gripped the glass. I couldn’t believe I had just taken a drink—my first in more than six years. At last, I heard a voice in
side me saying, things are getting interesting. I didn’t know what to do. I stared at the glass. It’s no big deal. You might as well drink the rest of it. One drink. You’ve been good for so long. You deserve a little break.
My whole body went on alert. I heard laughter in the other room; no one knew that I was waging an all-out war in the kitchen. Where were those brilliant words of wisdom that I had stored away for just this moment? Everything I had learned in recovery seemed to be just out of reach—as if someone had tied a string to them and were jerking them away from me each time I got close.
I tried to slow my breath and calm my thoughts. I had taken a big swig of vodka—but I had done it without intent. It was an accident. I was still a sober person. What mattered was what I did next. If I chose to take one more drink from that glass, then all I had worked for would be lost. I would have to start again. I knew that if I relapsed, I would not survive it. One more sip—an intentional sip—wouldn’t just mean the end of my sobriety. It would likely mean the end of me.
My hand was shaking as I put the glass down on the kitchen counter. I walked directly to the front door and left without saying a word. I drove in mist to Lovers Point, a beach park in Pacific Grove where I had started many long runs in the past. I threw on some running clothes that had been in the backseat of my car and took off.
I wanted it gone, out of me. I ran as hard as I could, in a blind panic, pumping my arms until my fingers tingled and my chest heaved. I was on pavement, then kelp-strewn sand, then a boardwalk, then pavement again. I ran past twisted cypress trees and an empty golf course and dunes covered with spiky grass. I ran until I couldn’t take another step, then I stopped and doubled over, gasping. When I caught my breath, I stood up, looked out at the chaotic gray surf, and screamed into the wind. I didn’t care who heard me.
I stood there for a long time, letting the wind batter me, watching the waves explode on the dark rocks. Finally, I turned back the way I came, walking at first, then running. The wind was at my back now, like a hand pushing me home. Tomorrow, first thing, I would start making those calls to the insurance companies and begin lining up those jobs. I had to, for my family. And I’d work on things with Pam. Maybe we could find a way back.
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