In fact I now realise that my disturbance by the cows was a blessing in disguise, because now that I am outside the tent I discover there is an amazing sight to be seen, as if just waiting patiently for me to wake up and view it. Gazing skywards I witness what must be thousands or perhaps millions of intensely bright stars twinkling with all the energy they possess, as if desperately trying to attract the attention of all Earth’s creatures. They have certainly captured mine. The entire sky is crammed with light and brilliance. I realise it’s another wonderful benefit of my being at the Equator and at such a high altitude: We are so far removed from the bright lights of the cities and so way above the many layers of pollution. Every politician from every part of the world, who doesn’t live within a clear atmosphere, should be brought, forcibly if necessary, to experience such places as this. They should be made to witness at first hand what Nature provides and what Mankind so very often takes away, losing so much by not being more aware of the continuing damage to environment and to the Planet’s future.
After drinking in the starry, starry night for a very long time, I finally return to my tent and its peaceful seclusion and this time, totally relaxed, I fall quickly asleep. Not for long however, as the cows return again, although, as cows mostly look alike, they might be different ones returning from elsewhere. At any rate the aggressive bellowing has recommenced and once more I go outside and resume my imitation cow noises until the animals reluctantly traipse off. Spellbound by what I see I wonder how many of the stars are really still alive and how many may have died countless light years ago with only their light still visible and travelling through space to reach Earth. Light travels at around 300,000 kilometres (186,000 miles) per second so the distances covered are truly colossal or ‘out of this world’. It seems as if I am actually looking back in time, thousands of years into the past. It’s quite a thought.
Reluctantly I drag myself away from this celestial brilliance and unearthly stargazing and return once more to my tent to try and sleep, otherwise I won’t get enough rest before our early start. Of course, the cows then come back again. This comical see-saw process continues until I finally give up and leave the cows in control. Eventually I am able to fall asleep, although mostly by counting cows instead of sheep. In the morning the large amount of cow dung around proves that it was no dream. I accept that the cows have the right of way and will undoubtedly be there this evening and probably every evening. The sight reminds me of the expedition leader who goes off scouting the way ahead and after some while returns with his report. ‘I’ve got good news and bad news. The bad news is we are lost and all that there is to eat is cow dung. The good news is that there is plenty of it.’ Well, there is certainly a lot of it around my tent but I am not that hungry, not yet anyway.
After our very early breakfast we empty the tents, although leaving them standing, and pack everything not needed on the climb into the boot of the car, then quickly start out on our trek towards Iliniza Norte. It’s already slowly beginning to get light so we don’t need torches, and there’s a cooling, brisk wind flowing all around me that helps me not to overheat, particularly with all the equipment and extra clothing, carried in case of mountain emergencies. My backpack is much heavier than I would like and I regret not leaving more behind. Trekking in silence we soon reach the point that I had climbed to yesterday, and I feel pleased with the faster pace Luis is now setting which at this stage is very comfortable for me. The weather is fine, only slightly overcast, and it looks like any fears of difficult weather problems were unfounded. I am enjoying the slow transition into daylight, watching the shadowy shapes around me spring into being, feeling life re-asserting itself. Then stupidly I step into a hidden hole, wrenching my right ankle and foot, and I crash over heavily. Luckily the pain is only momentary and I quickly manage to get myself up and catch up with Luis who is climbing steadily, just a metre or two ahead. He obviously knows the way well and I’m very content to follow in his footsteps and just experience the wildness of the rolling landscape and the stone terrain which stretches far into the distance. We are soon climbing amongst steeper rocks, which are testing but I manage well. The actual two mountains of Illinizas are still far off, and as always at the early stages of any climb, they never seem to get any nearer.
There is now more wind but I put that down to our traversing through rather open country and being more exposed to the elements. Then I feel some wet spots on my face, thinking at first they are from my own sweat or perhaps thrown up by my boots from the foliage underneath. However, they persist and I have to admit that they are not man-made when they become more rapid and frequent and then are followed by a small snow flurry. I can only hope it will pass and won’t develop into something larger. Luis hasn’t stopped but I assume that he is also aware of the changing conditions and that this is usual or he also expects it will cease shortly. I couldn’t be more wrong. Soon the snow starts falling with a vengeance and it’s being driven hard into my face. I pull my hood down to my sunglasses (in these circumstances that is certainly a misnomer) and button up tightly. That makes the climbing more difficult and it becomes a far greater struggle than I expected, with increasingly strong but intermittent snow storms coupled with fierce biting winds attacking from all sides.
At times it becomes impossible to see literally a hand in front of my face and the rocks are now so slippery that I can’t help but fall several times. Luis doesn’t fall once of course, but each time I do he waits patiently until I’ve righted myself and have recommenced climbing. He makes no comment nor offers any advice and I prefer it that way. Luckily we soon see the Refugio Nuevos Horizontes some distance ahead of us, and Luis alters our route so that we climb directly to reach it. Although I’m anxious and certainly willing to press on, he decides we should stop at the Refuge for some tea to warm us before continuing on any further. Several guides and their climbers have been using this as a staging post to stay overnight, in order to make it easier to climb to the summits the next day. Some are still horizontal in their bunks and look as if they haven’t moved for days. I feel we would also have benefited considerably, particularly in these bad weather conditions, from staying there overnight rather than sleeping in our tents and climbing up from such a long way below. I don’t mention this to Luis but wonder if he is possibly less experienced than the other guides, not to have at least made some contingency plans to arrange to move us into the Refuge should the weather deteriorate in the way it has. We stay only a short while to gulp down the tea as I am nervous about remaining there too long, and quickly decide to set off even though the weather continues to worsen. We rope up together to provide greater safety against any falls, although this is often a hindrance to the climbing itself and we sometimes have to unrope to climb the steeper rock sections.
A short while after leaving the refuge, I find myself stretched across a rock face, seemingly unable to move up or back down or even go sideways. Luis is some way behind me and he is trying to shout some instructions over to me. In the wind and the storm it’s almost impossible to understand his words and at first they seem to be in English and at other times in Spanish although all are mostly incomprehensible. He obviously can’t reach me or it’s too precarious to try, so I know I must make my own decision. In Zen the wrong way to do something is known as muri but you may not realise it’s the wrong way until afterwards. The extension of that thought in Zen is just letting go, believing, and being prepared to fail. That is in fact the only way for me to proceed, to let go and slide and allow myself to fall further down the rock face. That requires a great leap of faith but eventually there’s no choice and I throw my ski sticks ahead into the gully to my right, let go of my handhold and roll myself after them. I actually slide down for a very short distance, although it feels like an eternity, before I fortunately manage to grab another jutting rock and pull myself to a more secure position. I have made it somehow but cannot yet feel any relief as there’s still a long way to go.
I gingerly reclaim
my sticks and Luis expertly skirts around that rock section to rejoin me and we continue our ascent. Neither of us says anything to the other but there are several arguments going on inside me, discussing over and over what occurred and whether I should have dealt with it differently. I don’t resolve the argument.
After some arduous further climbing we eventually reach the saddle between the two Ilinizas and now set off to head towards El Norte. There are several small cairns piled up helpfully to indicate its summit route. We then climb up the flank of the south-east ridge, avoiding the looser scree and keep climbing on the hard rock sections, which provide more support to the feet, although in the wetness the rocks are still terribly slippery. Gradually and slowly we work our way to the pyramid rock, also known as the false summit, although I don’t want necessarily to accept that initially, in case we cannot climb any further to reach the final summit. ‘Do you want to continue?’ I nod vigorously at the question for emphasis as it’s difficult to find the words. We have reached 5,000 metres and I am feeling happier for having at least made it to that height in these tough conditions. We drop down the ridge to climb around a stone tower. Then it’s time for the climbing of ‘Death Pass’ (El Paso de la Muerte); the snow and sleet make it much more difficult than it would be usually and it requires all my strength and effort to make it across. Fortunately the pass doesn’t live up to its ominous name and I finally struggle through successfully.
After more strenuous climbing, with lots of precarious slipping, we eventually reach the summit block and take a rest for a few moments to try and gather strength for the final push. It’s not much help, however, due to the atrocious weather conditions which never abate, even for a few minutes. We then make a final, hard push up some stone gullies and loose rocks, a number of which decide to tumble down around us, so that we both have to dodge sideways a couple of times to avoid being struck. A few metres more climbing and scrambling and we finally accomplish our goal and breathlessly reach the summit of Iliniza Norte. Unfortunately, the weather makes it almost impossible to see anything, but I gain a certain satisfaction from touching the iron cross that indicates the highest point on the mountain. With visibility extremely poor, the only thing now is to return as fast as safety will allow.
The way down seems more hazardous than the climbing up, as we are in constant danger from falling rocks. We edge downwards trying not to slip and, if and when we do, not too far. Even Luis is slipping quite a lot now and we support each other as best we can, remaining on a very tight, short rope for safety. We are also being forced down by a constant barrage of snow flurries and it’s so wet everywhere that I am drenched through. My clothes are also coated in heavy clay from my earlier scrambles across the rocks, and I try to scrape some off by rubbing the back as well as the front of my jacket against the rocks, although mostly in vain. My strange antics must appear rather funny, but there’s no one or nothing around to watch me except Luis and he pays little attention. The soles of my boots in particular are covered in clay, preventing me from getting much of a grip on the very wet rocks and stones and causing me considerable problems in descending, and I try not to overbalance Luis.
Eventually we make our way down from the mountain itself and then must start the long trek back to tent civilisation. At least now we can unrope which provides more freedom, and Luis moves further ahead. The sleeting snow is relentless and constantly tries to find its way inside my jacket and gloves, often with considerable success. The weather conditions do not improve, indicating that the planned second stage attempt of Iliniza Sur, definitely not possible at this time, is going to be a real challenge that will test me to the limits. When I finally reach my tent I first have to partly crawl in on my hands and knees, then slowly turn around and back gingerly inside whilst attempting to divest myself of my jacket, boots and trousers to avoid bringing the clay and mud inside with me. My efforts are only partly successful, and I know I will have a heavy cleaning job in the morning. At least the bad weather keeps the cows away during the night, but sadly there are no stars visible. I think I hear one solitary, plaintive bellow, presumably from a lost cow.
Over dinner Luis tells me he didn’t expect me to make it in those atrocious conditions and, although he doesn’t use the actual word, I take it as a form of congratulations. He suggests I take a few days off to recover and explore more of Ecuador before we climb again which sounds an ideal suggestion to me. I know there is still so much to see and a great deal more to learn about this country and its people. The meal is a hurried affair as I’m extremely tired and I turn in quickly, soon falling fast asleep. It feels like the sleep of the dead and my dreams take me back to the mountain, where I slide again down the rock face, although this time I don’t have anything to hold on to stop myself, and I keep on falling all the way. I’m so tired that I actually welcome this slide into oblivion. I doubt very much if any of the cows could wake me tonight even if they were to bellow at the top of their lungs, although in the continuing storm they are probably huddling somewhere for safety and warmth and saving their voices for another time. It feels as if I have hardly been asleep before it becomes morning and the light wakes me to another day.
CHAPTER 4
THE CENTRE OF THE WORLD
During my planning for the expedition I am very intrigued to learn that in Ecuador, along the Equator Line, a place has been established and accepted as the Centre of the World. This is fascinating information and I quickly make it one of my expedition goals to journey to Ecuador’s Centre of the World. It will certainly add another exciting dimension to the expedition. Explorers, travellers and writers alike have often conjectured about what it would be like to venture deep down through to the Earth’s core. Of course the immense heat, as well as the incredibly powerful centrifugal forces generated, would be too intense for any known living thing to travel there – let alone survive. Jules Verne, the famous French storyteller and visionary, a master writer in creating a fictional reality from the impossible, wrote his novel A Journey to the Centre of the Earth in 1864. I re-read this extraordinary tale, of an eccentric professor and his friends descending through a dormant Icelandic crater, which is absolutely thrilling in its imaginative invention and the many adventures it relates.
Through my Fellowships of the Explorers Club and the Royal Geographical Society, I very often meet up with other explorers who are prepared to risk all trying to reach remote and inaccessible places, in order to make scientific and geographic discoveries to bring back and share with other Fellows. The ‘discovery’ of Ecuador’s Centre of the World, like so many other discoveries, came about through chance and, as often happens, as a result of an expedition established for entirely different purposes. After the arduous and aggressive arguments were finally resolved in establishing that the World really was ‘round’, it subsequently became important to determine its actual shape. Differing theories were propounded by various scientists, particularly as to whether there was a flattening at both the North and South Poles. This theory was proposed and argued vehemently by some scientists, whilst others expressed opposing views and insisted that the centre of the Earth bulges outwards. The arguments on these and related propositions became extremely heated but went unresolved for many years. Eventually, to settle the position and establish the truth once and for all, two expeditions were organised by the French Académie des Sciences. Initially it organised an expedition to the Arctic region and then, as part of its parallel research, in 1736 it also sent a group of French and Spanish scientists to Ecuador, led by the French aristocrat, Charles-Marie de La Condamine. Once they arrived they were assisted by a very able Ecuadorian scientist who was able to contribute to their eventually successful findings by providing specialist local knowledge of the tribal people and their territories through which the scientists had to travel. During their several years there, whilst conducting various experiments, the scientists also spent time trying to establish the exact location of the Centre of the World, assumed to be sited somewhere along
the Equator Latitude Line. After making a series of mathematical observations and taking various calculations, they were finally, in 1743, able to determine that the centre was at a place just north of the Ecuadorian capital city of Quito. However, as it wasn’t part of their original remit, apart from recording the fact, nothing was actually done to commemorate these findings for nearly two hundred years. As I mentioned, this is certainly a country of mañana!
Eventually in 1936, in the same year that the Galapagos Archipelago was declared a National Park, having realised the importance and benefits that both of these places could bring to the country, the Ecuadorian Government decided to build a special monument to celebrate the Centre of the World (called La Mitad del Mundo). For political and prestige reasons of the day, in particular the site’s close proximity to Quito, the monument was actually erected at the town of San Antonio de Pichincha. Over the years, a complex of buildings and shops as well as a museum were built around this obelisk-shaped monument. Since that time, Quito has always treated this monument and the museum as being primarily under its control. For many years this monument was taken as being the actual site of the Centre of the World and it is where all visitors and travellers were directed so that they could have their photographs taken next to the monument.
Subsequently however, it was established (although not to everyone’s liking or agreement) that this site for the Centre of the World was incorrect and therefore the monument should be moved. It was suggested that it should now be placed in the smaller and more northern town of Calacali. This was hotly (after all it is the equator) discussed and argued about for some years, but eventually there was nothing else to do but to move it. So in 1979 the original monument was carefully dismantled and transported several kilometres north, to be rebuilt in Calacali. However, the authorities couldn’t (or wouldn’t) move the museum and the other monument buildings, so as part of the compromise it was agreed that a replica monument, three times the size of the original, would be built on the original site at San Antonio de Pichincha. This second monument was completed in 1982. Now the two towns both have similar equatorial monuments, both known as La Mitad del Mundo, although most visitors still travel to the first site to have their photographs taken there. Nobody usually tells them otherwise, but it doesn’t matter too much as it is largely symbolic. However, in a manner reminiscent of a scenario from a Mel Brooks film or a Monty Python television sketch, it was subsequently decided that neither monument was geographically correct and that a place some 250 metres north of the original site was accurate. No one wants a third monument built, so the real Centre of the World remains in ‘the eye of the beholder’, which seems to me like a pretty good place for it. To be on the safe side, I recommend everyone interested to travel to both monuments, as you are bound to cross over the actual place of the real centre, wherever it should be. Of course it’s the spirit of the thing that really matters, and certainly if you cross the Equator Line enough times you’re bound to hit the exact spot, the mysterious C spot that everyone seems to be always searching for.
Climbing The Equator Page 3