Climbing The Equator

by Neville Shulman

  The front view of a booby’s face can be alarming in its intensity. Its long pointed beak makes it appear to be almost cross-eyed, but it is all part of its precision diving technique. It can zoom into the water from 30 metres or more at high speed without damaging itself, pick up a selected fish, and re-emerge all in a matter of a few seconds. To dive it tucks its wings behind it to give better aerodynamics and then bombs down without any concern, particularly as it has a head air-sac to cushion the impact as it hits the water.

  Plaza. This island is tiny and volcanic and is situated north of Santa Cruz. I learn this is one of the best places to see and study iguanas and I jump ashore, splashing through the surf and find myself almost immediately in the midst of iguana country. The land and marine iguanas are believed to have gone their separate ways after arriving in the islands and keep themselves to themselves now that they are separated by biological history. The land iguanas have very bright colours, yellow and orange of every shade, which makes them stand out from the surrounding dark lava slabs on which they spend most of their time. The males will assert their rights over a certain place or area and then will fight furiously any other male that seeks to invade. The cleverer male will make his home inside a spacious cavern, possibly created from a lava rock bubble, as this proves a great draw to the ladies. There’s never much else to get excited about.

  A number of the females will then congregate outside in anticipation and wait for the call. It isn’t long in coming and one by one they will enter and obediently take the ‘receptive’ position. They obviously haven’t heard about equal rights, after all it’s a long way from the mainland, several hundred years in fact.

  The pregnant iguana then starts a long, exhausting, tenuous journey to what must seem in iguana terms the centre of the world. It takes at least a month, sometimes two, with her slowly and painfully crossing the hardened lava slabs, suffering in the intense heat. Then a tortuous crawl down through the crumbling caldera of the volcano walls until they arrive at the warm ash beds on the actual floor of the caldera. They will gradually burrow inside and then half-submerged, wait for the birth.

  The marine iguanas have concentrated head glands which can excrete the excess salt into their nostrils so they can snort it out. This is a gradual process, and it’s possible to hear all over the islands slumbering iguanas snorting vigorously. Some scientists used to think it was a mating call but as nothing ever happened afterwards, decided it must be a waiting mating call, until it was eventually discovered to be a wake-up call instead. Iguanas are also very adept at adapting to circumstances.

  During the devastating El Niño of 1982/1983, when all their food seaweed stocks were decimated, the iguanas took to eating the beach Batis salt plant leaves and developed such a liking for them, they continue to eat it even when there are plentiful seaweed supplies. Iguanas mate during the warmer months of February and March. The males stake out their individual territories and the impregnated females (don’t ask how they do it, it doesn’t look comfortable) choose a sandy area along the beach where the tides don’t reach to bury their eggs. The sun incubates the eggs, and provided the eggs are not stolen by beady-eyed predators, bakes them out two to three months later. The baby igs, without a backward glance immediately head off to the shoreline (hawks and herons permitting) to get their first bites of seaweed. The marine iguana has a symbiotic relationship with the sally lightfoot crab, as it will sit and stare impassively forward whilst the crab clambers all over it, picking off bits of shredding skin to eat. It’s unlikely they share any common language, although perhaps there is a way of interpreting a twitch or a shrug, when the iguana might want to indicate, ‘A little lower, now to the left, harder, perfect, that’s just right.’ An iguana would never, however, allow anything to crab its style.

  Santa Fé (Barrington). This is a very small island, not quite in the centre of the Archipelago and is about 25 kilometres south of Punta Ayores. It’s definitely a wet landing to reach its beach, but at least this time it only comes up to my knees. I am told to look out particularly for the Galapagos hawks and land iguanas (an unusual pale colouring marking them out from the other land species), endemic to this island. There are three endemic species of the rice rat, but I prefer not to look for them. Trekking across the island I come across plenty of endemic giant cacti woods with giant prickly pears intermingled amongst them. The giant Opuntia cacti can grow to over ten metres and they provide interesting colour combinations as a reaction to the surrounding, somewhat drab vegetation and scrubland. They have the usual green prickly tops but their trunk coverings have contrasting flaky, dark rusty hues, the bark so hardened it’s almost impossible for the iguanas to chew through. As the cacti store very sought after water, they are, however, a constant draw to insects, reptiles, rodents and birds, all of which have long discovered how to avoid being snared on their prickly spines and they all certainly know the way to Santa Fé. There are also some dwarf cacti, which I’m careful not to overlook.

  Mating and Waiting in the Galapagos. Mating time is the same the whole Archipelago over, with the exception of the iguana who likes to make an early start. It is something like the Rio De Janeiro Carnival mixed with the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, with the addition of several artistes from the Cirque de Soleil performing extraordinary acrobatics. There are thousands of bird and animal voices screeching, honking, whistling, all in effect shouting noisily in their bird imitations of the singer Tina Turner, ‘Look at me, I’m simply the best.’ Some are sky-pointing, some toe-pointing, some pumping their chest pouches, for all they are worth, preening themselves in all their finery in untrue Hollywood Oscar Party Night. This time, however, many are desperate to win the Booby Prize. Everyone gets someone and the mating takes place quickly and urgently before the mood lessens, as time waits for no male.

  Seabirds in these islands are never solitary parents; there’s always a mate for each parent to rely on, whether just for the season or for a bird lifetime. Sometimes one partner may be away for weeks, as it may have to forage far and wide to look for food to bring back to the nest, leaving the other to stay on guard duty. However long it takes, the remaining parent will wait patiently, without food or water, unable to leave the nest for a moment, in case a predator, whether another bird or another creature, takes the brief opportunity to strike. When eventually the travelling partner returns, there are only short moments of exchanges of food and possibly news, before the roles are reversed and the foraging and journeying starts all over again. It’s a complete dedication and commitment within the bird world, which can only be admired.

  However, there are always tragedies. A bird may not return for many reasons, perhaps it’s been killed in a storm or in an accident, or even by a larger predator. The home-alone parent cannot know what has happened and will stay until the chick eventually starves, as may the parent, if it no longer has the strength to find food for itself. Sometimes the growing chick will need greater feeding and both parents will go off to find food. Left alone the chick is then very vulnerable to predators. If it survives till it is time to leave the nest and make its own way, it’s not certain by any means that it will be able to find enough food to feed itself. It’s a wild world out there.

  You have left me nothing to stand on, said the bird as it began to fly.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE WORLD’S

  TALLEST MOUNTAIN

  Chimborazo is now in my mind, crowding everything else out. I am prepared for my last mountain, and it’s now time to see whether I can accomplish the final goal of my expedition. This is the highest mountain of the region, a strange, remote place where I am hoping to find some answers. I need to make the attempt, even if the summit ultimately eludes me. My torn toe has mostly recovered and is feeling easier and I hope I will be able to live with whatever pain that it causes on the ascent. My knees are another matter, but I’ve climbed before with the pain and I must try to accept it this time as well. If I don’t try I’ll never know. Only on this mountain am I like
ly to find a part of any inner knowledge, even if it proves momentary. However as the Zen master, Shunryu Suzuki, states, ‘You can’t make a date with enlightenment.’ Only by allowing myself to be exposed, mentally and physically, climbing ‘into harm’s way’, will I create the conditions whereby possibly and only possibly there is even a chance of experiencing some kind of enlightenment. A Zen saying echoes this thought, ‘Gaining enlightenment is an accident. Spiritual practice simply makes us accident prone.’ What better place to experience an accident than on this high ice mountain!

  Chimborazo has long been regarded as one of the world’s special mountains, a place where it is always possible to dream. Sometimes those dreams will come true. It was once considered the highest mountain in the world, even up to the 1820s, and has inspired many explorers, writers and poets. The poem ‘Romance’ written by the playwright and poet, W. J. Turner (1884–1947), refers to the two best known of Ecuador’s mountains and has been taught and learned in schools for generations. This poem conjures up the magic that is waiting for those who are willing to travel to their icy slopes and it has encouraged many to begin their own adventures.

  When I was but thirteen or so

  I went into a golden land;

  Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

  Took me by the hand.

  The houses, people, traffic seemed

  Thin fading dreams by day;

  Chimborazo, Cotapaxi,

  They had stolen my soul away!

  Chimborazo is a five-summited mountain, the southernmost mountain in the Cordillera Occidental range of mountains and is 150 kilometres south-west of Quito. It is visible from Colombia to the north of Ecuador, and also from close to the border with Peru to the south, as well as from far out in the Pacific Ocean. Since those heady days of being thought, erroneously, to be the highest in the world, it has had to settle for being acclaimed as the tallest. As I mentioned earlier, this is due to the natural bulge at the Earth’s Equator (more than 8,000 metres). If you had the inclination, a techno-smart measuring instrument and the means of accomplishing the task, a line taken from the very centre of the earth to the summit of Chimborazo, would reach higher than a similar one taken to the summit of Everest.

  It’s totally academic of course, as we all now accept Everest at 8,848 metres (29,028 feet) above sea level is the highest mountain in the world, but the Ecuadorians are still rightly proud of this unique and powerful mountain that stands at 6,310 metres (20,703 feet) and is still a difficult climb by any mountaineering standards.

  Even Simon Bolivar, successful at achieving so much else, was unsuccessful in his Chimborazo attempt. The famed traveller and scientist Alexander Von Humboldt nearly made it in 1802 but also had to give up, although he set a record at that time of being the first to reach nearly 6,000 metres (19,500 feet). Subsequently I was to understand only too clearly how frustrated he felt. Eventually it was first climbed in 1880 by the superb English mountaineer, Edward Whymper and in his honour the main Refuge at 4,880 metres (16,400 feet), bears his name. Whymper was accompanied on this incredible climb, as indeed on so many of his mountain attempts, by the Italians, Jean-Antoine and Louis Carrel, in whose joint honour the lower Refuge, 4,020 metres, is also aptly named.

  It’s important to remember that it’s always the mountain that is the master, the climber is only ever allowed to climb on probation, the mountain can always withdraw permission. It can decide to send you away at any time it chooses, never more so than when a mountain is also a volcano. Any mountaineer venturing onto its huge glacier walls must always accept Chimborazo is the master.

  Its five peaks have been built up over extensive rock and lava formations rising up from the Andean páramos. Four of the summits are Veintimilla Summit (6,270 metres), North Summit (6,200 metres), Central or Polytechnic Summit (6,000 metres), and Easter or Nicolás Martinéz Summit (5,500 metres). However, the one to climb if you want to say you have really climbed Chimborazo is the Whymper or Ecuador Summit of 6,310 metres. This is permanently covered in ice and snow and can only be climbed with crampons, axe and harness and plenty of guts. Also more than a fair share of luck, as you will definitely need the right conditions, positive and supportive climbing companions and above all the right and committed frame of mind. In Zen terminology that is usually termed the shin approach, using the special spirit of the inner mind.

  There are always several routes up any mountain and weather conditions will often dictate which one at any particular time it is preferable to follow. Also every mountaineering guide will have his own preferred route, usually the one on which he has had most experience. As I have no previous experiences of the mountain I have no personal preference at all, so am quite content to follow whichever route is suggested by the guides. On my first attempt I am led by a guide with whom I am unable to relate at a level which might encourage me to try and overcome the difficult and dangerous climbing conditions. We do not share any karma and I feel he is negating my determination to continue. Therefore after struggling up the initial slopes for several hours I choose to stop and return down the mountain and to climb again.

  On my second attempt not only have I become more acclimatised to the high altitudes of the region, but my torn toe seems to have recovered considerably. I am also now definitely in the right mindset to give myself an acceptable chance of summit success. This time also there are now four of us, two guides and Axel, the German climber I met in Quito at the Libri Mundi bookshop. The guides are good friends, Jorge and Enrique, who have often climbed Chimborazo and seem to understand my need to feel and to experience the mountain as much as to climb it.

  Enrique has a Volkswagen car which we agree to hire and we drive for several hours out of Quito, passing Riobamba in order to reach the Carrel Refuge (4,800 metres). It’s about 7 p.m. There are already several cars parked haphazardly in every direction.

  We share out our gear and food equally and quickly set off together to trek up to the Whymper Refuge. I am feeling energetic and I decide to lead for the first few minutes but then think it advisable to take it more slowly. Everyone comes up level with me and we stay more or less like that until we reach the Refuge. Even though we are only climbing as a small group, I am feeling more confident, as I now know the initial route. It has also taken us much less than an hour to climb to the Refuge, and I arrive feeling pretty good and in no way tired. It’s sleeting slightly and very cold, and the first thing is to drink several cups of tea and then try to eat some of the food we’ve brought with us. I’m not hungry but know it’s essential to eat as much as I can, as the mountain will drain energy away fast at high altitude. I don’t sleep but am able to rest fairly comfortably, although it is pretty cold. I keep my boots on, waiting for it to reach midnight, which is when we have agreed to start up the mountain. My right foot feels a little painful but I have packed it well, hope it will last out, and intend to use my left for the really hard stuff.

  The Whymper Refuge is spacious and there are plenty of bunk beds with the usual well-used and rather dank mattresses, although no climber ever expects anything other than the very basic amenities. I pare down my clothes and equipment to the minimum, as the less weight I carry the more chance I’ll have of climbing higher. The helmet is a necessity however, although it’s definitely a lot of weight and I still decide to take both ski poles, as I know they will help to surmount some of the trickier rock and ice sections I will encounter. There are several routes but the two main ones are the shorter Whymper route, that Edward Whymper himself took over a hundred years earlier, and the Castillo Route. This is a steeper climb but more direct leading to the very long climb to Veintimilla Peak. Whymper’s own route, veering right then straight up, before cutting back to the centre, has become more dangerous over the years, due particularly to global warming causing the snow cover to diminish. There have also been increasing rock falls and a number of deaths have occurred from traversing across the ice skirting the seracs, which too often tend to crash down without warning. The Castillo woul
d also definitely give us a better chance in these harsh weather conditions.

  We set off fairly shortly after midnight, and it is a very misty and bitterly cold night, although with intermittent moonlight breaking through the drifting cloud formations. Since we arrived at Whymper the weather has worsened; the snow and sleet now drives fiercely into my eyes and I must immediately put on my goggles. There are several other climbers planning to try their luck on the Castillo Route at the same time, several already ahead of us and a few start out hard on our heels. The head torches all the climbers have are like dancing lights sparkling in the darkness, but also illustrate the driving sleet, which seems to intensify with every step we take away from the Refuge.

  We are climbing to the left of the Thielman Glacier and through breaks in the mists and clouds which drop down to envelop us, I can see the ghostly whiteness waiting and looming like some apparition just waiting to claim more victims. The initial scree and rock faces are hard going, and there is plenty of slipping and sliding as the rocks are wet and very uneven. I use the active form of Zen meditation, kinhin, to balance myself and take me forward. The snow is sleeting down so hard it’s impossible to see much and to judge which rocks are stable through the thin layers of ice and snow which are covering all sections. I have learned the rocks are becoming more uncovered each year, causing many more accidents than before, and it becomes a slow and painful process climbing up and across them. There is no obvious route to follow so I try to step whenever possible in the footsteps of Enrique, the leading guide and Axel just behind him, although they aren’t at this stage leaving any footprints to follow. Even though they are just ahead of me it isn’t always easy to see where they have been. Several times my boots become locked into rock crevices, and it takes a considerable effort to prise them free which is more draining each time.