Climbing The Equator

by Neville Shulman

  There are many sections of further loose, slippery scree to climb up, and it often is a case of two steps up and one step down. Occasionally, and this is immensely frustrating of course when it happens, I take one step up and slide two steps down. At such moments I almost feel like giving up, but then the sight of my fellow climbers silently making their own way upwards always makes me determined to carry on a while longer. I am breathing really hard, gulping in the thin air, forcing myself forwards and am finding the higher rocks even more treacherous. I am worried I may take a tumble, which can easily cause considerable damage and prevent me continuing. If I have to give up I want it to be because I just can’t go on any longer, not because of some stupid accident which could have been avoided.

  I start to practice samadhi, the Zen practice of intense concentration, to force myself to climb on. Despite it becoming increasingly difficult to manage a proper balance on the jagged and protruding rocks, we don’t rope up for some time and I am surprised at this but feel I can’t suggest it. However eventually it is quite clear to all of us the rocks are becoming too dangerous, are looking extremely unsafe from every point of view, and it will be much better if we are all roped together. I am roped third after Axel, so feel it necessary to climb at a faster pace than I really want, in order not to slow the others down. Enrique and Axel continue to climb at quite a fast pace, I also sense Jorge behind me is also impatient to move ahead, and therefore I feel the pressure to keep going at their quicker pace. Anyhow I reason to myself, perhaps it isn’t such a bad thing, as otherwise there is the real concern we may not have the opportunity to reach the Summit slopes before the sun rises. If that were to happen it would quickly become extremely hot and we will suffer the effects from the sun’s intense rays, particularly with the bulge of the Earth in this region bringing us even closer to direct exposure.

  In fact the weather throughout the ascent and the subsequent descent becomes steadily worse. It snows and sleets incessantly, and we do not see the sun for the whole time. We climb to the left away from the summit approach, and at last I start to achieve a good rhythm and make steady progress. It seems as if it has been going on forever, but finally we at last leave the sliding scree and ultra slippery rock sections. It’s real ice time and there’s an ice wall to climb so we remove our lifeline ropes and go for it. There’s the use of a step ladder, which though unstable still helps a bit, and with a huge scramble and struggle I reach the ice ramp of El Corredor (sorry, no marks to those who guess this means the corridor). It’s set between heavy layers of rocks stretching way below and the higher outcrop of several large rocks known, because of the shape of the highest one, jointly as El Castillo (the castle).

  We stop on the snow at the entrance to the ramp to put on our crampons, and I am certainly glad of the breather. We then trek, still roped together, across to the right along El Corredor and edge steadily forward fighting against the extreme winds for about an hour. There are a few minor rock falls and we can hear the small rocks ricocheting down the mountain for a considerable time. It is quite a worry as there are always dangers of larger rock falls, and if any one of us is hit and falls the remaining three could easily end up being dragged downwards as well. After trekking past the rock outcrops and now veering to the left, we make a long, laborious climb up the ice to reach the Castillo Way.

  The ice here is rock hard and it is very painful to kick my crampons in, particularly with my right foot. I feel it twinge all the way up to my knee. My plan to rely mostly on my left foot has proved impossible, and both feet have to share equally the considerable pain of kicking in and pushing hard on the ice. There is suddenly a crevasse right in front of us and we skirt it carefully, all too aware it can extend for quite a distance below the ice, unseen, but ready to suck us into it if we don’t exercise extreme caution. In Zen false thoughts or actions are known as delusions and I must remain totally aware to avoid taking any false steps. We move very slowly forward, all the time prodding the ice with our axes, hoping we will only encounter more hard ice and the axe won’t break through into a void. At El Castillo itself, apart from encountering a few small crevasses, it becomes relatively straight forward, with us now heading in a direct north-west direction.

  After several painful hours of slow, hard climbing we reach about half way along the massive glacier heading towards the Veintimilla Peak (6,270 metres). This is unfortunately known as the false summit as it’s not the one you must achieve to complete the climb successfully, and we all know we need to keep something in reserve to make the real summit. There are several unstable seracs to avoid as well as snow towers to be carefully passed, which are all very difficult to overcome and my ice axe is sometimes essential to wedge me through and occasionally up and over. Another, larger crevasse presents itself for inspection, as if anxious to welcome us into its depths, but we resist its siren call and edge around it, to continue cautiously upwards.

  My legs are very tired and I can feel very dull aches in both my knees. This is somewhat ominous but I don’t want to mention it to the others, just as they would keep any pains they have to themselves. My right toe has finally decided enough is enough and is throbbing madly, but I try to use the pain to force myself on. Both the two guides are still looking quite relaxed and Axel also doesn’t complain about anything so I certainly am not going to. I try to get into more of a rhythm, chanting my Zen counting mantra and sometimes I manage it but mostly I don’t. I am starting to run out of steam and am not certain whether to announce I’ve had enough or need a longer rest to try and get some of my strength back. I must concentrate harder. Susoku in Zen is counting the breathing to ten, repeating again and again, to focus the mind. I start to feel focused again, but will it last?

  There is no real choice of course but to continue, as the alternative would be for me to go down, and that would probably mean one or more, or possibly everyone would then have to return with me. No one speaks now and it seems as if even the guides are finding it as tough. In a perverse way that thought spurs me on. There are constant belays to set up and I feel I am being dragged upwards and try desperately to go with the flow. A few jazz numbers keep echoing through my brain and they help to propel me upwards. Towards the end of this section, the weather clears temporarily, as if encouraging us all on, somehow we all seem to find renewed strength or courage and suddenly it isn’t proving as difficult as before. We take a final rest but it is so cold and we are so exposed that we can only stop for a few minutes and it is preferable to continue.

  We now gain some momentum and keep going regardless, and with a further spurt we are at the Veintimilla Summit. Now we all know there is no turning back and we must see it through. The final climb up the Whymper Steps to the actual Summit however is horrendous and feels so painful in all ways; my chest pounding, my legs hurting, particularly my right knee and foot, my head a dull ache. I don’t really know how I will manage to keep going. On my own I don’t think there would have been any chance, with one other climber I doubt I could have managed, but with the four of us there is a real force created, and it becomes possible and somehow we make it. Thank you Jorge, thank you Enrique, thank you Axel.

  The summit crater, with mists swirling across it, is huge. I am standing on the point in the world that is furthest from the Centre of the World than any other. I have actually achieved my three goals; travelling from Britain and starting out from the longitude of 0-0-0, arriving to Ecuador and reaching the latitude of 0-0-0 and now climbing to the top of Chimborazo, the ‘tallest’ mountain in the world. It is definitely a special moment in time but not one in these bitter conditions to savour for too long.

  It is icy cold, the intense chill is fighting its way through me and the winds are so fierce it isn’t even easy to stand upright. I lean on my ice axe to allow myself a final few moments to experience the mountain. I feel its deepness, its remoteness, it is another place, in another country and it has its own being, and for some moments I am privileged to be part of it. René Daumal expresse
d his philosophical take on any great experience in a way so appropriate to my feelings at this intense time. ‘You cannot stay on the summit forever. You have to come down again. One climbs and one sees; but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one no longer sees, one can at least still know.’

  Jorge and Enrique gently insist it’s time to leave this mountain top, otherwise it might not let us leave. The way down is horrendous, almost more so than the ascent, and first the ice and then the rocks are tearing at my knees and I continually feel as if they are on fire. The Zen teacher Yamada Roshi stated, ‘Pain in the knees is the taste of zazen,’ but he was really referring to the pain from sitting with bent knees and practising zazen to empty and free the mind, not arising from reactions to the ice and rock of the mountain. Of course there is no other choice, we have to climb down or perish, but it is a slow, painful and long descent. I fall a few times and it isn’t easy to get up, but as we are roped together that always helps me to regain my balance. Axel actually falls more than me and I guess he is also feeling as much pain but neither of us comment either then or afterwards, perhaps each waiting for the other to speak first, but in the end neither of us say anything.

  Despite everything, the atrocious weather, the pain of knees and toe, the toughest conditions, I have achieved a successful ascent to the Chimborazo Summit. But is it one I would want to repeat? Who knows, perhaps with a third attempt it would actually become easier. Once you know the way, you know when to pause, when to move ahead and more importantly what to expect. I will just have to wait and see what the future holds and if the mountain beckons me again. I know it will always be difficult to ignore its call.

  The name Chimborazo has many meanings and one is ‘the Snow that must be crossed’, another ‘Snowy Pass’, and it has certainly been a mixture of great pain and extreme pleasure for me to cross the snow of this mountain. I know that it is only because the mountain allowed me to do so and it always retains the right to refuse. There are several other nicknames and translations including ‘Woman in Ice’, ‘Icy Home of the Gods’, ‘Sacred Winds of the Moon’, I decide to give it my own one, ‘the Mountain Nearest to Heaven’.

  CHAPTER 19

  HIDDEN IN THE FOREST

  He is asleep, he is awake. In between is a special moment, a secret moment. He always has many secrets and he is forced to live a secret life. The enemy are always looking for him and his family and they only want to destroy. He can’t understand why that is but he has seen their work over too many years to have any doubts about their intentions. He listens carefully, trying to hear any unusual noises which might indicate danger. The forest is stirring, there are rustlings of movement and several birds are starting to call out. He loves these early morning sounds as everything about him comes slowly to life. There is never a reason to rush and there is a natural rhythm of pace which every creature will follow. His woman and their children are still asleep but will also waken soon. He can hear their soft breathing and he feels content, his job is to protect them. There is a slight glow from the fire and they will need to bring more wood to add to it during the day.

  He slips quietly out of the hammock, but before his feet touch the floor she is also up and ready. He smiles at that, she is a light sleeper and never wants to let him leave without offering him food. He isn’t hungry now but takes some strips of meat that she offers him that have been cooked over the last few days. They don’t speak, in order not to wake the children, but he touches his knife and she knows he is going hunting and may not be back for one or two days. Of course if he is really lucky he might come back sooner, only the jungle could know that. She touches a finger to the long, jagged scar running down his right leg and then to his forehead. She is telling him to be careful and he nods his understanding. He had been lucky once and he couldn’t expect to be as lucky again.

  The anaconda had saved him and it wouldn’t save him again. That is the rule. He accepts his debt and has no more right to ask for its help again. It had suddenly swung out of its hiding place, angry and ferocious, and had wrapped its coils about his attackers. It had thrashed about so wildly that they had all tumbled into a bush of poison nettles, so everyone had started screaming. Only he had kept silent, his wounds dripping so much blood he was able to slide his feet out of his bindings and start to run. The pain was a gift he could use to spur his race to freedom. He hated leaving his father’s knife behind, but he knew his spirit would understand. The monkey was also gone and he would not be able to return here. When you are given a second chance you must learn from it.

  They hadn’t pursued him, perhaps they feared another creature attack, but they still might try to find him and he didn’t stop until he had left their territory and had recognised some parts of the forest that could offer him sanctuary. He couldn’t know what had happened to the anaconda but he hoped it had escaped, as it would not suffer from the nettles and could disappear as quickly as it had come. It was now sacred to him and he would never try to harm one again. It had taken nearly a day to return to his home as he had taken a very long route back, in case any of them were still trying to pursue him and exact revenge. When his woman saw his wounds she didn’t react, that was not their way, but set about washing and cleaning them. She sent the boy quickly to fetch some plant roots and boiled them before pulping them into a paste. He lay still whilst they spread it over both legs and they waited patiently until he was ready to tell what had happened. The loss of his knife was upsetting but he had others and it had no life of its own, only carrying a memory.

  It took seven days before he started to recover but the right leg had the worse wound and it healed into a long snake-like shape that he took as a sign. Every day for a month they made an offering to the anaconda and at the end he was as before, only the scars on his leg and in his mind to remind him of how close it had been.

  He takes his blowgun and darts with him and starts down the trail leading to the river. He chews on one piece of meat as he walks but saves the rest as he might need to use them as bait. The forest is now really alive and he hears the plaintive cry of a lone monkey in the distance. He hadn’t attempted to capture one since that time, as he felt it had happened as its curse and he believed in listening to the jungle

  Several butterflies start their ritual dancing ahead of him, seemingly beckoning him forward and he follows their path further into the forest. They are gathering more as they move until he counts a dozen, all with the same vibrant blue and extra large wings. Then they all suddenly vanish and he is alone.

  He is near the river and moves quietly through the undergrowth till he reaches the bank. The waters are sluggish and it is still early for the caimans and the other water creatures to be active although he can sense he is being watched. There is a shimmering of something reflecting near the opposite bank and there seems to be something moving over there but he can’t make out what it is. Perhaps it is an anaconda or another snake. He continues downriver, stepping carefully within the foliage, trying to remain unseen, but still keeping a look out on the opposite side, as there might be another tribe out looking to hunt and he wouldn’t want them to become aware of him.

  It is a gorgeous day and he travels a long way, feeling so right with the world. There are plenty of berries to pick and he cuts into a large bulbous leaf to drink from the water it contains. It is his land, his forest, he belongs here and it is a place to live and be at peace. Then he hears the strange humming, as if a million bees were angrily buzzing around some intruder. He reaches nearer and the noise becomes louder, more insistent, more threatening. Blending into the ferns and vines surrounding the trees he edges cautiously forward. His first instinct had been to go back and leave but he needs to see. Now he can hear voices, noisily shouting above the humming. Then his heart freezes, they are here as well. A large, circular area of forest has been cleared already and a machine full of savage intent is being used by one huge man to saw at another tree, which starts to topple e
ven as he watches. This is the cause of the humming. There are several piles of cut tree trunks rolled to one side and four other men with metal hats are shouting about something, in a language he can’t understand. Each one has a gun stuck in his belt. They are enemies of the forest and are therefore his enemies. Immediately he inserts a dart, raises his blowgun and gets ready to aim. Now. Do it now, kill. Then he lowers it again, uncertain as to how and whether to proceed. He could kill one, probably two but then they would know he had seen them and would come after him. They are very strong, they control the machines, they are more powerful than the jaguar and the anaconda and he could never know what they could do. They might be able to find him and take his family away. It had happened before, to others of other tribes. Two blue butterflies dance daintily towards them, only to be waved aggressively away. They obviously have no forest soul. They are here only to take, to destroy and to leave nothing of value behind. The sun has stopped shining, replaced by a line of spreading darkness stretching eagerly towards him. Now he must move his family again, to find a deeper hiding place. What will happen when there are no more places left in which to hide?

  APPENDIX 1

  LUCKY THIRTEEN

  As the creatures that pushed Charles Darwin to the edge, making him suddenly realise what he had discovered and enabling his theory of natural selection to become a reality, the Galapagos finches definitely deserve a bird note all of their own. They are rightly called Darwin’s Finches, in homage to an original thinker who dared to question and who, as an early theologian himself, was only too aware of the dramatic and traumatic effects his findings would cause. That’s possibly why he hesitated for so many years and why he was so reluctant to publish his findings. Who knows, if Alfred Russell Wallace’s own writings hadn’t pushed him into action, whether he would have even told the world his startling theories. How many times, over so many years, Darwin must have stared at the stuffed sets of finches and wondered if he dared. An eagle yes, a cormorant perhaps, a booby possibly but the humble finch! This was his inspiration to change and challenge the world!