La Ascencion del Altar

March 10, 2008

“The Bishop”, is the name given to the 17,451 ft peak of El Altar volcano. The Spaniards thought the pointed crown of the volcano looked like a huge cathedral and named it El Altar. “The Bishop” is the highest, but El Altar actually has nine separate summits surrounding it’s 3km crater with equally pious names. “The Big and Little Nuns”, “The Tabernacle”, “The Eastern Friar”, “The Devout Friar”, “The Central Friar”, “The Great Friar”, and “The Cannon” all share court around the Laguna Amarilla at the crater’s center. Incas called this massive collapsed volcano "Capac Urcu," meaning "Almighty Mountain." A full fledged ascent of this magnificent volcano, thought by many to be Ecuador’s finest climb, takes 7 days.

Well, I didn’t have a week, or a crampon, or an ice axe, so I opted for the lazy gringo route. Let the horse do the work and then hike the final 1000 ft to the crater rim. This works out well if you think the ride will be the local fair ground pony amble with cotton candy at the end. In reality, however, it is a hard core cowboy ride up and down the steepest terrain I have ever encountered, on a mule. Throw in 3 feet deep mud, land slides, and rain storms, and it is surprising I have lived to tell the tale.

My partner in crime was the young, gullible Swede, Johanna. We had stayed the night as the only guests, and only occupants of the rustic Hostal Releche. Unless, of course, you count the enourmous mountain beatle that flew circles around us sounding in no small way like a helicopter chopper. At 7:30am Saturday morning we were waiting patiently as our guide, Sergio, worked silently in his blood red poncho and leather chaps, readying the mule train for the trek.

Just before Johanna was catapulted onto her mule she decided to tell me that the last time she was on a horse she fell off when it was standing still and broke her arm. Seeing as I still thought this was a fairground pony trek that didn’t seem to be a problem. Then we set off and Johanna and her mule set off in a different direction. “What do I do?”, she yelped, as her mule disappeared down an alternate path and her reins flopped about unfettered on the mules neck. “Hold the reins”, I yelled after her as we dashed off in pursuit and tried to corral her wayward mule. Once we had all our mules in a row, we continued on towards the legendary mountain.

From the beginning I could see that this was to be a ride like no other. The horses sloshed about in knee deep mud and the guide kept whipping his reins at Johanna’s mule’s rear yelling “mula!” to get him to pick up what already seemed like a fairly good pace. Johanna was bouncing around in the saddle, threatening to bounce off at any moment, and I was weaving back and forth on the trail trying to hem Johanna’s mule in and prevent him from charging off to lands unknown. Then the going got steeper and the horses were grunting with the effort of the slippery mud and we all just settled down to business.

We went on for a couple hours in this fashion until I noticed that the guide had stopped bellowing “mula” and seemed to be peering intently into the gorge below. “No hay via”, he muttered and raised a hand for us to stop. I could now see rushing water and a brown sludge indicating a recent mud slide through the area we were traveling. We dismounted and after a cursory check the guide beckoned for us to continue on foot. Johanna and I slogged through the thick mud in our newly purchased rain boots. I tried to remember escape maneuvers for quicksand from my “how to survive any catastrophe book” as the mud sucked me down and threatened to seep over the boot rim at my knee caps. There was no way to avoid the mud and soon we had both hands plunged into the oily black goo in order to pull our foot free for each step with out leaving the boot behind. We managed the crossing and then the horses were sent across riderless. The weight of their bodies plunged them deeper into the mirey mud until the black earth rose up to their bellies and threatened to envelope them whole. They didn’t seem fussed, however, and emerged once again on the other side dripping and shaking the mud off like a dog wrestles out of the water.

An hour later, Johanna miraculously still in the saddle, we reached the refugio on the Collanes plain and the mules were let loose to graze and rest. Johanna and I continued on foot the final leg to the crater rim. The peaks of El Altar were shrouded in fog, but the Bishop revealed himself enough to show the grandeur of his lofty position. As we made our way across the boggy plain cattle mooed in the distance and small herds of horses and new foals meandered across the pasture lands. The valley walls echoed with the play of water and I counted over 20 streams cascading into falls as they flowed over cliffs and rushed to the valley floor.

Another two hours later and we made the pass of the caldera and high rock wall enclosing Laguna Amarilla. The view was breathtaking and worth every gasp and muddy boot it took to get there. We spent only 10 minutes beneath the altar before we had to return to catch Sergio and the mules before they left with out us. As we stood up to leave The Altar awoke to give a mighty groan of breaking ice and then lay silent once again. It was as if our visit and toil had been acknowledged by the ancient mountain and he had roused himself briefly before falling asleep again.

Our return trip was no less exciting. We were enveloped in a thick fog within minutes of departing and then the heavens let loose. The wind fought us and the rain soaked us and still the mules labored on. We came to the mud slide and Sergio hacked a new route and shoveled heaps of mud over the trial edge to clear a path. We set off again, Johanna by now an expert rider. Two hours more and we were back at the hacienda, almost 10 hours after we left.

I was frozen to the core and covered in dirt, mud, horse hair, and filth, but I would gladly return to the Bishop and his altar to record the majesty of such seldom seen beauty once more.