Pandemic in Paradise
With tea in hand, gear drying on haphazard lines strung above the sleeping quarter’s wood stove, and my shaken body starting to thaw, I immediately felt immense relaxation and comfort within the cozy hacienda walls of the Secret Garden Cotopaxi. I was unsurprised to hear many stories from the mixed volunteer staff and travellers that this was a place to get stuck well beyond your planned stay, and return to repeatedly. The hacienda-turned-hostel still felt very much like a family home, if your family was a 30-strong cultural smorgasbord entirely focused on hiking, drinking, and smoking joints. Unlike a typical hostel, there was no shared kitchen, instead collecting all guests and staff together for shared “family style” meals. High Andean mountain trekking of varying levels of difficulty was the main attraction of the area, and so the common meals facilitated opportunities for sharing experiences and advice about the many options available for guided explorations of the region.
The owner/proprietor was a spiritual Ecuadorian man offering traditional needle tattooing to guests in the evenings, accompanied by the perpetual passing of fine South American ganja. Crackling fires in each of the buildings, a river-fed wood fire hot tub, and a giant hammock deck provided plenty of relaxation for weary bodies after a long and often wet day hiking and climbing. Llamas wandered the grounds outside, and dogs curled up next to travellers enjoying a constant stream of belly scratches.
I didn’t have an interest in spending the time or resources on any sort of significant mountaineering objectives, which is common in this area. I have my personal thoughts about guided mountaineering, which cascade down from the objectively broken system of high altitude tourism (read: Everest). Admittedly, there is a deep level of hypocrisy to my line of thinking, as I have absolutely no idea where the line should be drawn on this topic. Regardless, I believe the highest points of our beautiful planet are special places, and I would love to see them remain that way. With the totality of technology that blankets the Earth today, romantically I dream of places that are thin of air, yet thick of old world adventure, mystique, and challenge. Where the skill of the adventurer should match the obstacles of accessibility.
And I’ll be sure to ponder this further while I’m ecstatically riding my snowmobile across a kilometres-wide ice cap glacier, gleefully hopping out of a helicopter to access a remote backcountry skiing lodge, or aiding up a bolt ladder to climb a rock face well beyond my skill. But for some completely arbitrary reason, a high mountain summit represents something different to me, and I hold it in a different regard.
Hey, we all need to define our own realities, right?
Back to the topic at hand of Ecuadorian mountaineering, I possessed no judgement towards anyone that had the objective to summit Cotopaxi, or the even bigger objective of the other Ecuadorian classic, Chimborazo. I’m fortunate to spend a significant amount of my life in the mountains at home, and the drive just isn’t there to spend my vacation on a 12 hour midnight slog on a guided summit push through altitude sickness. I was just stoked to be in the presence of such a majestic monument of our planet.
I did have my own objective that definitively highlights the hypocrisy of my preceding words: to get higher than I have ever been.
An alternative to summiting is to join a tour to travel by pickup truck from the hostel at 3500m to mid-mountain on Cotopaxi at 4500m, and hike up to the toe of a glacier on the mountaineer’s route at 5000m. A true “adventure” it was not, but it was a superb day in a surreal landscape, and an opportunity to meet some friends that I would connect with again later on my trip.
Entrance to the National Park
The driver of the second truck carrying guests on the tour got rowdy and made a failed attempt to pass us…
Amazing to think this landscape is roughly 50km off the equator
A lone Ecuadorian Andean Wolf
Looking up at the summit and the “Refugio”
The squad posing at the 5000m top-out of the trail
Returning back to the hostel, the weather was uncharacteristically clear and dry, which lead to a super fun afternoon into evening of incredible views, good food, mediocre yet plentiful wine, equally plentiful ganja, lots of laughs and typical hostel games and shenanigans, all wrapped up with a late night spring-fed hot tub soak. By the time I was ready to call it for the night, the sky across the valley was illuminated with an incredible star scape, and I was able to muster the energy to get the camera out to capture some Milky Way shots, and an overnight timelapse that captured the Cotopaxi climbers snaking their way up to what would have been an absolutely incredible sunrise at the peak.
The date was Feb. 29th, 2020, the day of the first recorded death from the novel Coronavirus in the US.
The next morning, I woke to more clear skies, which was apparently a rarity this time of year, and fortunate as I was about to hop back on two wheels and venture off with only a very rough idea of the path ahead. I wanted to get to the “Quilotoa Loop” as my next destination, but I was unsure about the best path to get there, which roads were suitable, the weather, and how far I could reasonably travel in a day. All things that would be very helpful to have confidence in when embarking on a solo motorcycle trip in a place like the remote high Andes, but fortunately, the world does still have room for certain levels of adventure, even today. There was no wifi or cell service at the hostel, so I didn’t have the ability to do much planning before my next leg, but I knew roughly where I wanted to end up, and felt ready for a trip into the unknown.
Felt cute, might delete later
I had decided to try for the more rugged entrance to Quilotoa, and a highly recommended hostel in Inislivi, “LuluLlama Mountain Lodge”. Unfortunately, the weather and the surprisingly terrible road conditions decided otherwise. After an hour heading south on the pan-American Highway and a warm lunch of rice and chicken soup, I headed back off the pavement into a familiar scene of progressively terrible weather. The road was significantly worse than anything previously encountered, with deep 2-3 foot tire ruts and significant erosion permeating the steep and winding mountain “road”. The rain had started to fall as well, and besides the odd person walking their herd of sheep, I didn’t see much in the way of outside help if things went sideways.
So it was time to turn around and come up with a different plan.
Feeling like a little more Internet-aided organization was in order, I decided to head to the nearest city, Latacunga, which had a pleasant historical district and some good value restored hotels in which to regroup.
Rockstar Parking
A beautiful restored colonial villa made for nice accommodations at $30/night including breakfast.
Tiramisu gelato soothes all wounds after getting shut down on your day’s primary objective
Rejuvenated through ice cream and pizza, the next day I felt ready to tackle the more straightforward (read: paved) road to Quilotoa. What it may have lacked in sketchy adventure, it more than made up for in terms of quality motorcycle riding: nearly empty, beautiful winding pavement through some of the best scenery you could ask for.
And barely any rain!
I stopped for lunch at the “crown jewel” and namesake of the region, Lake Quilotoa, and quickly decided that, although it was a beautiful spot, the town itself and local accommodation left something to be desired, and so I decided to keep moving to the idyllic-sounding peaceful mountain town of Chugchilan.
Lunch above Lake Quilotoa
Stunning Lake Quilotoa
I had read about a nice ecolodge in the town of Chugchilan, just another 45 minutes down more beautiful winding mountain road, called the Black Sheep Inn, so I pushed on to check the place out. It exceeded all expectations.
It turned out to be fortuitous timing to arrive at Ecuadorian ‘Rivendell’, as I could feel my health deteriorating as the day went on. I arrived with a light fever, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. At first I assumed it was the altitude, but it seemed to persist for quite some time even though I should have acclimatized by then. By the time I walked back to my room after dinner, I was extremely dizzy, and spent all night with a brutal fever and very intense stomach pains. I have no idea what caused this stomach virus, as I had been extremely careful on that trip about what I was consuming, but in these places, it’s not that hard to come down with something.
What I did know at the time was that my plan to complete the Quilotoa Circuit and head to the party/adventure town of Banos was put on hold. I was very accepting of this new reality, as the surrounding area looked absolutely sublime, and the hosts at the Black Sheep lodge were amazing. The volunteer hosts were a French family of three, travelling up the America's in an old Westfalia with their three year old daughter. They had been on the road for over a year already, and had no plans to stop. Communal breakfasts and dinners were shared with the other guests, which was only one other couple one of the nights, and as much as seven another night.
I ended up spending the rest of my moto week, three nights total, at the Black Sheep, venturing out for day trips from there exploring the surrounding countryside when I was feeling solid. There were some beautiful hikes, and some great riding exploring off-the-beaten path mountain roads. The nighttime fever, dizziness, and intense stomach pain continued through my stay, but besides feeling like absolute death at times, it was a great place and experience.
I ended my Ecuadorian Andes adventure with one final long, windy, and soggy ride back to Quito, which proved to be fairly tame and uneventful, besides the fact that my phone’s camera decided that it had had enough of being rattled around mounted to a motorcycle on questionable roads, and, I assume, ran off with a local alpaca to start a life together in the Quilotoa hills, as I never saw it (function) again after that.
I dropped off my bike, collected my surfboard, and sat down to try to figure out my next move to get myself to the coast. My good buddy and surf travel extraordinaire from Vancouver, Pete Raab, had recommended a town called Ayampe on the coast as a more chill variation to the extremely popular party surf destination of Montanita, just an hour north along the coastal highway. I found a seat on a flight to the nearest major city of Manta for later that day, as otherwise I was looking at a very long and convoluted series of bus travel, and a few hours later, I was stepping off the plane and shoving a rather large surfboard into a very small Uber, in search of a place to stay for the night, catching a bus to Ayampe the following morning.
Ayampe lived up to the hype as an idyllic surf town, and it would have been easy to stay there for an extended time, as long as nightly partying wasn’t your thing. An endless clean sandy beach, constant hammering surf swell, and just enough small cafes and restaurants to keep you fed, hydrated, and on occasion, entertained.
As I walked up to my jungle-enveloped hotel, Finca Punta, far above the beach at the edge of town, it was immediately clear that an ayahuasca ceremony was taking place in the beautiful gardens. As an outsider, it was definitely very interesting to observe this scene walking up after a long few days of travel. It took a moment to comprehend what was going on through the haze of incense, as spiritual travellers explored their inner minds through the stillness of meditation, or more erratic interpretive dance and movement. I didn’t linger to observe, and continued on to check in to the hostel, which turned out to be a similar test of mental strength and perseverance, due to an awkward and significant language barrier with the sporadically available staff.
This experience was definitely something I considered for this trip to, along with Peru, the cultural epicentre of the sacred medicine of ayahuasca, as someone who holds a lot of significance in the exploration of ones own mind through psychedelics. I have experienced countless deep, profound experiences through LSD and psilocybin, and have had numerous incredible breakthrough journeys with DMT, which is the main psychedelic found in ayahuasca. For a few reasons, the idea of “psychedelic tourism” can sometimes leave a bad taste in my mouth when I consider it, and so it hasn’t been something I’ve been actively looking to pursue in the past. Just like high altitude mountaineering, I 100% support the practice when done safely and respectfully, and harbour no judgement towards any person who has taken this experience. But the concept just hasn’t resonated with me to the point where I have wanted to actively seek it out.
Truth be told, I was not in a mental state to take on such an intense experience, regardless of my opinion on the matter. By that point, the stress and loneliness of solo travelling, coupled with my body still feeling pretty wrecked from night after night of sleepless fever dreams, had put me in a bit of a dark place. It had been a pretty intense winter, collecting the pieces after my relationship with Faith ended, working through some pretty deep soul searching to understand myself better, and where I wanted to be. The livelier Montanita may have been a better spot for me at the time, as the distractions and easy social connections would have kept my mind preoccupied, but sometimes it is best to meet these things head on, and work towards a better understanding of your state through mindfulness practice, and the simple beauty that is surfing.
Also, I had been keeping in touch with my French friends I met at Secret Garden Cotopaxi, who happened to be arriving in Ayampe the next day, so I was stoked on having some friendly faces around. This lead to some solid good times, as the town did happen to have a bit of a sporadic scene, and we got to see some great live music, including an insane house party where the entire town showed up, including a massive fire, live funk band, and terrible trance DJ playing through until sunrise. Was definitely pissed off at my phone’s camera running off with that damn alpaca that night, as I wasn’t about to carry my nice Fuji around with me, and the party was quite the spectacle.
Always good to be back on the West Coast
One key final decision about my trip itinerary remained: The Galapagos.
Although it was one of the main deciding factors in choosing Ecuador as a destination, confusingly I had been on the fence about it ever since, based on various reports I had heard before my trip. But everyone that I met travelling enthusiastically told me that I would be a complete idiot to miss it if I could make it happen. So after a few days of deliberating on various options, I came to my senses, yelled “YOLO!!”, and booked a flight from Guayaquil International Airport to the capital of Galapagos Province, San Cristobal.
The date was March 9th, 2020, the day of the first reported COVID-19 death in Canada. On that day, Bonnie Henry’s message to BC was to avoid travel on cruise ships, and that there was a good chance that cruise ship season would be impacted that year. Italy was at the peak of their crisis in handling the caseload and extremely high mortality rate, and the stock market was in the midst of its massive slide. In hindsight, the signs were there that things were going to get ugly. But the WHO had not declared a pandemic at this point, and the general consensus from many experts was that the spread could be contained through minimizing travel from hotspots.
So off I went to one of the more isolated island chains on Earth, to frolic with the tortoises, iguanas, blue-footed boobies, and hammerhead sharks, as the entire world plunged deeper into a global crisis.
On March 11th, the day of my flight, the WHO declared the COVID-19 outbreak as a pandemic.