A POOR-MAN’S EVEREST
Climbing costs $250, includes guide, dinner, accommodations
Mount Everest is the highest mountain on Earth — everyone knows this. But few people realize its geometric supremacy is true only when measured from sea level. If you want to stand atop terra firma’s true pinnacle — the place farther than any other from the centre of the Earth — then your destination is a volcano in Ecuador named Chimborazo. This is because the Earth is not a perfect sphere; like me and most of my friends approaching middle age, it has a bulge along its midsection. This deformity is caused by centrifugal forces from the Earth’s rotation, which raise sea level by several kilometres near the equator. At 6,268 metres, Chimborazo is well below Everest’s 8,840 metres, but measured from an absolute point of reference instead of the malleable oceans, it is more than two kilometres “higher” than Everest.
I first learned of Chimborazo when I passed under its shadow on a cycling trip through Latin America. Its veil of clouds prevented a clear view of its triangular bulk, but a candlelit dining room photograph of its glaciated peak dominating the surrounding landscape haunted me for months afterward. That and the assurance of a local guide it can be climbed easily by a mountaineering wannabe — like me. In the past two decades, guided tours up Everest have made it accessible to non-professionals, however the $65,000 price tag ensures only affluent amateurs get a chance. The cost of climbing Chimborazo is roughly $250 and that includes a guide, dinner and accommodations on the mountain, and a convenient taxi ride three-quarters of the way up.
When I returned to Ecuador to attempt to climb Chimborazo, I was cautiously optimistic about my chances of reaching the summit. Success depends on two things that cannot be predicted: the weather and my ability to acclimatize to high altitudes in a short time. I flew into Quito, which, at 2,800 metres, is second in altitude among the world’s capital cities. Only La Paz, in Bolivia, is higher. Quito is a busy city of three million with green mountains looming overhead. And its wellpreserved colonial centre provides enough sights and sounds to occupy a wannabe mountain climber for a few days before moving on to higher altitudes.
My next stop was the Urbina train station near the base of the Chimborazo massif. The 100-year-old station house, which hasn’t hosted a train in 20 years, has eight guest rooms tucked underneath its pitched ceiling. For four days, I explored the lower slopes of Chimborazo, walking on an ancient stone highway through tiny villages. Gaining altitude, the villages give way to sparse farmsteads where sheep and cattle graze on sloped pastures. The road eventually transitions into a footpath winding up alpine meadows decorated with glacial creeks and flocks of domesticated alpacas and wild vicunas.
When I felt ready to make an attempt on Chimborazo, I recruited one of Ecuador’s finest guides, Paco, from the nearby city of Riobamba. Wanting a guide with experience, I was delighted when the 33-year-old Paco told me he had stopped counting his trips up Chimborazo after 200. Neither of us spoke the other’s language so our communication relied heavily on gestures and grunts. Nevertheless, I was able to learn that Paco had climbed Chimborazo with a French couple the night before, and that he had not slept before our expedition, which started with a 3 p.m. taxi ride to 4,800 metres and the first of Chimborazo’s two high-altitude shelters.
While Paco prepared dinner, I explored the surrounding boulder field that had, over the years, sprouted an expansive collection of tombstones for those who died on the mountain. The several dozen memorials are a sobering reminder to all climbers of the unavoidable risks that exist at high altitudes, and reinforcement that the first priority must not be summiting the mountain, but instead coming back down. I nervously ask Paco about the large number of fatalities, the most recent dating back only a few months.
Between yawns he replied: “avalancha,” and resumed cooking.
Because of avalanche danger, the usual strategy for Chimborazo involves climbing through the night so the peak can be reached and the retreat off the glacier completed before the sun has time to warm the ice and reduce its stability.
After a meal of lentil stew, we hiked to a second shelter at 5,000 metres, arriving as daylight faded. I closed my eyes for a few hours of sleep before Paco knocked on my door at 11 p.m. With our headlamps glowing, we stepped out into the frosty darkness.
We clambered up snowcovered rocks for an hour until we reached an icy ridge, where we paused to attach crampons to our boots and a rope to our climbing harnesses. A full moon emerged above the clouds and our headlamps were no longer required. The weather was cold and calm, but to the south dark clouds and flashes of light indicated a storm was nearby. As I watched the clouds stack vertically and the frequency of lightning increase, I meekly voiced my concerns to Paco.
He said a few sentences in Spanish while pointing around, which I interpreted as: “The sky near the summit is calm and we are high above the storm clouds, so the weather is not a concern.”
No longer fearing the storm, for the next few hours I affectionately gazed down on billowing clouds and bursts of static electricity; fortunate that from this perspective I was beyond reach of its power and fury, but still privy to its symphonic beauty.
The moon eventually fell below the horizon and our headlamps were pressed back into service. We spent most of the climb trudging up a glacier while skirting steep pitches and crevasses. The only skill required was to follow Paco up the icy slope in a zigzag pattern. My oxygen-deprived brain shut down much of its normal activity and I robotically moved my legs at the same slow pace as Paco.
We climbed higher and as we approached the rim of the summit crater we were blasted by frozen gusts of wind and howling clouds. We were stopping every few minutes but despite fero- cious panting, I was never able to fully catch my breath. The fog was too thick to see the topography of the volcano’s caldera, but Paco knew the way to the summit. It wasn’t until he held out his hand to congratulate me that I realized we had made it. Obviously, he deserved the “felicidades” much more than I since it was his second trip to the summit in 24 hours.
It was 5 a.m. and still dark. Originally, I planned to watch the sun rise from the summit, but after only a few minutes of idling, my fingers and toes were frozen numb. Desperate to avoid frostbite on my digits we started the descent. The feeling in my fingers returned within the hour, but it took almost a month for numbness in my toes to disappear.
Our descent was quick and soon we were back where we started. The doubt and anxiety I harboured for weeks about reaching the summit had vanished, replaced by overpowering fatigue. If I wasn’t so tired I might have felt proud for having stood closer to outer space than anywhere else on Earth — but, alas, all I could muster was a modicum of relief that I went up a hill and made it back down.