"Can I really do this?" That was the question I had to ask myself. It was Tuesday. I'd just barely recovered from food poisoning (not even 100%), was south in Baños and needed to be north in Quito for my flight to Colombia on Sunday. "Can I do the Quilotoa Loop?" I asked myself again. It's an extensive four day journey: a night in Latacunga (3 hours from Banos) to adjust to the altitude, then a three day intensive trek through the Andes Mountains up to the crater lake of a dormant volcano, followed by another night in Latacunga. I didn't have four/five nights; it's too risky to be traveling back from Latacunga on Sunday with a flight to catch. "Can I do it in three nights?" I decided the answer was "Yes."
I woke up at 7am on Wednesday, ate a shit ton of yogurt (had to replenish those probiotics), bought a bunch of trail food from the grocery store, and caught the 8:30 bus to Latacunga. I arrived at 11:30, took a taxi to the Tiana Hostel where I dropped off my luggage and left with just a daypack. I asked the hostel for directions for the loop, like I was supposed to, and they gave me a completely useless map, not the actual directions. I needed to start the loop asap, so I didn't look at what they'd given me and I hailed a cab back to the station.
At 12:30 I boarded the bus to the town of Sigchos, beginning of the trek (technically the end, but I did the reverse loop, choosing to elevate and eventually culminate at the crater lake). This bus ride was an adventure all in itself. I wanted to listen to some music with Spanish, so I put on the entire Cat Empire "Steal the Light" album (see Music on My Mind for more info). It is highly unusual for a backpacker to be on the bus at this time, as everyone stays in Latacunga and then boards an early bus to give themselves plenty of time for the hike. This was the first instance of the day where I benefited from taking the "non-gringo" route. This public bus is the same, apparently, that all the children of the area use to get home from school. As we passed through towns, children ranging from probably three to thirteen years-old boarded the bus, playing games in the aisles, wrestling in the seats, and staring at the bearded backpacker wearing a bright red jacket. It is truly incredible how independent the children of Ecuador are. I saw a little girl, barely larger than the tiny school backpack she carried, exit the bus alone and walk off around a corner, who knows how far left to tarry home. I saw dogs waiting at a bus stop for two sisters no older than eight to exit the bus, the dogs barking with joy at their arrival and accompanying them up the road. This independence (amongst children as well as dogs) is prevalent throughout Ecaudor, but it's extra astonishing to see it in this vast and largely unpopulated landscape as opposed to the bustling city where everyone seems to look after every else's children and pets (or strays). As I watched in awe the vivacity of these children and the uniqueness of this culture, I felt something at my feet. Being the savvy traveler that I am, my backpack was nestled snug in my lap. I lifted it and peered down through the space between my knees to see a giggling child, being tickled by another who had apparently wrestled him down from the row behind me. When this little boy, no more than five, caught my eyes, he stopped laughing and his big brown eyes looked directly into mine, his face elongated in wonder, his mouth half open in question. The other boy, wondering why his prodding fingers no longer elicited squeals of laughter from his friend, stuck his head under the seat as well, noticed the direction of his friend's gaze and proceeded to turn his own head to stare confusedly at me as well. Once their curiosity had had its fill, they retreated back to the row behind me, ran down the aisle screaming and found another boy with treats. My amusement was boundless, and I continued to enjoy these antics and the occasional blatant stares of children, who would stand right at the edge of my seat, unblinkingly examining my face, all the way to Sigchos.
Upon arrival at Sigchos, the natives pointed me on my way (abajo), a few asked me why I would want to walk all the way to Quilotoa instead of taking a bus or taxi, and I headed off. I opened for the first time the map given to me by Hostel Tiana, to see that it was absolutely no help at all, just a birds eye view of the towns that make up the loop (see image). So, I pulled out my phone, hoping that the Maps.Me app would show me the trail. Voila! It did, no problem here! What I didn't know then was that the route shown was probably the shortest distance but definitely not the one recommended for gringo backpackers. It would lead me down and up tiny crevasses, across rivers, and face-to-face with large territorial dogs. And it would take me on the greatest hike of my life! 4.5 hours completely off the beaten path, not seeing a single other backpacker and only three or four locals. Out of breath, drenched in sweat, adrenaline pumping, I would summit individual hills and turn to see the completely untouched expanses of nature below, above and beyond me; and the thought came to me so clearly: "I did it." I didn't know how much hike I had before me nor the dangers that lay on that path, so I didn't know the irony of such a terminate statement; but I stand by it. I did it. For the first time since arriving in Ecuador the gravity of what I had done seeped in. I was in another hemisphere, completely alone in a kind of nature I had never seen before. Totally out of my element and completely captivated by it. This was and is my journey. Still out of breath and somehow more drenched in sweat, I hiked on. The territorial dogs bared their teeth and barked at me, as if to say, "You don't belong here." I thought, "No, perro. I do. I am. Sí, yo soy aquí."
As beautiful as that sentiment was, those dogs were all next to the path. As I approached the large river to cross, with the only approach being a narrow path, a very large black dog emerged from a house in order to stand in it and stare me down. "Shit!" I thought. "Shit!" I said. I slowly approached him, with my metal water bottle in front of me as my only and necessary weapon, saying out loud, "Ok, dog, you be cool and I'll be cool. I'm just going to slide past you. Just be cool." Unfortunately, the dog did not speak English. Stupid me. He let out a shrieking bark then bared his teeth, snarled and charged at me with full speed, closing the twenty feet between us. I know better than to try to outrun a full grown dog, and was not cocky enough to try the be big and show no fear approach, so I backpedaled as a way of saying, "Ok, I'm not approaching your property, we're cool," but all the while waving my water bottle in front, ready to smack him in the face and give him a desperate kick. He stopped with maybe seven feet to spare. I continued to walk backwards. He continued to bark; his comrades behind barked their support. I retreated far up the hill to the nearest farm where I had seen a person (the only I'd seen in over an hour). I approached her. The dog at her side, slightly bigger than a corgi, charged at me full speed, just as angry and vicious. She called to the dog and it stopped, maybe five feet from me, still snarling. She approached. We haggardly exchanged words in Spanish; essentially, I said, "I need to cross the river to reach Isinlivi, but your dog is attacking me." To which she replied something along the lines of, "Don't be a pussy, he doesn't bite." I convinced her to walk me past him. On the way, she grabbed from a pile a beautifully crafted walking stick and instructed me to wave it at the dogs and they will go away. We approached the giant beast again. With his master in front of me, he did not stir. As he sat there, looking at us, it was hard to imagine that ten minutes ago this creature was a nightmarish rage of teeth and speed. We passed him. As soon as we did, and his master was no longer between us, he once again erupted into fury and leapt towards me (but not AT me) in a cacophony of barking, gnashing teeth and guttural snarles. I waved the stick and he kept at bay. His owner yelled at him, "Tranquilo! Tranquilo!" Her surprise surprised me -- I still thought I was walking the common path. I started to wonder how many gringos this dog had ever seen, and how it could be that his owner was unaware of his dislike of them. That thought haunted me as I continued the final two hours of the hike to Llullu Llama.
The owner and her companions, who had just come back across the river with some cows, watched me as I crossed the river and trekked on. About five minutes later I heard a howling, and realized it was them, letting me know that I had missed the turn up the mountainside. I waved my thanks, entered the steep canyon, disappearing from them under the canopy of trees. The escalation was incessant. I took many breaks -- about every ten steps. Dogs barked but did not approach. But the sun began to set. At 6:15 I had a beautiful sunset. I stopped to enjoy it only because I needed to break for breath; but enjoy it I did, knowing what it meant. My phone said 30 more minutes. My phone didn't know how maladjusted to the altitude I was. At 6:45 darkness enveloped me. I took out my headlamp. It was barely enough to show the path at my feet. I heard a sound just to my left -- it was a sheep, coming to check me out. It took me a while to even make it out in the darkness, and when I did (it was very creepy looking) I heaved a great sigh of relief for its lack of teeth. The path got steeper, but as I turned a corner I could see it: the lights of the Llullu Llama Hostel. I climbed and climbed, and finally found myself walking past the pet llamas outside the hostel's kitchen. The cooks saw me with my headlamp and crooked their heads in confusion. I entered the hostel and the receptionist greeted me with, "Where are you coming from?" It was confirmed, I had certainly not been on the gringo path. But now in the safety, warmth, and good smells of the hostel at dinner time, I was ever the more glad about that.
The Llullu Llama Hostel is a cozy wooden abode reminiscent of a tiny lodge, and in addition to the llamas out front has a big St. Bernard puppy, named Baloo, out back. I was greeted there, unexpectedly, by friends I had met a week earlier in Quito. After an outstanding communal dinner and lounging by the fireplace drinking wine (tea for me, still too soon after the food poisoning), we headed out back where I cuddled Baloo like crazy -- so happy to see a friendly dog -- while we all looked up at the star filled sky. The comfort, company, and celestial beauty brought the new Dirty Heads song to my mind, "Moon Tower." As you might imagine, I turned-in somewhat early and slept like a baby.
The next two days I hiked with my friends. We arrived at the Quilotoa Laguna, a crater lake of the dormant volcano, to which some locals sing songs to the volcano in hopes of keeping it asleep with lullabyes. We hiked down, up and around the crater, kept the angry dogs away with our sticks, and had an incredible time. The question, "Can I really do this?" had been answered, definitively, such that the question now seemed silly. "Should I have done this?" Still I valid question. But I couldn't be happier that I did.
