My First Hike Was Chimborazo

by Jacob Berkowitz (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Ecuador

All the oxygen in the world could not soothe my South Floridian lungs as I waved my friends to continue their trek upward. In retrospect, Chimborazo, the highest mountain in Ecuador and the farthest point on the planet from Earth’s center, was not an ideal place for my first hiking experience. But it was a memorable one. My three friends were avid outdoorspeople and didn’t need to be told twice to move on after I collapsed on the nearest structure. “There’s no way I’m surviving another two hours of this,” I thought as I gasped for air. I was joined by other resting hikers, mostly young children and seniors, who also did not have the disposition to scale the dormant volcano. After I watched my friends disappear up the trail, my eyes fixated on the snow-covered peak of Chimborazo. I had to crane my neck to appreciate her commanding presence over the Ecuadorian highlands. I wanted a closer look. Renewed energy got the better of me almost immediately. Loose gravel that peppered the dirt trail outclassed the poor traction of my sneakers, nearly causing me to slip and fall on my back. If I was to make it through the hike unbruised, I would need to move carefully. Without pressure to keep up with my athletic companions, I could do that. My turtle crawl up the trail was inefficient, but effective. Walking at my own pace and stopping frequently kept me upright and ensured I would not tire myself out. The realization I could get to the top using this strategy also boosted my confidence. Forty-five minutes of my start and stop strategy was working. The top refuge of Chimborazo drew ever closer and I didn’t feel like I’d die before I arrived. That changed when I drained the last droplets from my single-use water bottle. If there is any advice I’ll give to a first-time hiker on any trail, let alone Chimborazo, it’s to bring plenty of water. I rationed mine the best I could, but it wasn’t enough. I later learned the stream water is drinkable (it comes from the snow) – knowledge I would’ve appreciated beforehand. Carrying an empty water bottle and oblivious to the stream, I pulled an orange out of my hoodie pocket and tore into it. Orange juice was glued to my face and sleeves as exhaustion forced me to take a long break next to a small crowd of hikers. Their attention was absorbed by a vicuña, a small relative of the alpaca that is native to the Andes mountains. The woolly animal grazed between rocks just off the trail and was unconcerned with the half-dozen people that flocked for pictures. I admired the vicuña and snapped a selfie of my own after the onlookers moved on. The much-needed rest spurred me to the next checkpoint, where I was surprised to see my friends. They were equally surprised to see me. My best friend Julian gave me praise, but more importantly, he shared his water canteen with me. For the final stretch of the trail, Julian matched my pace while the other two forged forward. When we finally reached the top, we were in the clouds – or close to them at least. The peak was obscured, though I could see the snow that blanketed much of the volcano’s upper levels. But the truly awe-inspiring view was that of the countryside. My jaw dropped at the patchwork quilt of rolling red hills, green blob of trees and clouds blanketing faraway mountains -- I’d never seen so much of the world at once. We took pictures and absorbed the view, then headed into the upper refuge, where a family of three generations dutifully catered to their weary guests. I scarfed down a chocolate doughnut and gulped a cup of coca tea. The tea warmed my extremities as my muscles suddenly became less aware of their aching. It was exactly what I needed for the return trip. The doughnut was a reward. Full of coca, sugar and pride I blazed past my friends down the trail, reaching the car first. I only slipped and fell four times.