Shaibu

After Kathy, Roger and I climbed Kilimanjaro, we flew to Zanzibar and Pemba for some island R&R.  When we arrived at the Zanzibar airport, Sabit was waiting for us with his taxi.  By sheer luck, my friends Kristen and Fredi had met Sabit while visiting Zanzibar just a year or two before us, and still had his phone number.  For the next few days, Sabit transported us to spice tours and national parks, gave us a walking tour of old Stone Town, and generally served as our guide to Zanzibar, all for a price that was almost shamefully low.  He was highly-intelligent and sophisticated and spoke English fluently.  During our long drives, we took turns enjoying sitting in the front seat with Sabit, as talking to him added richness to our experience.  And whenever we were with him, the street touts would leave us alone.  This gave us a very welcome respite from being treated as a "walking wallet" as a "mzungu" in Tanzania - especially with Roger, who ever personable, could not resist responding to the street touts and engaging them in conversation!

When we set out for Pemba, Sabit, who is originally from Pemba, arranged for his nephew Shaibu to meet us at the airport with his taxi.

Pemba was a sharp contrast to over-touristy Zanzibar.  The island had no ATMs or souvenir shops (except for one at the airport), the towns were all small, there was no nightlife, but there were miles upon miles of unspoiled beauty!  Shaibu was one of four taxi drivers on the island: a young guy who had neither the sophistication or the English language skills of his uncle:

    Melissa (pointing upwards to the sky): "Do you think it will rain today?"

    Shaibu (pointing upwards at the tall trees at the side of the road): "Mango tree!"

When he wasn't talking, Shaibu's actions were punctuated by snorts and grunts.  And when we'd drive down a road, locals sitting by the side of the road waiting for the bus would leap to their feet and leap off the road when they saw Shaibu coming!

Shaibu delivered us to the Sharook Lodge in Wete, a place selected by both ourselves and Sabit.  It was a simple lodge with a great rooftop terrace where they served amazing dinners in the evening while the flying foxes took flight from the trees nearby.  We went on some wonderful adventures with Kassin, the hotel manager, a handsome young guy whose yellowed eyes suggested malaria.  We crossed the bay in a dugout canoe to a little village where the schoolgirls followed us around from a cautious distance while local boys climbed the palm trees to fetch coconuts for us.  The next day, we went on a motorboat trip to snorkel in the amazingly clear water farther out in the bay, ending with a sublime lunch on an unspoiled little tropical island with fresh fish that Kassin had purchased from a fishing boat while we swam.  I wrote in my journal: "This brings me to a question, what's the point of ever leaving?"

That night, we asked the hotel owner about arranging an excursion to the north end of the island.  He quoted a price that made Kathy's body stiffen abruptly, while the Italian couple at the next table gestured wildly to us from behind his back to not take it.  We told him: thanks, but that's okay, we have our own taxi driver.

Back in our room later, we sent Shaibu a text.  An instant later, he was on the phone, shouting.  I talked to him, got more shouting in response, and handed the phone to Kathy while rolling my eyes.  She spoke with him slowly and calmly, and arranged with him that he'd pick us up at 9:30 AM for a half-day tour.

At 8:45 AM, Shaibu bounded up the stairs to the terrace, where we'd just sat down for breakfast.  We hastily finished our breakfast and packing, and met Shaibu in the lobby where Kassin was trying to doze and Shaibu wasn't letting him.  We piled into Shaibu's minivan and set out.  As we drove, Shaibu stopped periodically to buy beverages from roadside vendors, sandwich baggies of red juice that he let me taste.  It tasted like Red Bull, but worse.  At the Ngezi Forest Reserve, the ranger gave us a tour while Shaibu trailed behind, cigarette butt between his lips, swinging on the branches of bushes while laughing  maniacally to himself.  We drove from there to the lighthouse at the north end of the island, Shaibu careening through the rough track in a way that I told him made him look like an SUV commercial.  His response was a guttural laugh.  From the top of the lighthouse, Shaibu pointed out the white sand beach where we would go next.   Back in the minivan, we careened towards the beach, roaring through villages and sending chickens running.  When we arrived at the beach, some fishing boats and a handful of locals were already there.  Shaibu stared at them intently, snorting, and then made up his mind and turned abruptly to drive up the beach and away from the fishing boats.

When we got out, Shaibu, Kathy and I all stripped down to our swimsuits that we'd been wearing under our clothes, and jumped in the water.  Roger started changing into his swimming trunks.  Just as he exposed his naked butt, a local boy approached the car, holding his hand to shield his eyes from Roger's butt.  He and Shaibu engaged in an animated conversation, the gist of which was likely that Shaibu shouldn't be there with scantily-clad mzungu.  After the boy left, Shaibu came grunting to us, telling us we'd have to leave.  Kathy and I wrapped ourselves up hastily and piled  into the minivan with a half-naked Roger.  Shaibu drove off in a fury, scattering chickens.

In the front seat, Shaibu grunted to me that the people from that village were "uneducated", and that he was taking us to a nicer beach "where we can be free".  So we careened wildly through the north island with Kathy and Roger sitting in the back seat (Roger still half-naked) wondering what exactly was going on!  As we drove, Shaibu's mood began to lighten.  Then as we reached a village where a police officer was walking along the side of the road, Shaibu almost ran the police officer off the road because the officer was his friend and this was his way of saying hello.

As we were just starting to approach Wete, Shaibu swerved abruptly onto two tire tracks barely visible in the brush, grunting "local road", and went careening down the tracks.  As we zoomed past trees just a few inches from the side of the car, Shaibu directed me to pull in the side rearview mirror.  I asked him how he'd ever found that road.  His response: "heh, heh, heh".

We finally arrived at a white sand beach with blue water.  Roger took off to explore, Kathy and I started venturing towards the water, and Shaibu locked the keys inside the car!  Roger returned, and the two of them somehow rescued the car keys together, as evidenced by the fact that we're not all still at that beach.

Kathy and I made our plans to take turns guarding our stuff on the beach, and I took first guard, but was thwarted when Shaibu practically dragged me into the water.  We swam for a bit, until Kathy and I made our way to the beach and protective clothing.  I walked around the corner of the beach to see the view from around the corner.  Shaibu followed.  He walked up close to me, inches away, and asked me if I was married. "Married", I replied, "why yes I am!".  Without hearing a word, Shaibu put his arm around my waist and pulled me close for a kiss.  I pushed him off and walked back to where Kathy and Roger were waiting.  Shaibu followed, dropped into a squat in the sand, and stared off into the distance with an angry glare, while Roger murmured to Kathy, "do you think he's meditating?".  To break the silence, Roger asked Shaibu if he would drive us to the airport the next day.  Shaibu grunted, without shifting his gaze.  Several minutes later, Roger told Shaibu that we were ready to leave, and Shaibu emerged from his sulk and we all piled into the minivan.

We returned to the asphalt.  We started approaching Wete, with the buildings becoming more dense, Shaibu turned abruptly onto a side street.  As I was wondering if this was a short cut, he proceeded to turn onto smaller and smaller streets.  Eventually, he stopped abruptly in front of a house, and told us that this was his parents' house and we should go in.  

We were met at the gate by Baracka, Sabit's brother and Shaibu's father, an intelligent-looking man with a calm demeanor that seemed more like his brother than his son.  He led us to the living room, where the TV was playing an American WW2 movie.  We watched Alec Baldwin with confusion, until Sabit's mother appeared, a petite woman who worked as a nurse midwife and spoke little but clearly understood much.  The two of them showed us their garden, full of fruit trees, and offered us snacks of sliced papaya and cucumber and glasses of fresh juice.

Then it came time to leave.  We piled into the minivan with Shaibu.  His parents stood at the gate waving goodbye, as the neighbor's son relaxed in the shade of a banana tree.  That was when Shaibu plowed into the banana tree, knocking it over!  He grunted to me, "It's the brakes, they don't work", while I nodded in feigned sympathy, "Ah yes, the brakes...".

We were wondering if we'd see Shaibu the next morning, but he arrived 20 minutes early to take us to the airport.  Despite another hasty breakfast, I was relieved to see him.  Shaibu's mood was more restrained, and as we drove to the airport, he didn't run any police officers off the road, but he still sent chickens running.  Roger asked him what happens if he hits and kills a chicken: does he pay for it, and does he take it home for dinner?.  Shaibu responded, "Mangoes". 

At the airport, as we unloaded the van, Shaibu said to me, "I call you".  I smiled and nodded.

Later on, back in Zanzibar, we got a voicemail from Shaibu.  Anyway, it was a call from Shaibu's number, with a loud snort.  Was that romance?  Was it a butt dial?  We'll never really know.

Failure and Redemption on the White Rim Road

The first time I visited Canyonlands, I fell hard in love with the place.  And when I learned that there was a 100-mile 4WD road that loops around the Island in the Sky mesa, I started dreaming about biking it.  Several years later, I set out to do exactly that with Keith, my boyfriend.  Neither of us was prepared.

The White Rim Road has been cycled in six hours, but most mortals require four days, three if they are “athletic”.  Those are four days in rugged desert conditions with no civilization beyond the occasional pit toilet, and no escape routes for bailing partway through.  There is no drinkable water, and in the red rock desert, the standard estimate is to plan for at least one gallon of water per person per day.  The options are to join a guided party or assemble a group of friends with a support vehicle (ideally, two support vehicles in case one breaks down), to cache water in advance by driving the road or hiking to a midpoint in the trail, or to carry upwards of 33.4 lbs of water in addition to the rest of your gear.   Keith had a rugged 4WD truck,, which we planned to use for caching water at our campsites the day before setting out with our bikes.   Major Setback #1 came when Keith, never known for his punctuality, showed up a full day late.  So rather than setting out first thing in the morning to cache water, we set out at about 2 PM.  I knew that most people take at least eight hours to drive the road, but I ignored that fact because I was stoked…  Of course, darkness fell when we were about a third of the way through.  There aren’t exactly streetlights out there.  After dark, the road became hard to follow, as we kept mistaking sandy washes for the road. And, we didn’t have enough gas to finish the loop (most drivers bring bottles of extra fuel).  Finally, we turned around, and were lucky to make it back to our motel in Moab that night!

With no water caches, we moved to Plan B: to drive Keith’s truck with our bikes loaded in the back, and break out the bikes for rides after reaching camp.  Any thoughts of a shorter bikepack were thwarted by my realization that my full-suspension bike and large seatpack wouldn’t work together, not for the amount of gear we needed to carry.  Keith had worked hard to build a new bike for the trip, and had shown up with the bike built but the rest of his gear in disarray in the back of his truck.  The next day, while Keith organized his gear in the parking lot, I waited with growing frustration that a beautiful day was ticking by.  We finally reached our first campsite well after dark.

The next morning, while Keith slept in, I pulled out my bike to ride the road at long last – and discovered Major Setback #2.  In the jostling along the road, the pin that held my rear brake pads in place had disappeared into the void of Keith’s truck, leaving my bike effectively  un-rideable.  I went for a long walk to seek (and find) solace in the beauty of the place.  Subsequently, Keith and I returned to Moab to break up.

Back at work the next week, I relayed my sad tale to Jorge: my ex, close friend, and favorite outdoor companion.  After recounting the disappointments, I added bravely that the White Road is truly beautiful, and I’d had a chance to gather lots of facts, so I’d have to return someday with a stronger companion.  To which, Jorge replied: “Like me!”.

Six months later, Jorge and I had established that yes we were doing this, we’d targeted dates, and it was time to make reservations.  Camping is allowed only at designated campsites, which are few in number, and can be reserved up to four months in advance.  Our dates fell within high season, so making reservations required getting online at midnight four months in advance to reserve each site in the first instant it became available.  On the first night, we succeeded, and nailed a reservation at the Airport campground for the first night of our trip.  The second night didn’t go as well.  While we worked to reserve a campsite at Murphy Hogback, someone else was just a few milliseconds before us.  By the time we made it back to the main menu, few campsites were still available, and I hastily grabbed something.  This something was a site at Hardscrabble Bottom, fifty miles from Airport.

I lay awake that night thinking, “What have I done???”.  For me, a normal day’s mountain biking ride is 25 miles at most – without carrying camping gear and water.  This demanded training.

I called my friend Lindsay, and invited myself on her next road ride.   When she asked how far I wanted to ride, I replied unknowingly, “oh, I don’t know – 40 miles?”.  Her response was silence.  “Or whatever”, I continued.  She planned us a hilly ride of 35 miles.  It kicked my butt!  The next day, I thought about how I’d need to ride 15 miles farther, carrying gear, on dirt roads rather than smooth asphalt.  There came those words again: “What have I done???”.

About a month and many training rides later, Jorge and I rode the 75-mile Santa Cruz Mountain Challenge, with its grueling climb up Alba Road (so steep that whenever I pulled against my handlebars to push the pedals forward, that my front wheel would lift off the asphalt).  But we completed the 75 miles and 6,700’ elevation gain in seven hours!  Now it was time to practice carrying gear.

A few weeks later, Jorge and I embarked on a bikepacking trip.  This was a new experience for both of us: we’d both done lots of biking and lots of backpacking, but never the two together.  We settled on a target close to home: Castle Rock State Park in the Santa Cruz mountains.  That turned out to be a very good choice!  I showed up with my bikepacking bags packed but untested on my full-suspension bike.  First, the handlebar bag wouldn’t fit on my wide handlebars.  We returned to Santa Cruz for my other full suspension bike. I loaded up my seat pack for a test ride.  I came back discouraged before I reached the end of the driveway.  So, we ran up to Felton for Jorge’s girlfriend’s hardtail bike.  “Gary”, an old-model Gary Fisher Tassajara, lacked disc brakes, and its externally-routed cables ruled out carrying a frame bag, but at least it showed me the light: use a hardtail.  At the campsite, my backpacking skills showed dire need for a tune-up.  My brand new water filter, which I hadn’t tested at home (“What could possibly go wrong?”), dripped clean water with all the speed of an I.V.  I’d packed a freeze-dried dinner that looked old and I’d figured should be eaten; when I pulled it out at the campsite, I discovered the bag contained not food but garbage!  Sometime previously, I’d been on a trip where we’d eaten that dinner, and afterwards used its Ziploc bag as a garbage bag.  When I’d unpacked afterwards, I’d pulled out the bag, absentmindedly failed to notice that it had been used, and put it back in the pantry!  Fortunately, we’d both brought plenty of food (not counting garbage), there was a water fountain near the campground, and we enjoyed a beautiful 35 mile ride on the Ridge Trail.

And a few weeks later, I was the proud owner of a new hardtail.  Sean and the crew at Epicenter Cycling helped me set up the bike with a rack, a saddle that would not turn into a Medieval torture device over the miles, and handlebar grips that would maintain circulation into my fingers.  I cashed out my REI dividend on new panniers.  Mark Davidson invited me over for dinner, and sent me home with expertly-selected bikepacks.  I was ready for the next test ride!

We loaded up the bikes with close proxies of the gear we expected to carry on the White Rim Road, including many gallons of water apiece!  We started riding, and after about ten minutes, returned home so I could change my bike loading strategy.  The second time was better: we returned home after 3 ½ hours, 22 miles, 1600’ of elevation gain, and one celebratory beer.  It was time!

Three days before my birthday, we set out for Utah with Cricket’s VW Travato camper van loaded with two people, four bikes and a small mountain of gear!  We unloaded the full-suspension bikes at Hurricane Cliffs for a highly-enjoyable day of fast, flowy trails.  We celebrated my birthday at Gooseberry Mesa, with a first taste of technical slickrock.  We stopped in Red Canyon to stretch our legs, and ended up spending the rest of the day on strenuous trails with sensational views.  Next came Capitol Reef National Park, where Jorge continued to meet his goal of visiting at least one new national park every year, and where the afternoon sunlight on the rocks was so spectacular that they appeared to glow from within.  We stopped in Goblin Valley State Park for some enjoyable hiking and to put a fresh coat of dirt on the full-suspension bikes, and then reached Moab.

Our first stop in Moab was the Canyonlands Visitor’s Center to ask about the “snowball’s chance in Hell” that additional campsite reservations had opened up.  This time, the snowball had a chance!  The forecast of strong winds, cold temperatures and possible precipitation was enough to discourage someone from going on the White Rim, opening up a prime campsite at Murphy Hogback.  We had the exact reservation we’d failed to get four months earlier – with no more need to do 50-mile days!  Now, our shortest day was going to be a “mere” 44-mile day – with strong headwinds.  But first came a day of water-caching.

We each loaded our packs with two gallons (16.7 lbs) of water to hike to Murphy Hogback, our halfway point and now our campsite for Night 2.  A masterpiece of trail construction led us down a steep cliff, with dizzying exposure and stunning views.  At Murphy Hogback, we scouted out hiding places for our water, and found a crevice between two rocks.  As we lowered the first water bottle into the crevice, it sprang a leak and turned into a small water fountain!  We patched the leak with a taping job that inspired no confidence, and carefully positioned the bag with its wound at the top, propped up by the still-intact second bag.  We left with no great confidence. 

Back in Moab, we enjoyed our Last Supper - with Julie, who was out there celebrating her birthday with a mountain biking trip (what a fine idea!).  We drove to our trailhead and both slept restlessly.

The next morning, we set out with loaded bikes!  The first 20 miles were the un-beautiful access roads that connect the two ends of the White Rim road.  It was fun to be underway – except for the roaring headwind, which threatened to blow my (well-fitted) helmet right off my head!  A few miles of precipitous switchbacks later, we were off the mesa top and occasionally protected from the wind, with amazing views opening up around us!  A park ranger in a jeep stopped to check our permit, and make sure we were prepared for the below-freezing temperatures to come.  My actual preparation included a plan to try a different strategy: bring a lightweight, wimpy sleeping bag, and wear extra clothing inside the bag.  Nothing like trying out a new plan when you’re getting warned off by a park ranger!

The headwinds met us again at a pass where two mesas formed a wind tunnel.  After a wind gust nearly blew me over sideways (I recovered with an unplanned u-turn), I got off to push my bike upwind and into the mouth of the beast.  It took all my body weight!   After the pass, we got back on our bikes for a wobbly ride the rest of the way to our first campsite (at Airport), where setting up the tent required care that the tent didn’t turn into a big, untethered kite.  The forecast had included a wind advisory until 9 PM, but the winds eventually calmed down for a pleasant late afternoon.  Then after sunset, they shifted direction and returned with a vengeance.  Inside the tent, every time a wind gust would flatten the tent on top of us, we’d ask if it was 9 PM yet.  After about 9:30, the gusts became less frequent.  In the morning, everything was covered with a layer of dust worthy of Burning Man, and Jorge’s bike had somehow been flipped over the top of a small boulder.  And I had made it through the night without hypothermia!

 

Day 2 rewarded us with calmer conditions, cool temperatures, a mere 30 mile ride, and a jaw-dropping view from our campsite at Murphy Hogback!  It also rewarded us with two more leaking water bottles.  We retrieved our water cache, which had leaked about a gallon of the four gallons we’d laboriously hiked in.  More duct tape slowed down the leaks, and we transferred the remaining water to the dwindling number of bottles with no leaks.

 

That night, as the temperatures dropped below freezing, we discovered another leak – in my inflatable mattress!  We passed a cramped but cozy night with two people squeezed onto one therm-a-rest.  At least it was warm... 

The next day was gorgeous!  The morning temperatures were chilly, but the day warmed up to perfect riding conditions with temperatures in the sixties and no gale-force wind gusts.  We had reservations to camp that night at Hardscrabble Bottom, but when we realized that the van was only twelve miles further, we decided to go for it.  So we filled up our hydration bladders, poured out the rest of the water (amazingly, we still had some that hadn’t leaked out!), and set out with no extra water weight to carry.   We passed our would-be campsite at 2:30 PM, and soon were nearing our 1000’ climb out.  We stopped for one last snack break, and Jorge told me, “Remember Alba Road!”. 

“You got this!”, cheered two mountain bikers near the bottom of the switchbacks.  I put my head down and pushed through one waypoint at a time: “let’s just get to that rock”, “now let’s just get to that bush”, …  Finally, the sky became closer, the road opened up, and in front of me was the camper van with cold beer!

We completed the ride in an “athletic” three days!

 

Ecuador Ring of Fire: a tale of an ordinary person attempting the extraordinary

"Life begins at the end of your comfort zone" - Neale Donald Walsch

Long before our anemic 2014/2015 ski season drew to a close, I knew I had to have more!  Despite the record-low snowfall, I'm made very good use of my season pass, and chased down many an opportunity to go play with my skis in the backcountry.  But I still had to have more.  Then I saw an announcement for Alpenglow Expedition's Ring of Fire Ski Tour, and immediately became obsessed with the idea of skiing high-altitude volcanoes in Ecuador!  I'd climbed Cotopaxi before, but to ski it... I had to try!

As I signed up and began my preparations, the many lucky coincidences brought to mind the saying that there are no coincidences.  When I first contacted Alpenglow Expeditions, late in the sign-up period, I heard that there had just been a cancellation and I was in luck.  When I arranged my round-trip air travel to Quito, I discovered that I had just enough frequent flyer miles to cover the trip, provided I delayed my return from June 24th to 27th.  Then came the news from Alpenglow Expeditions that one client wanted to arrange to ski one more peak, and they'd be happy to arrange it, but it would involve some extra cost and staying until June 27th.  What better way to spend three extra days in Ecuador?  Soon, I was on board for both the trip and the post-trip extension.

Getting to know the new skis

Guided trips cost money.  I challenged myself to not just pay for the trip out of savings, but to cover the cost of the trip by looking for what I could do without.  I scrutinized my spending, and pinpointed some old habits that weren't so important anymore.  I chased down reimbursements that had started to look like too much work to bother with, and went carefully over my taxes to ensure a healthy return.  Each of these efforts narrowed the gap a bit, but I knew that to close it, I'd need to get a pay raise.  My job at UCSC and my interests had drifted apart, and I'd begun looking for something new.  I applied myself to the process with renewed vigor, regarding every job application and every interview as a contribution to the pool.  When I was offered a great new job at UCSC, I pushed for a raise.  When that raise got stuck in the red tape, I issued ultimatums.  One week before setting out, I got the email indicating that I'd be welcomed home with a hefty deposit of back pay in my bank account.  Gap closed!

While I was scrutinizing my spending, I was also spending copious amounts on new gear.  As much as I love telemark skiing, I realized that the unforgiving conditions on the big mountains would call for something more.  It was time for AT gear.  Soon, I was the very proud owner of a new pair of DPS skis (which can manage anything you point them at) plus new ski boots, climbing skins, ski crampons - and had reached a first-name basis with the staff in my favorite mountaineering store.  Back in Santa Cruz, a steady stream of boxes arrived at my front door as a combed the packing list for missing items.

Then there was the physical preparation.  Sure, I'm considered strong among computer geeks, and I'd felt fine on Kilimanjaro, but Cotopaxi had been hard even without skis on my back, and with a body that was 15 years younger!  I spent my weekends getting acquainted with the new skis, and climbing anything that seemed to have a bit of snow on it.  During the week, I challenged myself to ride faster on my commute to campus.  My cardio weight training class started to feel easier.  I lined up the Diamox and Acli-mate drink mix to give my body very chemical advantage.

And then I was in Ecuador.

Front: Steve, Jaime, Ian.  Middle: Brian, Ryoko, Marusa, self.  Back: Erich, Zeb, Adrian, Michelle, Emily H, Emily T, Jim.  Photo by Jaime.

Great hospitality in a gorgeous hacienda, with Andean musicians!

When I met my teammates, I was immediately in awe!  First, there were five mountain guides: Brian, Adrian, Zeb, Jaime and Joachin.  Brian and Adrian are co-owners of Alpenglow Expeditions, and are the kind of guys who normally guide 8,000 meter Himalayan peaks, but had come to oversee this trip since it had never been offered before.  There was Ian, the team photographer, who was a veteran mountain guide himself; not only did he have the physical capacity to do everything we were doing, he did it carrying heavy camera equipment and sprinting to get in position for the good shots.  Then there were three professional athletes: Emily H, Michelle and Jim.  Next were Emily T, Erick and Steve, who live active lives in the mountains and have the lung capacity to prove it.  Javier joined us partway into the trip, and stepped off the plane from Mexico City already acclimated to 17,000'.  Finally, there were my roommates Marusa and Ryoko, amazing women who found the time amid significant professional accomplishments to keep themselves in killer shape.  And then there was me, finding the fact that I'm considered strong among computer geeks to be little consolation!

We spent our first few days acclimating on lower (15,400') peaks near Quito, while soaking up the culture at artisanal markets and gorgeous haciendas.  Then we pushed on to the snow.

Deep mud and abandoned vehicles on the road to Cayambe

The road to Cayambe is rugged on the best of days.  That day, between the deep mud and abandoned vehicles, it was amazing that our drivers made it to the refuge.  We'd planned on doing some practice on the snow after arriving, but the fierce winds forced us to change plans.  The next day, the weather had worsened.  We'd left one jeep parked near the refuge, and a decision was made to move it before it got stuck.  It got stuck anyway.  A few of the more hardcore members of the team set out to move it.  They returned with an iPhone video of them getting buffeted by the wind, with Jim shouting, "This is what we live for!".  We spent the afternoon inside the refuge practicing crevasse rescue without crevasses, which the stubborn autocorrect on my Kindle insisted on translating to "without carcasses".

Staying positive amid howling winds.  Photo by Ian.

The next day, we ventured outside.  I roped up with Zeb and Marusa.  We started up the ridge - and I was immediately blown off my feet!  I got up, ventured up the ridge a few more steps - and was blown off my feet again!  Zeb instructed me on lowering my stance and rotating my upper body to be in line with the wind.  I wobbled, stumbled, and felt grateful when we changed our course for protected terrain.  We practiced techniques for moving in crampons.  I struggled as snow balled up inside my crampons, whacking them between steps with my ice axe, and cursing myself for overlooking those anti-balling plates.  We retreated back to the refuge, where I fashioned anti-balling plates out of an old soda bottle and copious amounts of duct tape.

Enjoying an iPhone fix back in civilization

We continued our retreat down to the hot springs at Papallacta, to give the windstorm a day or two to pass.  We warmed ourselves with a hot soak, copious amounts of tequila - enough to deplete the bar - and a certain amount of rowdiness.  Jaime, who'd noticed that his own name was on our guest bracelets, told us to enjoy our stay because it might be the last for Alpenglow Expeditions - or him! When all of our key cards stopped working the next day, we wondered if we'd been kicked out.

Two days later, we were back on Cayambe, preparing for an alpine start and a summit bid.  High winds once again threatened to derail our plans, but we got up at 2 AM to go for it.  I roped up with Brian and Marusa, and set out with a ski pole in one hand and ice axe in the other, wobbling as my pack and skis caught the wind like sails.  Brian swapped me his ski pole for my ice axe.  I wobbled less.  We stopped for a quick break while the guides conferred about the heavy winds ahead, and I thought "this is it, we're going down".  But we pressed on.  When we stopped for a bit farther up, I had to admit the obvious: that my slow pace in the wind was not sufficient for the conditions.  Marusa joined Jaime's rope, and Brian and I started down.

Gotta love those alpine starts!  Photo by Ian.

Going up, we'd been climbing into the wind.  Heading down, the wind was at our backs, which was even more destabilizing.  I lost my balance, stumbled into a rock, and fell, crampons sending off sparks on the rock.  I struggled to regain my footing and was knocked down again, crampons sparking off the same rock.  I thought, "What do I do if I can't do this?", but got back on my feet somehow.  Brian selected a new course, to drop down out of the wind quicker.  But first, another heavy gust threw me off balance, I caught my crampon point in the overboot on my opposite leg, stumbled, and fell down a steep ice step.  When everything stopped, Brian had caught my fall, and I hung dangling upside down just below the top of the step, with ice on two sides and air on the other two.  Brian called to me to get my feet back under me.  I swung around and climbed up with the front point of my crampons, both ski poles miraculously still clutched in my hands, even Brian's pole with no pole strap!  We descended a narrow path down the step, and as soon as we got out of the wind, the going became easier.  Soon, we were back at the refuge.  I told Brian that if that was what the descent was like, I was glad I hadn't ascended any higher.  Fighting demoralization, I went back to bed.

The rest of the team filtered in a couple hours later, after increasing winds and white-out conditions turned them back.  First, Michelle and Jim, the two pro skiers, made it back by ski!  The rest of the team returned on foot.  I greeted everyone with big hugs and congratulations, and assurances that despite everything, I'd had a good day.

Cotopaxi briefly visible above the clouds.  Photo by Ian.

We didn't have long to rest.  The new plan was that we'd run over to Cotopaxi to see if conditions were better there, and would do an alpine start that night.  When the plan was received with tired glares, Adrian declared that no one was allowed to say no until they'd re-fortified with a hamburger and a milkshake.  So one quick transition and hamburger stop later, we found ourselves at the Tambopaxi lodge, with Cotopaxi briefly visible without clouds and amid rainbows.

That night at dinner, the guides explained that two consecutive alpine starts was highly unusual for their trips, but they felt that the group was up to the challenge.  They offered everyone three choices: climbing with skis, climbing without skis, or not climbing.  I was proud to see that every single person on the team chose to climb!  Given the slim chance that we'd be able to ski, I chose to climb without my skis.  Many others reached the same conclusion.

Marusa and me encased in rime ice

We slept for a few hours, got up at midnight, and started our ascent.  When we reached the Cotopaxi refuge an hour later, some people turned back, still tired from the day before.  I finally felt good, especially without those long wind sails on my back!  Marusa and I roped up with Joaquin, and climbed up just behind Zeb, Emily T and Steve.  The ski team of Adrian, Emily H, Michelle, Jim and Brian were farther ahead.  Compared to the previous day, the winds were very manageable, and I finally felt comfortable in my wider, lower stance.  Yet as we ascended, the conditions began to deteriorate.  Above us, the ski team radioed about the fierce winds they were battling.  We reached the edge of the lenticular cloud, with its moisture, and rime ice settled on every surface.  We had to clear the ice from our glasses with every few steps.  Meanwhile on the ski team, Michelle's goggles were icing up so quickly and heavily that she'd started cleaning them with her ice axe!  When Adrian started crawling uphill, Brian made the call.  They turned around with the summit just 100 meters higher, almost within eyesight.  They started down on foot, with pro skier Michelle famously announcing, for the first time in her life, "Fuck skiing!".  Down lower, at about 18,500, we'd reached the same winds.  When Emily T was almost blown off a snow bridge into a crevasse, Zeb decided it wasn't safe to continue, and we all turned around.  By then, the rime had encrusted every surface, increasing the diameter of the ropes by at least an inch and their weight by several pounds!  As we descended, every time we stopped, we shook off a bit more ice, and left what resembled a pile of broken glass.

No summits, no sleep, but smiles all around at our last dinner

So the main trip concluded with little skiing and no summits, but great attitudes all around.  As Ian wrote on an Instagram post, "I am super impressed with the caliber of stoke embodied by everyone on this trip.  The effort given was more impressive than success".

A few hours later, we checked into a gorgeous hotel in the hills above Quito with spacious, lavish rooms, and llamas and peacocks wandering the grounds.  That night, we had an amazing dinner at their restaurant, while we all struggled hard to remain awake.

Two days later, Brian, Jaime, Ryoko and I had bid a sad farewell to the rest of the team, and were on our way to attempt one more peak.  Our original objective, Antisana, was at the end of a rugged drive that had become impassible, and the peak itself was socked in by wind clouds, along with Cayambe and Cotopaxi (still!).  We changed our objective to Illiniza Sur, which wouldn't offer any skiing but might offer a summit.  We set out with a favorable weather forecast and high spirits - until another team reported getting turned around by heavy winds.  So once again we went to bed hoping for the best, got up a few hours later, and set out to see how far we could go.

One more midnight breakfast

When we arrived at the mountain, another damned lenticular cloud was sitting overhead.  We started up.  Then we reached the rime.  When we'd encountered rime on Cotopaxi, we'd been on the glacier with crampons on our feet, so an extra coating of ice was no problem.  But on Illiniza, we reached the rime on what is normally a dry section of the trail, with the result that the trail and all of the rocks were getting coated with a layer of verglass.  At the refuge, walking down the icy front steps was death-defying, and Brian declared that trying to continue would be silly.  So we waited for dawn, with the guides dozing and Ryoko and I playing cards.  On the descent, Brian declared that he was "over it!".

Back at the hotel, we crawled into our beds for a nap.  I made the mistake of checking my email.  There was news from UCSC that our pediatric cancer grant proposal had been rejected, despite high hopes and encouragement from the funding agency.  I turned off my Kindle before I could read any more email, and went to sleep!

We had a fabulous dinner back in Quito, and then I got up for one more alpine start - this time, to go to the airport.  I struggled to stay awake until boarding time.  We boarded, and I settled gratefully into my seat, ready to sleep.  But before I really got to sleep, a mechanical problem grounded the plane, and we had to disembark.  Back in the terminal, as the delay stretched into hours, I listened to the amount of griping from my fellow passengers, and thought "I miss my team!".  When we finally reached Miami, the airport was badly backed up due to thunderstorms earlier that day, and my 5 PM arrival to SFO turned into a 1 AM arrival.  Over email, I told Jeltje that I didn't expect her to pick me up at 1 AM, that I would get myself home somehow.  She replied that she wouldn't mind a late drive.  I didn't believe her, and took a taxi home (subsidized by American Airlines).  It turned out that she'd wanted to see my reaction to what awaited me at home: a skier on a "mountain" of furniture in the middle of my living room!  I laughed for at least five minutes solid!

As I write this five days later, I'm almost caught up on my sleep, and working to hold onto the positive energy of the group as I plow ahead into yet another grant proposal!