Day 1, Friday Fourteen hour night bus ride, Cosanga to Quito; Quito to Cojitambo. An illegal copy of Bang Bang, with its magnificent musical numbers, cheesy action sequences, ridiculously handsome protagonist and perfect ending, blares through the fuzzy speakers. Spanish flows through our semi conscious brains as the gringos try to sleep. Day 2, Saturday We wake up and stumble into the terminal of Azogues. I manage to hazily walk into the women’s bathroom within the five minutes we have before our next and final bus to Cojitambo. Once we board and begin our ascent out of the city, I am given a moment to fully wake up and finally view my surroundings. Within our night time ride, we have traveled from the rainforest, clear to the highlands of Ecuador. The rolling mountains of thick green vegetation and steep river valleys of the rainforest have disappeared, replacing them is a patchwork of hills dotted with picturesque farmhouses. The plots are beautifully sectioned out and each hold their own collection of cows, corn, beans and potatoes living in symbiotic harmony. As we make our way higher still, the city of Azogues unfolds beneath us in a beautiful valley. The mass of concrete is nestled amongst hillside towns, each boasting eccentric church steeples and a multitude of colored rooftops. As we enter one of these towns, a striking crag reveals itself to us. Hurriedly we exit the bus into the plaza of Cojitambo and rush to the best viewpoint. As a climber, an initial experience of awe strikes as you gaze at a new crag; at the magnificent representation of possibility that rears its etched face(s). Hands begin to go up, tracing invisible lines across the rock surface and speculation is whispered in delight as supposed routes are discussed. Immediately, the first thing that stands out when you see the Cojitambo crag, is the crooked scar that meanders its way through the dead middle of the formation. Jules, Toni and I have been scouting a renowned multipitch here and promptly decide that this feature is the climb. Excitement peaks and we start our way to find the local ‘old salt of the rock’, Juan Gabriel, for information, a guidebook and potential lodging. Juan Gabriel steps onto his balcony to our calls of buenos dias, hola! and is rudely awakened to the prospect of the eight gringos in his front yard, looking for a place to rest their, soon to be, dirty bodies. After a moment of composure, he makes his way downstairs, out his front door and opens the front gate, ushering us into his yard. After some small talk his features visibly ease and he offers us to come in and that the cost is $10 a night. We decide to decline and opt instead to buy a guidebook and ask about camping nearby. Upon handing us the guidebook, he directs us to the local mining area saying that the patron of the mine usually lets climbers stay on his property. Soon we have set up camp in a surprisingly neat little plot of land, accompanied by the confused horse that calls it his pasture. As we settle down to cook dinner and unwind from the brutal trip of the night before, the magnificent rock monolith towers over our heads and tents. Day 3, Sunday I wake to the sound of Toni making watery, campfire coffee to ward of her morning grumpies. I unzip the mosquito net that has protected me from pests and drizzle over night and start packing my bag for the day ahead. After we all down some of the shitty coffee and put on our bravest morning faces, we set out for the cliff face. The evening before, we had picked out a section of wall that holds a couple 5s (5.8-.9) and 6As (5.10a), perfect for a warmup and reconnaissance day. We dive into the plant littered scree field above our camp and laboriously hike our way to the base of the crag by hopping from one climber’s path/animal track/landslide to another. As we flake the ropes, something slightly worrying begins to present itself to us: the bolts of Cojitambo are not only sparse but seem as though they were placed thirty years previously. Well, no time like the present for some run out friction climbing on rusted out ringbolts. Toni takes the first lead after a half ass rock, paper, scissor game and a little guilt on her side. Her curses float down to us as she moves ever higher above her first couple bolts. She moves out of sight and a clump of dirt and vegetation tumbles onto our heads, a likely foreshadowing of what lies above us. On her way down, Toni regails us in colorful english about what makes up the climb. I take my turn and soon after the runout, I find myself walking along dirt ledges clinging to the rock face and slowly crumbling from our excessive weight. I make my way to the anchors and we decide to top up belay the rest of our companions to practice for our multipitch venture. So far, runout and mungy. The rest of the day follows this theme and we manage to send one other route with our large group. Around 5:30, the group leaves Toni, Jules and me to macho up and race the sun with one more climb. Rated at a 5 (5.8-.9), this climb caught our eye for its sheer faces and tantalizing cracks. Technically, fucking stiff. The lead is heady but when you use the cracks just right, this climb has so far knocked all others out of the park. As the sun sets behind us, we finish up the climb, pack our bags and tumble back to camp. Beers, empanadas, tamales and seco plates await us at the Restaurante de las Ruinas. Day 4, Monday Rain and empanadas in the morning. Bad attitudes until afternoon. As soon as the sun is up, we heft our packs and venture out to find the small crag we have had our eyes on since the dreary morning self pity snack. Again we pick a spot on the cliff wall and dive into the tangled scree field. Half an hour later we find ourselves at an impasse, a sheer face covered in 7C+s (5.13) and up. As we turn back and begin slinking back to the tents, a flank of the cliff catches my eye that I had noticed earlier in the week from camp. I suggest we give it a shot so we head up to the crack it begins in. When referring to the guidebook, we find that the climb is a 6A (5.10a) named Huecos y Huecas at 50m tall. Beautiful handholds spatter the climb between 5m runout bolts. “Juan Gabriel says if it’s easy, you don’t need bolts!” Toni yells up to me in encouragement. I stop to take a breath after the final push through an especially dirty, runout length of wall and am met with the small town of Cojitambo laid out below me. The fantastic church spire stands serene as daily life unfolds below me, oblivious to the small specks on the wall. The insesent arguing of stray dogs mixed with the pompous crows of flamboyant roosters ricochets off the rock walls that surround me. I setup my anchor, haul Kendra up and await Toni and Jules’ arrival. As soon as they appear over the edge, wildeyed from the long and nerve wracking climb, we walk off the ledge to the top of the rock. As we haul our bodies and gear over the safety rail, the bemused looks of Ecuadorian tourists watch us as we flop into a content and tired heap. Good day. Day 5, Tuesday Rain and empanadas and coffee. Someone killed a pig early this morning for the festivities that have been raging unabated for the past few nights. The screams of the poor beasty were magnified, echoed, and reverberated throughout the entire crag and pierced down into our little camp. Not the most pleasant way to wake up but effective. The crew has decided to venture into Cuenca for the day, leaving Toni, Jules and I to our own climbing devices. We decide to try our luck out at a small crag, a twenty minute walk through the secluded fields of Ecuadorian farmlands. We claim defeat after thirty minutes of sitting dejectedly in the rain. More pity empanadas and coffee. Around three in the afternoon, our moods are perked up by the lifting clouds and we return to the crag determined to get some trad routes set and project a few 6B+s (5.11a). With our bellies warmed by the coffee and watched by a gang of lambs, we spend the duration of the day sending climbs and overall in a better mood. Day 6, Wednesday
Today we climb the multipitch. Although it’s overcast, we rack up and haul our asses up to the base of the climb. We discuss our tactic of tackling the ascent, tie in, rack up and set off. The first pitches pique our appetite for the climb ahead and I get a little cocky about the excessive amount of time we have given ourselves. “No cock, only balls on the wall” Toni chastises my ego. Good thing because as I complete the third pitch of the climb, I find myself sat on the edge of an abrupt drop off surrounded by friction climbing that makes my heart amp up its tempo significantly. Well, no bail and forward ho! The next pitch is an absolute test of friction ability and brings us to the lunch platform, breathing heavily and a little quieter. We wolf down our avo and cheese sandwiches and set Jules up to lead the hardest pitch of the climb. I can tell you this, climbing anything over a 6 (5.10) with a backpack is less than thrilling. We reach the top of the pitch, all in one piece, and push for the final goal. In my hurry, I have left behind both my guide plate and grigri so I resort to the chief tool of climbing, the munter, to bring up my companions. The final pitch is hardly climbing as we make our way up through heavy greenery and dirty our poor shoes in the powdery soil that clings to the cliff edge. As we top out, we are met with beers and a simply beautiful sunset. Yet another perfect day. Climbing truly brings you to places you would never otherwise think to go. Day 7, Thursday Today we head home. The unanimous decision is spurred by filthy bodies, smelly clothing and a week of sleeping on lumpy ground. Relief seems to be the feeling of the day as we clean up camp, say goodbye to the numerous stray companions we have gathered over the week and prepare for the next fourteen hours. When we finally make it back to Cosanga at two in the morning, fourteen hours of sleepless bus travel under our belts, I have made a solid decision that night bus rides are quite superior of an experience.
0 Comments
|
Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit, and as vital to our lives as water and good bread.- Edward Abbey Archives
March 2020
|