The Accidental Explorer

IQUITOS, PERU – Like many great adventures, this one begins over beer. Specifically, the local Ecuadorian brew called Pilsener. There are no thoughts of Tarantulas. Or piranhas. Or 40-hour bus rides, corrupt policemen, sugarcane alcohol, broken bones, lightning, or intestinal parasites. Not yet, at least. That will come later. For now there is just adventure. Or at least the prospect of it.

“The World’s Longest Rafting Race” teases the hand-drawn poster on the wall of the South American Explorers Club in Quito. Sitting around with a few like-minded adventurers the poster makes great fodder for alcohol-induced conversation. After one beer it’s a running joke. After two it seems like a good idea to enter. After three we have formed a team and my fellow travelers are forking over money to pay the registration. Looking at the poster for fine print we discover there is none. Only a warning that “The faint of heart need not apply” along with the location: the remote city of Iquitos, Peru.

The Great Amazon River Raft Race is the brainchild of Michael “Mad Mick” Collis, a British ex-pat living in Iquitos. Mick has been putting on raft races for years, but this is by far the longest. On paper it sounds remarkably simple: paddle a log raft 142 miles down the Amazon River, arrive at the finish line three days later, and avoid being eaten by the local wildlife en route. Think Huck Finn, except that you’re surrounded by piranhas, tarantulas, and swarms of malaria-infested mosquitoes.

The following day while preparing to leave, my team drops a bombshell; after sobering up they have all decided that maybe this isn’t such a great idea. They’ve bailed on me and I’m flying solo. I decide to go anyway, even if the rest of my team never makes it beyond the Quito city limits.

I fire off an email to Mad Mick informing him of my plight. “Don’t worry,” comes his nonchalant reply. “There are tons of people down here looking for teams. You’ll have no problem.”

But first I must get to Iquitos.

Situated in the Amazon jungle in northeastern Peru, Iquitos lies just below the confluence of the Rí­o Marañon and the Rí­o Ucayali, where the Rí­o Amazonas, the mighty Amazon River, officially begins. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth century the city was a boomtown thanks to the plentiful supply of rubber trees in the surrounding jungle, not to mention an indigenous population readily available for virtual enslavement by the rubber barons. Everything was just groovy until a British entrepreneur managed to smuggle some rubber seeds out of Brazil, giving birth to the industrialized rubber plantations of Malaysia. The economy has been in the doldrums ever since.

Iquitos has the distinction of being the largest city in the world that is inaccessible by road. To get there you must either fly or spend several days lying in a hammock aboard a riverboat. And unless you can afford to fly, it takes a long time to get there from almost anywhere else on the planet. With less than a week before the race starts I settle on a compromise strategy: a 40-hour bus trip to Lima, followed by a plane hop to Iquitos. With luck I’ll arrive with hours to spare.

Following an all night bus ride to the Ecuador-Peru border, I find myself in the treacherous frontier town of Huaquillas, wandering through a crowded market selling every black market good from pirated DVDs to fake Duracell batteries. I do my best to avoid the many hands that seem all too familiar with the zippers of my backpack, and eventually make it across a pedestrian footbridge into Aguas Verdes, Peru, where I repeat the process a second time.

I commandeer a taxi for the 20km ride to the coastal city of Tumbes. En route I am stopped by an overweight Peruvian police officer wearing mirrored sunglasses who could easily play the bad guy in any number of movies I’ve seen. He concocts some story about a problem with my passport and tells me that I’ll have to leave the country immediately, then kindly offers to look the other way for $100. Another all night bus ride across the coastal deserts of Peru brings me to Lima, where I make a mad dash for the airport in hopes of catching the last flight of the day to Iquitos.

Arriving exhausted and teamless, I make my way to Mad Mick’s Bunkhouse and Trading Post to find the man in charge. Mad Mick is a larger than life character who is hard to miss in a city like Iquitos. I find him at the aptly named Gringo Bar, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, along with an impressive collection of empty bottles. I get the distinct impression he has been there since breakfast.

I remind Mick of my need for a team. He responds with an extra-long drag on his cigarette. “No problem,” he bellows, his strong British accent seeming out of place in the Amazon. “If you visit some local bars it should be easy to recruit people.”

As I am to discover over the next few days, Mick is a guy big on ideas but decidedly small on details.

I have been reduced to bar hopping. All I need to do is find three people who are willing to cancel whatever plans brought them to this lonely corner of the planet in order to spend three days floating down the Amazon River on a log raft while dodging piranhas, tarantulas, and swarms of malaria-infested mosquitoes. I decide that I will conveniently fail to mention any prospect of intestinal parasites.

I come close a few times – a young doctor from Holland; a German woman too far gone to remember whether she’s really from Germany; a couple from Boston on their way to a jungle lodge – but never manage to close the deal. Then I find Norma.

“I’m going to join your team,” she announces in Spanish before I can even make my pitch. Norma is a student from Lima and has already met one of the other teams. She’s dying to get into the race and makes me promise her a spot. Claro. No problema. My team is now officially bilingual.

After Norma my luck runs dry. The bars close and I retreat to my hostel to sleep for the first time in three days, still missing half a team, too tired to care.

Morning comes all too quickly and teams gather at Mad Mick’s Bunkhouse for transport upriver to the town of Nauta where the race will begin. Despite a clear lack of marketing prowess, Mick has somehow managed to recruit teams representing Ireland, South Africa, Russia, Australia, Canada, the U.S, the U.K., and of course Peru.

Teams will compete in two divisions, a necessity owing to the fact that most of the Peruvian teams come from villages along the river. For all intents and purposes they have had unlimited time to prepare for the race; some have been engineering rafts and practicing for months. They are competing for cash prizes of 6,000 nuevo soles ($1850) – the equivalent of half a year’s salary for many.

In contrast, international teams arrive one day prior to the race and will use rafts built for them by local crews. We are competing for bragging rights and a three-day trip to a jungle lodge. And to demonstrate to all of our friends back home how truly twisted we are.

There is an eclectic mix of international teams. Among them are the Lady Vets, a group of women veterinarians doing volunteer work in Peru. Then there are the Rasta Boys, a team of dreadlocked snowboarders from Lake Tahoe and a baker from San Francisco. There is even the Over the Hill Gang, a crew of American and Canadian retirees led by a crusty 74 year-old guy named Mort. And, of course, there is my own bilingual half-team.

Arriving in the town of Nauta we see our rafts, or balsas, for the first time. Made of six to eight fire-dried balsa logs lashed together with jungle twine, they are surprisingly small; roughly sixteen feet long by eight wide. I find myself wondering what it was that Huck Finn saw in this mode of transportation, anyway.

Local teams have an impressive collection of balsas, some of them months in the works. Narrow and svelte, built with perfectly balanced logs tapered at the ends to reduce drag, they are the Amazon equivalent of Ferraris.

Balsas for the international teams are large, ungainly, asymmetrical contraptions that are still under construction as we arrive. They look like they were built by someone who has no intention of actually floating down the river on one. Assuming they even float. I conclude that we are about to ride the Amazon version of my parent’s 1979 Chevrolet Caprice.

Late in the afternoon Mick pulls me aside. “I found another person for your team!” he says, never missing a drag on his cigarette. He introduces me to “Montana John,” a 59 year-old American ex-pat who lives in the jungle outside of Iquitos. I’m usually a bit wary when I meet someone named after a state, especially when he has no last name and his house is miles from the nearest road in the middle of the Amazon Jungle. With less than twelve hours before the starting gun fires I don’t have the luxury of being choosy and Montana John joins my increasingly motley crew.

Hammocks are a way of life in the Amazon.

That night Mick gathers the teams – 88 people from seven countries – at the only bar in Nauta large enough to accommodate us. “This should be a really easy race,” he explains. “Even with minimal paddling you should be able to complete each day’s leg in about five hours.” He ceremoniously hands out hand-carved wooden paddles for us to use the next day.

Beers are passed around and a pre-race celebration ensues. Any excuse to drink cold beer in the hot, humid Amazon is greeted with enthusiasm.

We will be accompanied downriver by the Miron II, a classic Amazonian riverboat that will serve as our floating headquarters and bunkhouse. Designed to accommodate 20, it will house 40 people in hammocks and berths, less than half the complement of racers. The remainder will need to find accommodations in villages along the river. To boot, we will be shadowed by a Peruvian Coast Guard launch that has been assigned to monitor the race and provide emergency assistance.

The Miron II. Designed for 20, it will sleep 40. The toilet is a hole in the floor.

Paddle in hand, I traipse off to the Miron II and lay claim to some precious hammock space, falling asleep to the flashes of a silent lightning storm on the horizon.

Race day. I wake up in my hammock aboard the Miron II at dawn and look down to see a crowd already gathering along the shore. Grabbing my gear I jump off the boat and track down Norma and Montana John.

“We have a problem,” I tell them. “Every team is required to have four people, and we have three. Unless we find someone else to join our team in the next 45 minutes we’re going to be watching this race from the deck of the Miron II.”

Norma smiles and disappears into the crowd lining the riverbank. Thirty minutes later she reappears, a small local woman named Mirta in tow. With minutes to spare I am finally el capitán of a full team.

Standing on the riverbank Mick raises his megáfono and simply yells “Go!” Twenty-two rafts – six international teams and sixteen local ones – splash madly into the river, jockeying for position to get into the current.

It quickly becomes apparent that our balsas are even heavier and more awkward to maneuver than we anticipated. Compared to the finely tuned rafts carrying the local teams they are poorly built and border on disaster. A corner of our raft is permanently submerged, leaving one person constantly sitting in the muddy Amazon. Another team’s raft lists severely to one side. Others have logs coming loose and disappearing downriver within the first few minutes of the race.

The Peruvian crews paddle with the precision of a championship rowing team; they have been doing this all their life. By comparison, we are trying to find a rhythm while attempting to hold our raft in one piece as we flounder down the river. It takes 15 minutes for most of the Peruvian teams to pull away, and within an hour all of them are out of sight down the river, leaving the international teams in their wake.

Not that any of us really care. True, we have traveled halfway around the world to race, but all we really want to do is finish. For us this adventure is about discovering a remote corner of the world and testing our own limits in the process.

I survey my fellow teams. The Lady Vets have lashed plastic garden chairs to their balsa for the ultimate ride-de-luxe. The Over the Hill Gang is guarding a giant foam cooler strapped to the center of their raft. We suspect it is stocked with Molson beer they have smuggled down from Canada. The Rasta Boys are lying on their backs and smoking something.

In short order we learn a few facts about life on the Amazon. It’s hot. Really hot. Just a few degrees south of the equator, the sun blasts you like an oven, and humidity averages 85%. It doesn’t matter how much sunscreen you apply because it simply washes away in the muddy water. At times it seems inviting to jump overboard and cool off, until you remember that the river is a soup of piranhas, alligators, intestinal parasites, and raw sewage dumped from boats.

It seems like an easy thing to paddle a log raft all day, but it’s not. Logs are heavy, even balsa ones, and over the course of the day they absorb water. You have to paddle hard to move, and despite Mick’s assurance that this would be an easy jaunt down the river, it becomes clear that we will have to paddle constantly if we harbor any hope of reaching our destination before nightfall. We study the current, watching for lilies or other floating debris in a futile attempt to find fastest part of the channel.

As we cruise along I size up my improbable team. I can’t decide if Norma spends more time paddling or lounging, but her bubbly personality keeps us in good spirits. Montana John regales me with larger than life stories ranging the gamut from knife-wielding chases through the streets of Lima to psychedelic ceremonies with jungle shamans. I’m not sure how much to believe. All of it I suspect.

Mirta is an enigma. Even when I speak to her in Spanish she replies with little more than a grin. But she never stops paddling. She’s a machine.

Except for a couple of passes by the Coast Guard launch in the morning we see no other boats all day; eight hours later we round a bend in the river and spot the Miron II pulled along shore next to the small village of Nueva Esperanza.

Nueva Esperanza is a fairly typical Amazon River village: a collection of thatched-roof buildings and freely roaming livestock surrounding a soccer field. Several Peruvian rafters have joined some local kids in a game of pickup fútbol, and with looks of amusement they grab me as I meander past. The next thing I know I’m playing soccer on a not-so-level field with a bunch of Peruvians. And these guys are good. Really good. I’m about to curse my Teva sandals when it registers that most of them are playing barefoot. They still kick my ass.

Midway through the game I experience my first Amazon storm. It arrives quickly, wind tearing through the trees. Lightning appears in every direction and thunder is instantaneous; the river turns to froth. We rush en masse to seek shelter under the thatched roof of a small bodega.

My new friends are curious about where I’m from, and while we wait out the storm they pepper me with questions. What is it like where I live? Is it cold? They are captivated by my description of winter, of snow in particular. None of them have ever seen snow except in pictures. What is it like? How deep does it get? I have difficulty explaining in Spanish the concept of building a snowman.

As we chat someone passes around a bottle of clear liquid – aguardiente. Pure sugarcane alcohol, it is the local firewater. It burns like gasoline as I choke it down, and everyone breaks into riotous laughter when they see the grimace on my face.

Back along the river somebody realizes that amidst the storm one raft is still unaccounted for, yet for some reason the Coast Guard boat is pulled up on shore, its crew in serious chill-out mode. They don’t seem to know how many teams are in the race, so they have no way of knowing that a raft is missing. At the urging of other rafters they head back upriver in search of the missing team. We learn later that the storm had ripped their raft to pieces, the Coast Guard plucking them from the water as they clung to logs in the middle of the Amazon.

The storm dissipates as quickly as it appeared, leaving the river calm and serene; perfect conditions for a night on the river.

(To continue reading Part II click here)

(Note: Some of the race images in this article are courtesy of Bill Grimes/Dawn on the Amazon Tours and Cruises)

RIOBAMBA, ECUADOR – In the early 1900’s a railway line, the Ferrocarril Transandino, was constructed from Guayaquil on the Ecuadorian coast to Quito in the mountains. The line made it to just below the town of Alausí when builders encountered an almost vertical wall of rock known as the Nariz del Diablo (the Devil’s Nose). A series of switchbacks was carved directly into the rock face of the Nariz, and by advancing and reversing through the switchbacks a train could climb 1000m of vertical rock. It’s truly an amazing feat of engineering, even by twenty first century standards. The stretch of track from Riobamba to Alausí, and down the Nariz, is one of the only remaining sections of the Ferrocarril Transandino still in use.

As if riding down the most hair-raising train tracks in the world weren’t enough, passengers are invited to ride on the roof of the train where they can stare into the abyss as they descend the switchbacks.

Juliette and I arrive at the train station during pre-dawn hours in hopes of staking out a seat on the roof. Unfortunately, everyone else with a ticket has the same idea, and we find ourselves hopelessly relegated to the back of the line. As we wait, street vendors selling everything from wool hats to bananas make their way from passenger to passenger hocking their wares. Some are uncomfortably aggressive, returning to the same person who has already turned them down a dozen times. We find ourselves wanting to leave just to escape them.

“This is an amazing country,” Juliette observes. “You never have to go looking for anything. If you stand in one place long enough someone will come to you selling whatever it is you need.” The assumption is that we have money to burn, whether it’s true or not.

When the conductor finally begins boarding the train a mad rush for the roof ensues, and we find ourselves laying claim to the best ‘indoor seats’ we can find.

The phrase ‘train ride’ is a bit of a misnomer. In reality, the ‘train’ is a diesel bus that has been fitted with train wheels, and the experience is more akin to riding a school bus than a train. The roof is fitted with a large rack on which passengers can ride for hours, sitting on thin, uncomfortable pads. In retrospect, it was a blessing in disguise that we failed to get space on the roof – shortly after leaving Riobamba a rain squall soaks everyone up top, many of the passengers remaining cold and wet for much of the trip.

Leaving Riobamba behind, the train crawls through high alpine valleys lush with plants and dotted with fields growing corn and potatoes. It continues on to high, grass-covered altiplano before entering a dry, scrub-covered region that resembles areas of the American southwest. Along the way we pass indigenous people dressed in traditional wool attire, often accompanied by animals, occasionally shooing them off the track to avoid collisions with the train. We are always greeted with smiles and waves. Three hours later the train pulls into Alausí for a brief stop before descending the Nariz.

A few minutes later we are descending steep track through a deep canyon. Upon reaching the first switchback the conductor disembarks to manually move the switch on the tracks. We find ourselves looking directly down a vertical slope at another section of track below. With a jerk, the train begins an unnatural backwards descent down the second switchback. A couple more switchbacks and we are at the bottom, staring up at an unbelievably steep cliff. There is short pause while we exchanged places with the group sitting on the roof, after which we c ascend back up the Nariz. The ride on the roof is thrilling and exposed, the cliff dropping away for thousands of feet beneath our feet as they hang over the edge.

Arriving back in Alausí, Juliette and I heade for the bus station; Juliette is headed for Guayquil and I for Cuenca. We grab a quick lunch before saying our goodbyes, and then she jumps on her bus to head west. I have a few hours to kill before mine leaves, so I head to the center of town to explore the weekend market overflowing with people in bright wool ponchos.

RIOBAMBA, ECUADOR – I arrived in Riobamba to find ash on the ground from the recent eruption of nearby Volcán Tungurahua. Every time a gust of wind comes along it kicks up clouds of ash, which subsequently become grit between your teeth, turns your eyes red, and generally makes things unpleasant. Many storefronts have heavy sheets of plastic across their entrances in an effort to keep the ash at bay, but it’s insidious stuff that somehow manages to get everywhere.I had arranged to meet my friend Juliette in here; Juliette is from Switzerland and we met while attending language school in Quito. We found each other at the Hostel Oasis, and shared travel stories over an improvised dinner of pasta, tomato paste, and canned tuna. Hey, you make due with what you can find.

The following morning we left at the crack of dawn to catch a bus to the day’s destination – Chimborazo, the highest volcano in the world at 6310m (20,700 ft). Owing to the bulge in the earth around the equator, Chimborazo’s summit is farther from the center of the world than any other point on the planet – even Mt. Everest. Climbing it is a serious undertaking even for experienced mountaineers, and though I would love to climb it someday, that wasn’t our goal. We wanted to hike to the higher of the two climbing refuges used by climbers on their way to the summit, el Refugio Whymper, at 5000m.

Standing, we bounced along in the bus for close to an hour before the sun broke across the horizon, revealing that we had ascended and were now crossing the arenal, a high desert plateau almost completely devoid of plant life. The entire scene looked remarkably similar to photographs sent back to Earth by Martian spacecraft. Upon reaching the park entrance the driver slowed for us to exit, though in true Ecuadorian fashion he never actually stoped, and we jumped from the moving bus. When it disappeared over a distant rise we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, literally standing by the side of a lonely road in the middle of the arenal.

A lone truck crosses the barren arenal.

If Chimborazo were in North America or Europe it would be supported by some serious infrastructure – paved roads, visitor centers, souvenir shops, motels, restaurants – but not so in South America. Looking across the highway, a lone sign next to a dirt track announced the entrance to the Chimborazo Wildlife Preserve, behind it the massive peak of Chimborazo itself, framed by intense blue sky.

We would need to follow that dirt track for approximately 8km, after which we could climb to the refuge. Commencing our hike I felt the altitude for the first time since arriving in Ecuador. At more than 4000m we are already quite high, and had another 1000m to go. Ascending the dirt track the terrain dropped away around us, leaving behind arenal in exchange for the foothills of the volcano. Occasionally we had close encounters with vicuñas, a wild relative of the llama, making their way across the barren landscape, no doubt wondering what these strange two-legged creatures were doing in their home. Upon reaching the First Refugio at 4800m we took a short break, then continued on to the Refugio Whymper at 5000m.

Taking a break at the Refugio Whymper.

Juliette and I were both feeling great at 5000m. Grinning at one another we decide to go higher. I almost felt as if I could reach out and touch the icefall coming off the summit; in reality it would take several hours to travel that far. Somewhere beyond 5200m (17,000 ft.) we finally turned around – not because we were tired, but because we need to get back to Riobamba at a reasonable hour. Pausing to take a couple of self-portraits, we descended back to the refuge where the caretaker prepared cups of hot tea to go with our lunches.

At the park entrance we again found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, along the lonely highway crossing the arenal. One of the great things about Ecuador is that it has frequent buses traversing almost ever corner of the country, and we waited less than 30 minutes before flagging down a passing bus for the ride back to Riobamba, arriving just in time to buy the last remaining tickets for our next day’s excursion – the train down the Nariz del Diablo.

Having completed my Spanish course in Quito I’m preparing for the next phase of my trip – whatever that might be. Eager to practice my Spanish skills, as well as to escape the noise and pollution of Quito, I joined some language school friends and headed for the cloud forest town of Mindo, about two hours northwest of Quito by bus.

Mindo is a popular destination for outdoor adventure, particularly river rafting and hiking. For two hours the bus winds through high mountain roads, precarious cliffs only feet from the road, before descending into a charming valley with Mindo at the bottom. We made our way to Casa de Cecilia, a small hostel a bit off the beaten track but well worth the five-minute journey from the center of town. Casa de Cecilia is really less of a hostel than a small jungle lodge nestled along a creek in the cloud forest; it was an absolute paradise compared to the noise and chaos of the city. Hammocks surrounded by tropical plants proved to be the perfect antidote to the hustle and bustle of the city.

Following some very productive hammock time we ambled into town and hired a guide to go rapelling. For those of you not familiar with rappelling it is a technique used by climbers to make a steep, but controlled descent down a rope. As a climber I have rappelled more times than I can count, but in Mindo we added a twist – rappelling directly down a waterfall.

Outside of town we picked up a trail that crossed cow pastures and farmland, eventually ascending a ridge which gave way to small flowers and amazingly delicious wild strawberries. The trail finally broke clear of the trees and we were treated to spectacular views of cloud forest in every direction. Arriving at the top of the waterfall we donned climbing harnesses and helmets and proceeded to rappel straight down the center of the falls, becoming completely soaked in the process. Walking back to town we were caught in a rainstorm, but as we were already soaked we ignored the rain and stoped for more wild strawberries.

After a lazy Sunday morning and leisurely breakfast (more Nescafé!) we again ventured out of town, this time to ride the tarabita, a mechanical cable car traveling 530m – a third of a mile – across a deep river canyon. Moments after stepping off the concrete platform and into the open steel car we were careening across the canyon, getting a bird’s eye view of the cloud forest canopy and the river cutting through the canyon. It almost appeared two-dimensional until a flock of birds passed beneath us, adding depth to the scene. The operator briefly stopped the car midway across for us to absorb the view, then off we flew to the far side of the canyon.

The tarabita is a hot spot for tourists and locals alike. Not only is it a hoot to ride, but on the opposite side one finds spectacular waterfalls and natural pools that are ideal for a cool swim on a warm day. The more daring are even welcome to cliff dive from above the falls into the deep swimming holes below. One of my buddies, Kevin, decided to try his luck as a wanna-be cliff diver and headed up a steep trail to the top of a waterfall. Handing me his shoes and extracting a promise that I would bring them down with me, he walked to the edge and made a flying leap into space. I had just enough time to snap a photo before he disappeared over the edge. On my way down I met Kevin coming back up the trail barefoot, ready for a second round.

We lazed around for the better part of the afternoon before retracing our route back across the tarabita, watching as afternoon clouds began to creep across the valley, and commenced the long walk back to Mindo. We needed to get back in time to catch the bus to Quito, but none of us would have been that disappointed if we had missed it and had to spend another day in Mindo.

ONE OF THE FIRST THINGS EVERY GUIDEBOOK WARNS YOU ABOUT IN QUITO IS THE ALTITUDE. At 2850m (9350 ft) it is the second highest capital city in the world, and I expected to feel a little breathless here. To my pleasant surprise I have never noticed the thin air. Given the altitude, you might expect it to be cold, but the city is only 23km south of the equator. The combination of altitude and latitude make for a very comfortable climate – shirtsleeve weather during the day, and maybe a light jacket at night.

Quito is tucked in a valley between two parallel mountain ranges, the Coridillera Occidental and the Cordillera Oriental, which run north-south and effectively divide the country in two. The German Explorer Alexander von Humboldt coined the phrase “Avenue of the Volcanoes” to describe this section of the Andes, and it’s a fitting description. The range is dotted with numerous spectacular volcanoes, including such famous peaks as Cayambe (5790m), Cotopaxi (5897m), and Chimborazo (6310m) – the highest volcano in the world. Quito itself sits directly in the shadow of Volcán Pinchincha (4794m), which has been active in recent years. In fact, just a couple of days after I arrive Volcán Tungurahua (5016m) erupts, spewing blankets of ash over much of the central highlands and causing the evacuation of thousands from their homes. Volcanoes are a way of life in Ecuador, and most people seem used to the occasional eruption.

Cotopaxi Volcano (5897m/19,350 ft.) rising above Quito.

I decide to get a different perspective on the city and visit the Teleférico. The Teleférico is basically a gondola-style ski lift that whisks you up the side of Volcán Pichincha to an altitude of 4100m (13,400 ft.) where you can look down on the city. In addition to the requisite tourist shops and restaurants there are hiking trails to some spectacular viewpoints, and it’s a great place to see the surrounding mountains. To my amazement I still don’t feel the effects of altitude, though in fairness I have been living at 2800m for about ten days, so maybe I am already well adjusted to the thin air. For those that find the atmosphere a bit thin for their liking, an oxygen bar is conveniently located in the visitors’ center, complete with a selection of fragrant aromas to choose from.

Unfortunately, the day I visit turns out to be quite rainy and I spend several hours in a coffee shop trying to convince myself that I am enjoying machine-brewed Nescafé(!) while writing in my journal. About an hour before sunset the clouds finally move aside long enough to get a beautiful view of the city as well as the evening light on Volcán Cotopaxi in the distance.

Quito has a great public transportation system. Two parallel transit lines, called the Trole and the Ecovia, run north-south through much of the city. Although the vehicles are basically large, articulated buses, they operate more like a light rail rapid transit system. To board either one you enter an elevated indoor station along the street, paying as you enter the station. Each bus has multiple sets of doors, like a subway, and the elevated stations insure that the doors of the bus are exactly level with the floor of the station, just like a train platform. When a bus arrives you step on or off just like a train, with the bus remaining at the station for only 15-20 seconds. During the week I find that I typically wait less than five minutes for a bus to arrive. Both the Trole and the Ecovia have dedicated lanes that are not available to other vehicles – in fact, in most places there is a physical barrier separating them – insuring that they can zip past most traffic without stopping. And at 25 cents per trip it’s tough to beat the price.

The Ecovia has stations like a light rail system.

Exploring the city is a contrast of old and new. The southern part of the city, the Old Town, showcases the Spanish colonial history of Quito. Narrow, cobbled streets and wide plazas are lined with colonial-style architecture and tiled rooftops. The area is home to many beautiful churches and important government buildings such as the Presidential Palace. You would be forgiven if you momentarily forgot that you were in South America instead of Europe.

A typical street in Old Town Quito.

A short ride to the north on the Ecovia takes you to New Town, a bright, modern area of glass office towers and shopping malls with broad, tree-lined boulevards, department stores, restaurants, and internet cafés. One area in particular, the Mariscal Sucre, is known locally as gringolandia, owing to the fact that there are probably more tourists there than there are Quiteños. It’s the perfect place to connect with other travelers or to book a trip to the Galapagos, but it’s the worst place to visit if you want to get to know the real Quito because almost everyone you meet is from somewhere else.

Unfortunately, I finally found a good coffee shop, and it’s right in the middle of the Mariscal. I guess I won’t be able to avoid the area entirely…

MY FIRST DAYS I ECUADOR HAVE BEEN A ROLLER COASTER RIDE. I arrived in the middle of the night to discover that I was scheduled to begin Spanish classes at 8:00 AM the next morning! I am taking two weeks of one-on-one tutoring to brush up my very rusty Spanish skills. I’m amazed at how quickly things are coming back to me; at times I say things without realizing I know how, at others I struggle to convey the simplest of thoughts.

I am staying with a wonderful family while attending language school. Susana, my host “mother,” is a Spanish teacher herself. Ironically, she is taking English lessons right now, so we are able to help each other out. We periodically switch languages to help one another practice. Susana’s daughter, Dani, is nine years old and packed with energy. I have secretly been borrowing her Dr. Seuss books (in Spanish) while she’s not looking, though I’m not sure Dr. Seuess is the best author from which to absorb proper grammar. Either way, it’s a kick to read The Cat in the Hat in another language.

Their housekeeper, Mercedes, is a fiery woman from a town on the Ecuadorian coast whose Spanish I don’t understand. Mercedes says it’s because on the coast people “eat letters” when they talk. Apparently they drop certain letters from words as they speak, making it especially difficult for non-native speakers (i.e. me) to understand. Every time I turn around Mercedes is trying to feed me, and constantly scolds me for eating food anywhere outside of her kitchen.

My typical day starts with tea, fresh juice, and bread spread with a sugary substance called Arequipe. It’s basically dulce de leche, though it seems quite popular as a breakfast staple here. I gave up drinking coffee shortly after arriving because coffee here usually means instant Nescafé, which somehow doesn’t quite do it for me. I’m still on the lookout for a good coffee shop in Quito, though it’s proving elusive.

My 30-minute walk across downtown to get to school is an adventure in its own right. In Quito the concept of pedestrian right of way does not exist. There are major intersections where one must cross several lanes of traffic, but where no crosswalks exist. During breaks in traffic groups of people make a run for it, clutching everything from shopping bags to children, in a desperate attempt to reach the other side before being run down. It looks like people fleeing an oncoming army. Cars and buses don’t actually stop if you are in their path, but they do honk incessantly so you at least know which of them is aiming for you. The experience is a bit like a real-life version of the game Frogger. (Sorry you under-30 types… look it up on the internet.) One of the first questions many tourists ask is the significance of the blue hearts painted on the roads here. They paint a heart everywhere someone is killed in a traffic accident. There are a lot of blue hearts on the roads of Quito.

I spend several hours each morning practicing Spanish with my profesora, Sylvia. She is assisted by her son David, my profesorcito, though he doesn’t say much (see photo). This isn’t school in the strictest sense; typically we sit in the garden under the equatorial sun, alternating between grammar lessons and casual conversation on topics ranging from economics to sports. It’s all useful in developing language proficiency. During breaks over coffee (Nescafé!) or tea I am getting to know other students from Switzerland, Australia, Germany, Canada, the U.K. Afternoons are usually occupied by a school-sponsored activity such as a museum tour, salsa lessons, or the much-anticipated professors vs. students fútbol match.

Then it’s back home for dinner, where Mercedes is doing her best to make sure I don’t lose weight during my visit. The meal starts with soup that has been on the stove all afternoon. It has potatoes or yuca, important staples of the South American diet, along with some type of meat. The main course includes chicken or beef mixed with green vegetables, rice, and beans or corn. My favorite is choclo, a South American corn with kernels as big as coins. Everything is fresh, and nothing comes from a can.

One of the ever-present dangers of travel to a place like South America is illness, and despite my vigilance I ingested the wrong food or water at some point because I got sick. Really sick. Mercedes took it upon herself to cure me, and marched into my room with a giant pitcher of horchata. Horchata is a drink made by blending together water, rice, sugar and salt. In theory it should be easy on the stomach while replenishing your body of salt and water. I’m sure it can be quite enjoyable depending on how it is prepared. Unfortunately, Mercedes’ rendition of horchata was particularly heavy on rice and salt and served warm. She stood over me grinning as I forced myself to drink a tall glass of the warm liquid. When I finished she decreed that if I simply drank another glass every hour for the next two days it would cure all my ills. Even the ones I didn’t know I had. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that simply looking at a four-liter pitcher of warm horchata made me sicker than I already was, so every hour I snuck into the bathroom and quietly emptied a glass of horchata down the sink.

Thankfully my friend Annie, a travel medicine specialist, had written me a prescription for ciprofloxacin and insisted that I bring it with me. When Susana began threatening to take me to the hospital I start taking cipro, and a couple of days later I felt almost normal. Mercedes attributed my miraculous recovery to the many pitchers of warm horchata I had dutifully consumed over the previous days. Deciding not to give her any reason to doubt that theory I quietly nodded in agreement.

By the way, if anyone has a line on a good coffee shop down here, drop me an email.

I HAVE BEEN MENTALLY PREPARING TO GO OUTSIDE MY COMFORT ZONE FOR SOME TIME. I expected to feel a bit anxious at the airport today, but that didn’t happen. It’s amazing how old habits kick in sometimes, and that’s exactly what occured this morning. I have done so much business travel over the years that once I walked into the terminal I went on autopilot. (A friend of mine once threatened to buy a row of airplane seats for my living room. She said it might make me feel more at home when I’m not at that airport.)

What really pushed me outside my comfort zone was something I never anticipated: leaving my cell phone at home. This is one of those things, at least in 2006, you don’t think about much. Carrying a phone around is about as automatic as wearing socks. At least it is for me. Riding to the airport I was amazed at how I practically felt naked without it. It’s not that I even needed to call someone. It’s a wonderful example of how modern conveniences become so ingrained in our lifestyle that we are dependent on them. I’m sure the phone will the first of many such realizations over the coming months, and I’m looking forward to discovering what other things have created dependencies in my life.

Thanks to the vagaries of air travel I had the pleasure of visiting both Los Angeles and Houston before turning south across the Gulf of Mexico. Flying out of L.A. I watched the city disappear under the dense blanket of smog that hangs over this great metropolis, relieved to be leaving it behind. In Houston I bought a cup of Starbucks coffee – grande drip, no room – figuring that it might be my last for a while, before heading off to the gate to board my plane.

Now, looking down on the Yucutan Peninsula to my right I can see lights along the Mexican coast twinkling in the twilight. In a few hours my plane will land in Quito and I’ll set foot in the southern hemisphere for the first time. As I watch the tropics of Central America slip past below me I am looking forward to breathing the cool, dry air of the Andes.

IT’S MY LAST DAY IN SEATTLE. I’m finally going. After five months of back trouble, physical therapy, and a fair amount of frustration I’m leaving tomorrow. A few days ago my friends Susan and Mona threw a big going away party for me, commenting that they would throw parties for me more often if it would get me to leave town. The weather cooperated and a group of us enjoyed a sunny summer afternoon highlighted by grilled Copper River salmon and homemade key lime cheesecake.

Five months of delays have given me a lot of time to figure out what to take and, amazingly, here I am the day before departure frantically sorting through a mountain of gear. What is painfully clear is that I have too much… stuff, yet I’m convinced that I need all of it. Ecuador is a country of extremes; within a very short distance you can go from the sunny coast to snowy Andean peaks to the Amazon jungle. Finding the right balance of gear requires some imaginative thinking. That down jacket I’ll be in love with at 3500m (11,500 ft.) will be useless pack filler in the jungle.

I called Mona, who also happens to be an experienced global trekker extraordinaire, and pleaded for guidance. “Of course you have too much stuff,” she chuckled. “Even after you narrow it down to what you think are the bare essentials, you’ll still have too much stuff! You just won’t realize it until you’re down there.” This was followed by a sinister laugh that seemed to suggest I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Following Mona’s advice I start dividing things into piles. I had the “I’ll probably die if I don’t have it” pile. Then there was the “I really want it” pile. Finally, was the “luxury items” pile.

I began sorting things one item at a time. To my dismay even this was exceedingly difficult. How many shirts do I need? Hmmm… that rain hat might come in handy in the rainforest. I practically went through withdrawal when I placed a camera lens in one of the non-essential piles. Two hours later I was standing in front of three large piles of… stuff. Remembering Mona’s sinister laughter I winced and pushed everything but the must-have pile off to one side. I miraculously managed to get everything into one large pack and a small daypack.

I have knots in my stomach staring at some of the unpacked items, seeing things I’m sure I’ll need, but which didn’t make the final cut; clothing, camera filters, extra toiletries (they sell toothpaste in South America, right?). I have to draw the line somewhere. My pack is by the door ready to go; all that remains is for me to get to the airport on time.

Murphy’s Law (mûr’fÄ“z law) noun : the law or principle that if anything can go wrong, it will.

“We’re going to need to do an MRI,” my doctor said.

That told me all I needed to know. For the previous week I had been walking around in pain, the muscles of my lower back twitching this way and that for no explainable reason. I was scheduled to leave for Ecuador in a week, but suddenly I could see all my plans slipping away. Lying on the table in my doctor’s office I stared at the ceiling and absorbed the news.

A few days earlier I had awoke to discover my back in excruciating pain. It hurt just to move. There had been no warning, no discomfort, nothing to suggest that anything was wrong. And yet there I was, lying in bed trying to figure out how to get up. A week of intense discomfort was enough for me to admit that something was wrong. The MRI revealed that I had an “L5-S1 herniated disk.” Or, as most of us would say, a slipped disk. It’s not an uncommon problem, but it is a serious one, and I wasn’t going anywhere until things improved. I reluctantly cancelled my plane ticket, not quite sure what I was going to do next.

My next stop was a consult with a neurosurgeon; Iwas pleasantly relieved when she opined that surgery would not be required. “I can do it if you want,” she said with a grin on her face, “but I think you’ll be fine with some less dramatic treatment.”

So for those of you who expected me to be in South America by now… well, there it is. I have spent the better part four months attempting to get back to “normal.” At first that meant twice-weekly physical therapy sessions and a couple of epidural steroid injections, as well as a six-week period where I wasn’t supposed to sit down. (Try to go for a week without sitting in a chair sometime and you’ll get the idea.) More recently it has evolved into lots of walking and even a bit of easy hiking.

I keep reminding myself that there’s a silver lining in all of this: I discovered the problem a week before going to Ecuador, and not a week after arriving. The last four months have also given me a lot of time to do a few things I never got around to when I was working, so in the whole scheme of things it hasn’t been a disaster.

I think it’s time to book a new flight to Quito…

SEATTLE – The pacific northwest is a wonderflul place in winter. Really. All that famous Seattle rain becomes snow in the mountains, and Mother Nature really came through this year. Perfect snowshoe conditions!

Shortly after arriving in Seattle my friend Susan talked me into buying a new pair of cross-country skis. At first I thought her motivation might have something to do with the fact that she was taking time off work and needed somebody to ski with. She astutely pointed out that I was taking time of work and that I needed somebody to ski with. Touché. Over the past month I have progressed from amateur level to… well… advanced amateur level. Hey, it’s a start.

Susan likes to do things such as organizing crazy ski trips, and she put together a great one in Winthrop, a small town in the North Cascades that is famous for outdoor recreation. Together with several friends we drank coffee in the morning, skied trails all day, and cooked big meals at night. One morning the town hosted a balloon festival, and we sipped hot steaming coffee in below-freezing temperatures while watching balloons of every size and color launch from a field of snow.

Since arriving from San Francisco I have been visiting my parents in the suburb of Redmond. If you’ve heard of Redmond before it’s probably because a little software company called Microsoft planted its stake in the ground here about twenty years ago. From what I gather they have done quite well.

Redmond is also home to Victor’s Coffee Roasters, a funky little shop in the old part of downtown where they roast their own beans in the back room. The seating is a mix of old wooden benches and worn chairs, and drip coffee is on the honor system. Just walk in, drop your money in a plastic jar, and pour yourself a cup of coffee. I have spent many mornings in Victor’s over the past month reading about South America while inhaling the earthy aromas of coffee. My book list has ranged from the obvious (Lonely Planet) to the obscure (a fifty year old guide on converting jungle savages to Christianity).

Between coffee and winter adventure I’ve managed to find a bit of time to get ready for my trip to South America. I’m scheduled to leave in about a week, shiny new passport in hand. My gear is collecting in a pile, and it’s time to start putting it into my pack.

Hopefully my next update will come to you from south of the equator.

SEATTLE – I stopped working three weeks ago. Like most of us I haven’t taken an extended break from my job for years. It’s a very liberating feeling, and it feels good. Maybe a little bit too good.

I’m not in a rush to get to Ecuador. I need bit of time to prepare for my adventure, and I’m waiting for my new passport to arrive from the State Department, so I can’t leave the country right now even if I want to. Besides, the last time I checked a map it didn’t look like the South America was going anywhere quickly – plate tectonics seem to be doing an admirable job of keeping the continent in one spot for the time being.

I have lived in San Francisco for a couple of years, but my hometown is Seattle. What better place to prepare for my adventure while awaiting a new passport? I might even be able to fit in some snowboarding or backcountry adventure while I’m there. OK, the real reason I decide to head for Seattle is that I’m officially homeless — almost everything I own is in a self-storage facility — and I have free places to stay there.

Having no deadline, I decide to take the road less traveled and go by way of the Eastern Sierra. It’s difficult to cross the Sierra Nevada in winter unless you’re wearing skis, so I will need to travel south and skirt the extreme end of the range before turning north again on U.S 395.

I make a slight detour through the western half of Kings Canyon/Sequoia National Park. A short hike through the forest takes me to a rocky outcrop with a spectacular view across the San Joaquin Valley to the west, with the coastal range visible over 100 miles in the distance. I wait a couple of hours for the light to change; just before dusk a haze settles over the valley with tendrils of fog invading the Sierra foothills.

Continuing south I reach the Mojave Desert and head east toward the town of Boron, California, home of the world’s largest borax mine. Reaching U.S. 395 I point north and set my sights on the Searles dry lake bed. Searles is one of many dry lake beds covering this stretch of the American southwest. During the ice ages, runoff from glaciers to the north covered this area with large lakes. In places, calcium-rich water seeped from beneath the lakebed and mixed with the alkaline water above. Over thousands of years this chemical interaction formed tall, porous towers known as tufa. Now that the water is gone, the tufa stand like sentinels in the middle of the flat, dry lake.

I follow a washed-out dirt road across the lake bed. Recent rains have made a mess of things, and for a rare moment I am glad to have 4WD. Ten miles later I arrive at the Trona Pinnacles, a large group of tufa standing lonely in the middle of the desert. As the sun sets, I watch its rays illuminate the tufa as an almost-full moon rises behind them to the east.

Cruising north I make my way to Lone Pine, a small town in the Owens Valley just below Mt. Whitney, the highest mountain in the continental U.S. The morning light in the eastern Sierra is very unique; leaving well before sunrise I drive 25 miles to photograph the mountains from across the dry bed of Owens Lake. Rising behind me the sun illumines the atmosphere above and behind the mountains before its rays ever strike stone, resulting in an eerie neon-like glow.

Continuing north I reach the town of Lee Vining, on the western shore of Mono Lake, a large, saline lake just east of Yosemite. The same forces that shaped the Trona Pinnacles are at work in Mono Lake, except that most of the Mono Lake tufa have only recently been exposed for the world to see. Water management policies have caused a precipitous drop in the lake level over the past 50 years, revealing many tufa at points around the shore.

I wake at 3:00 AM. Following a dirt track around the south end of the lake I arrive at the shoreline tufa in complete darkness. Almost immediately I realize that I have made two important mistakes: First, I haven’t checked to see what time the sun will actually rise. Second, I have forgotten how cold the desert is in the middle of winter.

It is eerily silent. Standing next to my tripod bundled in down jacket, I listen a pack of coyotes howling at the moon in the distance. Over time the howling grows closer and, before I know it, is almost right on top of me. I begin to wonder whether packs of coyotes have been known to attack humans.

I reach over and quietly fold my tripod, thinking that it might make a good weapon, as if a human swinging a carbon fiber tripod around in the pitch blackness is any match for a pack of wild coyotes. Hunkering down on a narrow strip of dirt between a tufa and the water’s edge I sit completely still. The howling increases in volume until it sounds like they are right behind me. I can hear small grunts and barks between howls so I know they are close. Eventually the coyotes move on, either not detecting me or, more likely, not caring that I am there. When the sun finally breaks the horizon my moments of terror are rewarded with a spectacular technicolor sunrise.

I amble north through California, Nevada, and Oregon, always staying to the east of the Sierra and, subsequently, Cascade mountains. For the first time in years I have no agenda, no schedule, no deadline. I stop for coffee in small towns and take photos when the light is good.

Shortly before reaching the Columbia River I catch a glimpse of the full moon rising over a farm outside of Pendleton, Oregon. Pulling over to the side of the road I set up my tripod, fire off a few shots, then stand there absorbing the tranquility of the scene. I could return to that spot every day for the next year and I would probably never see the same view again.

Getting back in the car I complete my trip to Seattle in the dark. The first leg of my trip to South America is complete, even if it takes me north instead of south.

SAN FRANCISCO – I hadn’t blinked for a while. Feeling a headache coming on, I look up from my computer and lean back in my chair. Shifting my gaze out the window of my office I take in the view – looking north, San Francisco Bay is neatly framed to the left by the San Francisco skyline and to the right by downtown Oakland. Stretching across the water between them is the Bay Bridge. It’s a million dollar view. Wait, this is San Francisco – it’s probably a ten million dollar view. Glancing down at my computer I suddenly lose all interest in whatever business plan, financial forecast, or sales report is staring back at me.

The FedEx guy shows up at my cubilce with a package. It’s my new cell phone.

I suddenly feel like I am in The Matrix, fully expecting Keanu Reeves to bolt around the corner at any moment in a leather trench coat. I glance over the cubicle wall, looking for men in sunglasses and dark suits.

Without thinking I stand up, leave my office, and go home.

Don’t get the wrong idea; I’m not one of those people that hates my job and can’t wait to leave. In fact, I’m quite proud of the work I do. For more than a dozen years I have developed, marketed, and supported tools for life science research, primarily analysis of DNA. Many of my customers have made important discoveries that will hopefully lead to cures for diseases like cancer, diabetes, or AIDS. It’s extremely satisfying to know that you’re making products that will change the world and improve peoples’ lives, but at the end of the day it’s still a business —working in an office, answering email, and trying to come up with the next great widget before the competition. In my case the widget just happens to be something like a tube of synthetic DNA.

Stopping at Starbucks on my way home for a grande drip coffee, I conclude that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life working in an office. But what to do?

I fire up my computer, coffee in one hand, mouse in the other, and start doing Google searches for random things, seeking anything that will spark my imagination. Clicking on one link by accident I almost hit the back button before something catches my eye. Thirty minutes later, still staring at the same page, I make a snap decision.

The following morning I step into my boss’s office. “I need to take a six month leave of absence,” I tell her. She stares back at me in silence for a few moments before posing the obvious question.

“Why?”

“I want go to South America to study bears.”

“They have bears in South America?”

It isn’t quite the response I’m expecting. The previous night I had discovered the web site for the Andean Bear Project, a long-term research project to better understand the habitat range of the Andean Spectacled Bear in the Ecuadorian cloud forest. They are looking for volunteers to come to a remote Andean village to track bears that have been tagged with radio collars. It has everything I need: adventure, a foreign country, another culture, another language. How can I resist?

I am pleasantly surprised to find her supportive of the idea. “Go for it,” she encourages.

My next stop is Human Resources to formalize the plan. I explain my idea to the HR person.

“They have bears in South America?” she asks, blinking.

Is there an echo in here? After a few questions to make sure that I won’t be using my time off to engage in criminal activity, covertly work for a competitor, or do anything else that could scandalize the company, I get the stamp of approval.

Finally, I have to break the news to my landlord.

“They have bears in South America?” comes the expected response.

Preparing to leave the country for several months is no trivial thing. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of activity, trying to anticipate every minor detail that could come back to haunt me later. In two weeks I’ll leave my job, the movers will come and take everything I own to a storage facility, and my adventure will begin.

I hope you’ll join me along the way.