Off to Chimborazo

We head out at 8:30 am for a four-hour drive to Chimbo. We stop for lunch, but the drive otherwise passes quickly. At the park entrance we sign in at the guesthouse and then dodge potholes to the end of the road. It has been snowing, but is clear for the moment. Two porters meet us to haul extra gear, and we hit the trail for the high hut.

We arrive sooner than expected and duck into the domed tent that will be our extremely temporary home. Dinner is at 5:30 in a separate kitchen tent. Jeff says he’s exhausted from the hike and still not fully recovered from Coto. He’s already zipped into his sleeping bag and looks like he could fall asleep mid-sentence. Ossy checks on him later and declares him fine—just tired.

In the kitchen dome, a man and a young woman work a big propane stove, constantly boiling water and preparing dinner. The meal is surprisingly good: grilled chicken with potatoes and rice. I drink herbal tea, which turns out to be unnecessary hydration after my deliberate intake on the hike.

After dinner, we settle awkwardly into our cave. Three of us sleep elbow-to-elbow in one row, while Mengezi—who began as the fourth parallel sleeper but immediately rejected his spot after suffering a single drop of moisture overhead—reorients himself at a right angle across our heads. Boots are banned beyond a grimy strip of green carpet at the entrance, which adds yet another acrobatic element to getting in and out.

Once wedged into my sleeping bag between Paul and Jeff, Diamox pokes my bladder like an overcaffeinated woodpecker. Peck, peck, peck. This is not going away. It’s not even dark out, and I slither through the others to assemble my La Sportiva mountaineering boots—inner layer, shell, zipper, BOA dial—and limbo out the dome door.

The required spot for such activity is on the far side of the kitchen tent—maybe thirty yards, but after wriggling out of the dome it feels like a kilometer. It happens to be gorgeous out: golden hour light, and below us a cloud-lake brewing a silent lightning storm that flashes every so often. It’s surreal.

Back inside: wedge, lie down, heart rate spiking, breathing like I’m sprinting. Can anyone else hear this cardiac meltdown? I try to calm down. Thirty minutes pass. A presence returns. This HAS to be a mental trick. I just went. Poke, poke, poke. Now it’s dark, so I have to use the headlight attached to my climbing helmet, which is clipped to a tent pole over my bag. Out I go again. Hike, piss, return, pant, calm. This time I think I doze off for a bit. When I wake, clear the fog and check my watch, it’s only 9:45! Guides don’t wake us until 11pm, and there it is again, I can feel it. Diamox, damn you!