Pasochoa

About 20 miles south of Quito lies a wildlife reserve called Pasochoa. It is very popular with Quitenos who frequently make day trips there to get away from the smog and bustle of the city and hike its many trails.

In this way it reminds me of Bear Mountain State Park, an hour north--and a world away--from New York City. But the similarity quickly ends. For one thing, at its highest point, Bear Mountain State Park rises no more than 400 meters (1300 ft) above sea level while the Pasochoa Reserve, which sidles up one side of the extinct volcano of the same name, climbs from 2900 meters (9,515 ft) at the park entrance to 4200 meters (13,780 ft) at its summit.

Last weekend I was dispatched to Pasochoa as part of my conditioning regimen. This is an effort by my friends here to toughen me up in advance of three-day trek later in August along part of the old Inca road that ran along the cordillera between Quito and Cuzco. Each weekend I am pushed to hike at a higher elevation.

At Pasochoa, I made it to a point just below the summit. Beyond this the trail becomes virtually inaccessible without technical climbing skills or gear. At that elevation, along a steep and narrow trail, I could only go about 10 steps before resting to catch my breath.

The views were spectacular, but what intrigued me most about Pasochoa was the layout of the park itself and the extreme differences between the flora at the base of the mountain and at its top.

When Pasochoa blew its top thousands of years ago, the force of the eruption went laterally--rather than upwards, the way of volcanoes erupt in our imagination--shearing off an entire side of the mountain. This gives Pasochoa the aspect of an inclined horseshoe, the curved edge at the top, at the rim of the volcano, and the legs extending downward towards the base, the wide gash of the crater in between.

The reserve covers the eastern leg of the horseshoe, up to and including the summit. The trail to the summit runs along the ridge which in some places was only two or three yards wide, dropping precipitously down into the elongated crater on one side and--somewhat more gently--down the exterior slope of the volcano on the other. Near the summit--where the horseshoe is at its narrowest--the far side of the volcano's rim seemed tantalizingly close, just across the deep crater, (see left, the far rim peeking above, in the middle ground of the photo).

From its base to the summit, Pasochoa encompasses three micro climates, each strikingly different. This phenomenon, called micro-verticality, is common in Ecuador and is what allows this small country to possess such a variety of flora and fauna--not to mention agricultural produce. In the country's central Andean strip, for example, each province boasts produce as diverse as hearty cheeses (in the higher elevations) and succulent tropical fruits (in the valleys).

At its base, Pasochoa is covered by a deep blanket of highland rain forest (bosque de neblina montano in Spanish). In the middle elevations comes a sparse and dry evergreen forest (bosque siempre verde montano) reminiscent of the ponderosa lands of western Nevada. And at the highest elevations of Pasochoa are the arid alpine grasslands or, simply, the paramo (paramo herbaceo). The ability to hike from humid rain forest to alpine tundra in half a day is what makes Pasochoa, and Ecuador, exceptional.

The rain forest was lush and damp and the trail was very slippery in places. The trees were full of hanging mosses, creepers, and orchids. Supposedly, 127 species of bird can be found in Pasochoa and most live in this lower zone. Unfortunately, it is also in this part of the reserve where most of the visiting Quitenos are to be found, many with young children in tow; these squealed contentedly, chasing away all the birds from the trail. My goal was to survive a hike to the summit and back, not to bird watch, but it would have been nice to see more birds than just the few that I did. Fortunately, the cries of the children and the chatter of the adults had no effect--at least no visible one--on the orchids.

By the time I reached the middle elevations, the crowds had thinned. The air was noticeably drier and cooler but the sun burned down on my skin.

From this elevation the vista opened up and I could see the distant mountains and the towns nestled in the valleys. Quito itself was obscured by mountains but the city's southern suburbs were clearly visible. Above them, hugging the slopes of the mountains was a patchwork of pasture and cultivated lands, a quilt of greens and yellows and browns. The clouds gave the appearance of hanging low in the valleys but, at 10,000 feet, those valleys could hardly be called low.

By the time I reached the edge of the paramo, at about 3,500 meters (11,500 ft) I was laboring for breath and had to stop and rest for about half an hour; I had been walking since 8am and it was then after 11. Refreshed, I pushed on out of the sparse tree cover and onto alpine grasslands that gave no shelter from the fierce, noonday sun. The day before I had purchased a hideous floppy, wide-brimed Andean hat at a handicrafts center in Quito. I bought it in the hopes it would protect my bald head. Thank God I did. It became a sun helmet, deflecting the vertical rays of the noonday equatorial sun in a wide arc around my shoulders. Without it--or with only a baseball cap, for example--there is no way I could have continued on.

Throughout my slow slog up the paramo I kept thinking of the 16th century Spanish conquistadors broiling beneath their heavy, quilted mail and metal helmets, dragging their tired horses along these upland trails that were built not for armoured cavalry but for the lightly clad incas and their llamas. What, I wondered, but a maniacal lust for gold, could have propelled these Spaniards to advance, day after day, deeper into these regions?

As I neared the summit, I was able to see, edging over the top of a nearby ridge, the snow-covered peak of Antisana far off to the southeast (above, center). At 5,758 meters (18,900 ft) Antisana is one of the highest volcanoes in Ecuador and, although my picture doesn't do it justice, I was awed by its majestic white slopes peaking above the olive green carpet of the paramo.

Near the very top of Pasochoa, where the trail tends towards the vertical and the grasses of the paramo are replaced by rock and lichens and the occasional thorny shrub, I stopped. It was no use to go any further without equipment and a trained guide. I walked off the narrow trail and walked towards the volcano's edge. There I sat down, almost dangling my legs over the rim and looked deep into the forested crater below. Being just below the ridge line, the spot was sheltered somewhat from the winds, allowing bushes and a few small trees to grow. It was a charming spot, absolutely quiet except for the wind, and I felt contentedly exhausted, proud of having made it so far at that altitude. It was just then that I spied, several meters off in the distance, a single bunch of tiny, downward-facing red and orange bell-shaped flowers. They dangled jauntily from a wind-buffeted bush nearly naked of leaves. I marvelled for a moment at how something so delicate could survive in that harsh environment. Then I took a deep breath of thin air and turned to begin the long walk down the mountain.

Earthquake!

The big news in Ecuador last week: the Village People were cancelling their concerts in Quito and Guyaquil on short notice.

The Village People? Are they really still around? (I once performed in a college skit as the Leather Guy, complete with anatomy enhancing tube sock, but that's another story.) Apparently the Village People are still around and maintain an avid following in distant lands. The papers here speculated the cancellation was due to fears of the Swine Flu which has been on a tear in South America with a dozen deaths in Ecuador and many more further south where the cold weather seems to be breading a hardy new strain for export to the northern hemisphere. I went to the band's web site to find out more. Amidst goofy photographs of the band and its fans I found only this one sentence: "We apologize but due to circumstances beyond our control, Ecuador concerts in July have been canceled." Cowards! The good people of Ecuador deserve a better explanation than that.

For me, however, the big news last week was the earthquake. What earthquake, you ask? Don't worry, it didn't make the papers here either. It didn't even register on the local seismological authority's website. Apparently, this earthquake only struck my house. No one I know here felt or heard a thing. "It probably wasn't an earthquake," said one friend, in an attempt to calm me, "maybe it was just the mountain moving a bit." Holy smokes! Moving mountains? That sure sounds like an earthquake to me.

Seismic activity scares me silly. Of all the things to worry about since arriving in Ecuador last week--volcanoes, maniacal bus drivers, swine flu, and the very real possibility an airplane will fall on my house--earthquakes scare me the most.

So, here's what happened. Late Thursday night--I had just finished my previous posting in which, incidentally, I mentioned earthquakes--I heard what sounded like my upstairs neighbor moving furniture. This happens all the time in my New York place so I thought nothing of it. Only when I heard the sound again did I remember I have no neighbor directly above me here in Quito. The rumblings lasted only two or three seconds and after the second one it was quiet. I heard no commotion in the street above, no sirens, nothing. Somewhat doubting what I had heard, I went back to writing.

Then, about ten minutes later I heard a strange noise emanating from the floor to my left, near the refrigerator. It sounded at first like little claws scampering across the rough tile floor. I looked down expecting to see a mouse. But as the noise increased, I realized I was hearing an ominous cracking rather than the innocent scampering of little rodent paws. All of a sudden I saw the square ochre tiles start to buckle just inches from my feet. I sprang out of my chair--my scalp tingling with fear--and raced around the table. I jumped across the crack to the other side of the kitchen, the uphill side. (I should say here that my fear of earthquakes has been magnified by the design of this house, a good part of which appears to cantilever over the ravine. It makes for stunning views but does little for my phobia.) At that moment, all I could think of was getting myself over as far as possible towards the side of the house away from the edge. I didn't want to be on the wrong side if the crack continued, splitting the house down the middle in one fell swoop, like a machete on a coconut, spilling the contents--including me--down the ravine.

In five seconds it was over. I found myself standing against the far wall, my heart racing, staring at the crack in the kitchen floor. With visions of aftershocks in my mind--can't they sometimes be worse than the initial quake?--I began to think what to do next. First, I put on shoes and a jacket in case I needed to flee the house. But where would I go? This neighborhood is built on the side of a cliff, and many of the houses look much less sturdy than mine. (See right, for a neighboring house that looks just to be waiting for a nice shake.) Then I started to scan my apartment for load-bearing columns. If the earth were to start moving again I wanted to be able to go to the nearest one without thinking.

After about an hour of pacing and fretting and staring at the crack--which admittedly now looks smaller than it did that night--I finally went to bed. There I proceeded to stare up at the ceiling in the darkness, listening for the sound of structural failure. I don't know what time I finally fell asleep, but it was very late and I was fully clothed.

Earthquakes occur with unsettling frequency in Quito. But rather than making the people here more nervous, the frequency of the quakes appears to have disarmed them. They actually seem inured to the possibility that their city could collapse around them at any minute. (See left, from an earlier quake.) They take earthquakes in stride. The people I've told about my experience smile politely--a bit wearily, even--as if listening to a child who has just discovered a rather hum-drum fact of life. This sang-froid goes way back. In the middle of the 17th century, Mariana de Jesus, Ecuador's first saint, had this to say: "In Ecuador there will be no end to earthquakes or to bad governors." (El Ecuador no se acabara por los terremotos sino por los malos gobiernos.)

That sort of soothing fatalism may work for the people of Ecuador but as for me, I'll probably keep sleeping in my clothes for a while. Now, about those airplanes.

Quake damage -- it looked a lot worse while it was happening. Honest.

Up and Down and Out of Breath in Quito

In Quito, Ecuador's capital, it's all about the hills. And the mountains. And the ravines.

In 1534, the Spanish founders of the city--following colonial custom--decided on a Cartesian grid plan. Sadly, they laid this grid down in the center of a hilly valley scored with steep ravines. Four mountains contain the valley which runs roughly north-south for about ten miles. At the center of the valley, at its narrowest point, the Spaniards found the smoking ruins of the Incan city of Quito, the northern capital of the empire. Ruminahui (right), the last of the great Incan generals, burned the city to the ground--and slaughtered its inhabitants--rather than allowing it to fall to the advancing conquistadors. Despite the carnage, the Spaniards realized that what was a propitious site for an Incan city would serve equally well for a Spanish one. The valley was fertile and the four mountains provided an excellent defense. The snow-covered volcanoes in the distance must have reminded the conquerors of the Sierra Nevada back home.

It all makes for some breathtaking scenery, but for visitors arriving from sea-level to negotiate the streets and steps in the thin air of this city 9200 feet up the Andes, the word breathtaking quickly takes on another meaning.

While the city long ago outgrew its colonial era grid, it hasn't escaped its confining geography. Contemporary Quito, with two million inhabitants, now completely fills the valley. In several places it has spilled over the ridges, swallowing suburbs on the far sides of the mountains. Those mountains, which once provided protection from attack, today trap the exhaust from the city's cars and busses. The already heavy traffic is made worse by the narrowness of the valley, wide enough for only three arteries in the center of town. So, all north-south traffic in the heart of the city is forced onto these three roads. Underground transit has never been seriously considered. Too many earthquakes and landslides. So, the wealthy and middle classes drive while the poorer folk crowd into smoke-belching busses and everyone--regardless of class--sits fuming in choking rush-hour traffic.

Even in the midst of the soothing perpendiculars and wide plazas of Quito's splendid colonial center, the punishing topography is evident. The streets rise and fall like a roller-coster. Many are so steep that steps serve as sidewalks (see right). In an attempt to make the city more conducive to the grid the Spanish filled in many of the ravines, but this turned out to be a short-sighted solution. Water still runs through the ravines and, from time to time, the fill shifts and another red-tiled colonial beauty is lost in a heap of dust and debris. Fortunately, this is rare. Unless there is an earthquake. The other day I went to see a building that had fallen in recently. By some miracle, the facade remained undamaged but the building's original innards were gone. In their place was a handsome open-air performance space and a chic outdoor cafe. Not a bad re-use of the space, but a far cry from the original of my imagination; in my mind's eye I see a serene courtyard edged with fruit trees--a fountain gurgling quietly in the center--and surrounded by a two storied covered arcade to protect against the fierce equatorial sun.

I'm staying in a neighborhood called Guapulo, about four miles from the old town. It is one of those former suburbs on the far side of the mountains that the growing metropolis has devoured. From downtown, Quito's valley rises gradually towards the eastern ridge. But, on the far side of the ridge--where Guapulo is--the land drops precipitously (see left). Here, the houses seem to cascade down the impossibly steep hillside. The one narrow street connecting Guapulo with Quito proper copes with the steep grade by switching back and forth, again and again, in its ascent of the ridge. My apartment building is on the outside edge of this street, perched over a ravine. To reach my door from the street I have to descend four flights of stairs. Going down is fine but going up each step is a burden in the high mountain air. By the time I reach street level my head is pounding and my chest burns. And I still have to climb the ridge.

Cars, their engines straining, speed past, spewing exhaust and kicking up a fine layer of dust as I trudge up the cobblestone street. At the second switchback (left) I take a pedestrian shortcut. This shortcut--if you can call it that--is a dizzying zigzag of steps ascending the hill face. How many steps? 254. Yes, 254 steps. I've counted them. Twice. Just to be sure.

After step 254 the stairs rejoin the road for a final few meters up to the top of the ridge. From there, one can get a fabulous view of Quito spread out below, filling the valley and climbing the mountain on the western side. I could see it, too, if I were not staring at my feet, doubled over in pain, trying to catch my breath and still my swimming head, my eyes watery from the soot.

I'm sure in a few days I will become aclimatized to the altitude and somewhat desensitized to the pollution. Then I'll start enjoying the view.