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.