HIKE is a four letter word

I am paralyzed from the waist down. I cannot feel my toes. My nose is frostbitten. My jeans are coated in dirt. My hands are pierced with thorns. I will never, ever, ever hike again.

Rachel and I woke this morning with ambitions of hiking around the Quilotoa crater, trekking down to the Quilotoa lagoon, renting kayaks, and hiking back up. According to our trusty Lonely Planet guide, the hike takes around 4-5 hours, and the crater is one of the most exhilarating sites in all of Ecuador. I was excited about the hike, but a little nervous, as I´m not a big hiking fanatic. I trusted Rachel and the guide books, though, and went along with the plan. I even bought a gorgeous painting of the crater for Flavio as I imagined it looking stunning on his wall.

Five minutes into the hike I had flashbacks of the horrible hikes my parents dragged me on and quickly remembered why I abstained from the wretched activity for the last 20 years.

The hike was torture. Sheer torture. Even Rachel, the triathelete, agreed. Mere minutes into the hike, the dirt trail jetted straight up the side of the mountain. Straight up. The use of all four limbs was not an option, but a necessity. Right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot. I grasped weeds, bushes, and rocks to propel myself forward; I slid down hills of slippery rocks, and stumbled to maintain some sort of balance.

There was no sun. It was cold. My teeth chattered until they froze. My nose ran until it turned purple. My hair dripped down the sides of my head. I panted, and gasped for air. I tried to remain positive for Rachel´s sake, but as we got farther and farther out, I became more and more miserable. My legs threatened to fold, and my mittens turned to chards of wool, pierced by thorns.

Just when I thought things could not possibly get any worse, we lost site of the trail.

Around the time the trail vanished, Rachel and I met up with an Italian couple, Anna and Paolo, who were equally confused as to which direction to go. Anna chose to go with Rachel and I, while Paolo took a different path.

The three of us ladies knew we were in trouble within minutes and began screaming ¨PAOLO! PAOLO!¨for help. There was no response. We forged ahead. I started humming ¨If I only had a horse¨ to the tune of ¨If I only had a brain¨ from the wizard of OZ to try to distract myself from the possibility of dying out in middle of a volcanic crater and never seeing civilization again. Rachel asked me a couple times if I´would ever forgive her for taking me on this trail. I did not have enough energy to respond. My only ray of hope came in the shape of occansional donkey turd… at least there was another life form out there somewhere.

With little other choice, Rachel, Anna, and I eventually decided to climb the at least 250 meters straight up a wall of rocks and make it to the top of the crater. From there, hopefully, we would be able to spot some sort of trail. The ascent was treacherous. Just as I started to make progress, I hit a patch of sand and slipped down 10 feet. One wrong step and one would plunge 15,000 feet to a horrific death. The three of us took turns crying out for Paolo.

Finally, we spotted Paolo. He made his way over to us and helped pull us up over the side of the mountain. If I hadn´t seen him at that precise moment, I think I would jumped off the side of the crater.

After 6 harrowing hours, we made it back to the village. The Lonely Planet author who claimed the hike was a peaceful 4 hour walk will most certainly be hearing from me…

Our near death experience on the trail created a deep bond between both Rachel and I and Anna and Paolo. The four of us, (and 2 of their other friends who joined us later) spent the afternoon together, and ended up renting rooms at the same hostal in a nearby village. We all ate dinner together and then became an audience for a group of dancing Ecuadorian 7 year old girls. They were all adorned in their precious native outfits: bright yellow sequined hair bandanas, bold yellow, green and red skirts, and white peasant blouses with purple and green flowers embroidered on the neckline. I loved the show.

The music paused 15 minutes into the show and one of the dancers stuck her hand out either to shake my hand or to ask for tip money---I was not sure. I reached into my pocket for some change when I felt her tugging on my arm. The next thing I knew, I was up, twirling, and swirling around the room in a circle of 10 or so 7 year old girls. It was big Gringo me in my still dusty jeans, and sweat stained face, and lovely little them. I had a blast and luckily caught a bit on camera. Judging by the photos or the looks of the dance, no one would ever known that I nearly died only hours before.