Nevado Ranrapalca

After a day of rest, Michael and I were mostly healed and feeling ready to take on another challenge: the North Face of Ranrapalca. Nevado Ranrapalca stands over 20,000 feet tall at the end of the Ishinca Valley, dwarfing Nevado Ishinca, our first climb about 2 weeks before.  It is a difficult climb - certainly the most technical we´ve attempted together.

The imposing North Face of Ranrapalca

While notoriously "scary-looking," this route caught our attention for several reasons: the face is a beautiful, kilometer-high wall of rock, ice and snow with two distinct, horizontal rock bands. It's a committing route with great exposure (and great views!) that may only exist through this season due to the rapidly-changing climate. In fact, this is the first time in about five years that it has been climb-able as a snow route and the chance may simply never come again.  In addition, the descent was via the Northeast face of the mountain - a steep rock and snow headwall towering above a heavily-crevassed glacier - giving us a full tour of Ranrapalca in all its glory.  Also, we felt acclimatized and in shape, and wanted to try something hard.  The climb, which requires 7,500 vertical feet from start to finish, normally takes 4 days, but we figured we could move fast and do it in 2.5 days in order to be back in Huaraz when our friends, Matt and Kelsey, planned to arrive.



Our ascent is in red and our descent is in black

We hired a particularly fiesty burro to carry our packs to just below Ranrapalca.  From there, we carried our packs up a steep, rocky morraine where we set up camp just in time to enjoy a beautiful sunset.

 

A beautiful sunset from our Ranrapalca camp

The alarm went off at 1 am and we awoke to one of the darkest nights we have ever experienced - there was no moon and even the stars seemed dim. Completely dependent on our headlamps, we made our way through crappy rock and up the rest of the morraine to a steep snow slope at the base of the face. After a long stretch of stairmaster-like steps, we hit our first crux at 3 am - an ice bridge leading to a vertical, 75-foot pitch of mixed rock and thin ice above a huge cliff.  This was completely unexpected as snow was supposed to extend all the way to the base of the face.  I was not happy. In addition to being frightening, this little section exemplified a whole new level of technical difficulty to which I have no amibition to reach - there's just a point where it's so hard it's not fun anymore, and this was it for me.

But Michael wasn't ready to give up and could see that the vast majority of the face (after this section) was manageable (albeit very steep) snow and ice. Using a combination of two technical ice axes, crampons, bare hands, and sheer force of will, Michael slowly and steadily made his way up the rock and ice to a safe anchor in the snow beyond. After a brief yelling match about whether we should turn around, he proceeding to literally haul his very reluctant wife up that section. That was the low point of the climb.  However, the next several hours were spent kicking steps and planting our ice axes, slowly but surely, up the roughly 65-75 degree snow and ice, watching an absolutely magnificant sunrise from what felt like the top of the world.

Just below the summit plateau, at around 20,000 feet, we reached the second rock band.  It was quite difficult to navigate and climb, but wasn't nearly as scary as the first - probably because we had sunlight at this point.  Michael, again, did a great job leading the pitch and I followed, with less reluctance and less assistance from the rope this time.

Taylor at the top of the North Face

Happy and tired, we were a little disappointed to look down the other side of the mountain - our descent route.  It was much longer and hairier that we expected.  Fearing the inevitable late-afternoon rockfall, we didn't dally in starting to go down.

The first part of the descent was a rock and ice face about as steep as what we had just come up. It took several pitches of exposed rappelling to get to the bottom of the face, navigating around a few crevasses along the way.  Unfortunately, at the bottom of the face where the glacier begins to slope at a more reasonable angle, there was one huge crevasse. After some scouting, we found an overhang just far enough over the opening that we could lower ourselves over the 10-foot edge and get one foot onto the other side. To be honest, this was really exciting to do and I'm sure I wore a silly grin on my way down, hidden behind my neckwarmer.

Taylor, thankful for good weather on the descent

Once past this hurdle, we were able to actually walk (finally!), a much faster means of getting down. I led our way through the crevasse field, avoiding the exposed cliffs and trying to find the safest and easiest route back to camp. While it took a long time, with some unfortunate back-tracking, we made it down, enjoying stunning views and perfect weather, arriving at camp a little before sunset.

A photo taken on our descent

Our descent wasn't over - we still had to pack up camp and descend 2,000 feet to the refugio in the valley where we had left our extra supplies and planned to sleep in actual beds with mattresses. As we slung our full packs onto our backs,  we wished we could have arranged burros for this leg of the climb too.

We thought we were out of the danger zone, but only a few minutes into our descent down the dusty and slippery morraine, my biggest fear came true: Michael fell. I watched from about 10 feet behind, screaming in horror, as his plastic boot somehow faltered on a rocky step and the weight of his heavy pack pulled him off-balance, sending him cascading backwards over a small shelf, where his poles stayed put, and then over a 20-foot cliff, finally coming to rest after another small shelf. It was like watching an action movie in slow motion. He came to a stop sitting upright, stunned.  Unbelievably (and reminiscent of his bike accident last spring), he came out of the whole incident with only a few scrapes on his hands and a small tear in his jacket. That man is blessed. And so am I, because we were about 8 hours round-trip from any help whatsoever and it was quickly getting dark. It's truly a miracle that Michael got up and walked out to the refugio, carrying his pack the whole way.

The cliffs Michael fell over

The rest of the way down was painful with the little agonies of cuts, bruises, blisters and burned-out muscles, but was otherwise without incident. We both crashed hard at the refugio after a little warm food, never before appreciating the comfort of old, used and smelly mattresses quite so much.

We met the burro driver the next morning and made our way out of the valley and back to Huaraz, sore and still tired but feeling very proud of ourselves for having completed our most challenging climb yet. Most of all, we were ready for several rest days in Huaraz and perhaps a nice, gentle backpack when our friends, Matt and Kelsey, arrived.

Nevado Shaqsha

After our trip to the Ishinca Valley didn´t go as well as we had hoped, we decided to do a relatively straightforward and short confidence-building climb of Yannapacha (roughly 18,000 ft). We caught a 6:30 am collectivo from Huaraz up the Llanganuco Valley, the most "V"- shaped valley I've seen yet with an amazing road cut into the cliff, guarded by 20,000 ft peaks. Four hours of switchbacks later, we were dropped off on the side of the road at "the curve past kilometer 48," as instructed by our climbing guidebook.

We were alone this time - no porter, cook or burros - since the approach was supposed to be short without much elevation gain. Soon after we started hiking, dark skies descended and began peppering us with rain. Two hours later, we reached moraine camp - an ugly, cold, viewless and seemingly-spiritless set of flat spots on rocks. The rain was coming down hard, the wind had picked up, and it was freezing. We decided life is just too short for that much unpleasantness and turned around. We walked all the way back to the road and hitch-hiked a ride to Huaraz.

Dark clouds and rays of light

Unfortunately, about when we caught our ride, the skies started to clear. We watched with growing regret as the bad weather retreated and an unimaginably beautiful sunset took over the sky. Michael was devastated. For him, it was the worst day of our entire South America trip. I felt frustrated and foiled, but a bit more apathetic. We both were much in need of an enjoyable adventure.

After careful thought, we picked Shaqsha, a picturesque two-summit mountain reaching about 18,800 feet. We were the first team to attempt Shaqsha this year. We hired burros to carry our packs for the 5-hour, 4,200-ft-elevation-gain approach to base camp on the moraine below the glacier, a beautiful and sheltered camp on soft sand, surrounded by rocks. Unfortunately, we arrived in driving snow and cold temperatures… but we took note from our Yannapacha mistake and stuck it out. Soon, the weather cleared considerably.


Afterglow on Shaqsha, from near our camp

The next morning we opted for a late start time of 5:30 am. Clouds still shrouded the mountain, but didn´t threaten a storm. We had two choices for our route: the South summit route is a short and direct climb up sustained 70-80 degree snow and ice; the North summit (the main summit) route climbed cleanly and directly through a huge, cascading glacier with sustained 60-70 degree snow and ice. We opted for the North summit and picked our way across the glacier.

Our route on Shaqsha, directly up the West Face

The next several hours were both exciting and grueling, as we pushed our way up steep soft snow. I don't usually feel this way, but that day I loved my thighs. Climbing the snow up Shaqsha's face was like exercising on a stairmaster for five hours straight.

The clouds hung around all morning – always shifting - but the wind and snow stayed away. We felt like we were in some other-worldly, magical place. Fortunately, the clouds blocked any view down the incredibly steep and exposed face we were climbing up, which helped me stay focused instead of freaking out. The few times I did look down through a break in the clouds, I had to audibly tell myself "OK, keep climbing. Stay focused. Don't think about it."

Taylor, high on the West Face

Near the top, we discovered a small but problematic summit cornice (an overhanging section of snow that forms at the top of a ridge or peak due to consistent wind). It took us probably an hour of traversing hard-to-protect 80 degree snow and ice slopes to get around this last 5 meters to the summit (including an awkward and scary crawl on a little ice shelf under the cornice). Frustrating! But, the summit was worth it: a very thin knife-edged ridge of ice and snow just wide enough to straddle, looking down endless depths on either side. I promptly sat down, dug my feet into the snow, and told myself not to look down. I don't think I've ever been on a more exposed summit. We didn't stay long.

The knife-edge summit of Shaqsha

The descent was almost as difficult as the ascent, and even more technical. We had to descend in protected pitches: First, Michael would set up an anchor in the snow to hold him into the mountain, then rappel me down the length of the rope. Next, I would set up and anchor and Michael would down-climb to me. Rinse and repeat until we were off the face of the mountain, about 3 hours later, very tired.

Overall, Michael and I had a really amazing time, kept in good spirits the entire day, and enjoyed the technical challenges Shaqsha presented to us. Just as we got down to the crevasse field, the sun came out and we could look back and gawk at our route. We happily made our way back to camp to relax for the remainder of the day.

Walking back to camp - beautiful!

Problems soon arose. Because our climb was mostly in the clouds and our attention was fully captivated (and necessarily so) by the technical difficulty and beauty of the route, Michael and I each broke a cardinal rule of climbing: I didn't wear sunglasses and Michael didn't put on sunscreen for most of the morning. The price of this mistake was high, and we both paid dearly. Michael's already-present tan lines reached a new level and his lips eventually blistered and turned partially black. I spent the next 24 hours in utter agony. I had no idea that snow-blindness was so painful. It felt like someone was torturing me by rubbing sand in my eyes, which were so swollen and heavy that I could barely lift my lids for more than a few seconds. Between that and a muscle spasm in my back, I only made it through the night thanks for our emergency stash of Vicodin.

When we met our mule driver the next day, he could clearly see that I was having difficulty walking at any acceptable pace and offered to let me ride the mule. Damn my pride, I rode that mule with my eyes closed and my feet hanging barely off the ground the entire three hour descent to the road. From there, we took a collectivo to Huaraz where I spent the rest of the day lying in the dark and listening to 3-month-old episodes of "Wait, Wait, Don´t Tell Me" and feeling like an complete idiot for inflicting such preventable suffering on myself. Amazingly, by the next morning, my eyes were almost back to normal. We promptly went out and purchased the darkest sunglasses we could find blue wrap-arounds with an electric orange reflection off the lenses that make me feel like a 12-year-old boy. Michael thinks they are awesome. I don´t, but I'll wear anything that prevents agony like that from happening again.


Michael leading through deep snow at the base of the West Face

Despite the painful aftermath, this climb of Shaqsha will go down in our memories as one of our all-time favorites and a much-need enjoyable adventure to lift our spirits and keep us excited about our other climbing prospects here in the Cordillera Blanca.

Sunset on Shaqsha

Ishinca Valley, Peru

Cooking Tents below Nevado Tocllaraju

This is luxury climbing. After two days of tedious logistics in Huaraz, we were set: one porter/cook named Juan; three large boxes of food including a whole chicken, a couple kilos of beef, 20 eggs, and fresh fruits and vegetables; a “cooking tent,” a large, orange and blue pentagon-shaped contraption that looks like a circus tent for little people, but comfortably sits about 6 normal-sized people with all the food and kitchen supplies; all of our rented climbing gear; a commercial-sized gas container and 2-burner iron stove; and a new pair of bulky wool knee-high cap socks I bought from a sweet lady knitting on the street in Huaraz.

In the U.S., this kind of load would be impossible because you have to pack in and out all your supplies on your back. In most climbing areas, pack animals are not allowed or are mighty expensive. Here, we paid US$30 for 3 burros, a small horse, and a man to drive them to our base camp – home for the next six days.

Carrying only water and cameras up the trail to base camp, accompanied by various burros, cows, sheep, horses and dogs, was an easy and beautiful 3-hour walk.

We both hardly slept that night for whatever unknown reason and decided at about 3am to simply get an earlier start on our climb of Ishinca, a mountain up the valley a good ways that reaches about 18,250 feet. Our first ten steps or so outside the cooking tent were in the wrong direction. Juan, who has been a porter for over 30 years and has climbed every peak in our climbing book at least 10 times (15 times for the popular ones) decided to show us the way and ultimately led us to the toe of the glacier, about 2,000 vertical feet from base camp.

I found myself strenuously power-walking in my rented plastic boots, audibly huffing and puffing to keep up with a shockingly agile 53-year-old man and a caffeinated Michael. Fortunately, we made great time. Unfortunately, I was beat by the time we got to where the actual route begins – everything so far had been only the approach.

Sunrise (with the moon) on Ranralpaca, on our approach to Nevado Ishinca

Juan left us as the sky began to lighten with the sunrise, and I had myself a good cry (and not the last of the day). But, the morning was young and the route looked easy, so we carried on. Climbing up the snow slopes wasn´t difficult, but between the lack of sleep and the altitude, we both felt drained.

It didn’t help that, when the sun started beating down on us, Michael realized he forgot his sunglasses at base camp. Rather than risk snow-blindness or turn around, he chose to put on his balaclava (like a heavy sky mask with an opening just for your eyes) – backwards, covering his entire face and eyes. Thus, he was half-blind, exceedingly hot, had difficulty breathing, and looked ridiculous.

It looked like a safe climb to the summit without having to cross or get near any crevasses, so we dropped all our technical gear except ice axes to lighten the load to the top. A small outcropping of rock just above us gave us a seemingly inconsequential choice of which way to go around it. We chose right. We chose wrong. The right side, unlike the left, had one large and deep crevasse between us and the safe slopes to the top. Michael found, and crossed, what was, in reality, a wide and safe ice bridge but, to me, was the bridge of death. So I sat down and ate snow, content to watch Michael trudge his way to the summit and back down to our abandoned gear. The scenery was absolutely stunning, but we took little notice of it in our misery and exhaustion.

During our tedious descent to base camp, my body started freaking out from some combination of altitude sickness and pure exhaustion. I was wheezing and coughing uncontrollably and breathing only in panicky, short breathes. Michael followed my slow and staggering steps because I was afraid I might collapse. I made it down on my own steam to base camp, had hot tea, a warm meal, and then lay down in the tent for hours, with Michael next to me, watching closely. We both were concerned I had HAPE – High Altitude Pulmonary Edema – when fluid gets into your lungs and can cause serious, long-term damage. But, other than my respiratory problems, I showed no other symptoms. Brilliantly, Michael gave me his headphones so I could listen to my Kindle read to me (I <3 my Kindle!) and, with my mind and fear of HAPE distracted, my body relaxed and my breathing got better and better. By dinner, our crisis was averted and we knew it was mostly exhaustion-induced.

We changed our plans to make the next day a rest day, slept a ton that night, and I woke up feeling like a different person. My cough stayed with me, triggered mostly by cold, but I was in much better condition from that point forward.

The view from our Tocllaraju high camp a few hours before sunset.

 After our rest day, we packed our essentials and climbing gear and hiked about 2,000 vertical feet to the high glacier camp on Tocllaraju, a peak of about 19,900 ft., which we planned to summit the next morning. Juan carried most of my gear - I proudly hauled the air mattresses – so I could attempt to keep up with the men.

A self-portrait of Michael, high above the Ishinca Valley

Our high camp, just under 17,000 feet, was a beautiful, well-protected spot with views of valleys on either side of the ridge. There were more clouds in the sky that night, making the sunset more dramatic and prompting Michael to enthusiastically bound to the highest point around us for better pictures.

Star trails over our Tocllaraju high camp just hours before a storm rolled in.

A few minutes before our 1:45am alarm went off (on the morning of our one-year wedding anniversary), it started to snow – a lot. It was also wet snow, the worst kind because it bogs down your clothing, freezes, and chills you to the bone. Visibility was also terrible. It took about two seconds for us to decide to forego the summit and try to get some more sleep.

 It was still snowing when we finally emerged from the tent around 7:30am, cold, tired and miserable. Happy Anniversary to us!! All our gear outside was frozen solid, making it difficult to pack up and tie our frozen shoelaces. Then we heard a loud rumble and watched a huge avalanche flow down the face of the mountain, not far from the route... confirming that we made the right decision to stay off of it.



Taylor descending from the Tocllaraju storm with Ranrapalca, a 20,000 ft peak, in the distance.

 Our descent was quite miserable and tedious, climbing over slippery snow-dusted boulders while our gear melted slowly making our packs heavier and heavier. Thankfully Juan left early to meet us and took some of our weight. When we got back to base camp, he made us hot tea and pancakes (I don´t know what we would have done without him) and promptly lay down to rest. We left the valley the next morning and returned to Huaraz.

In retrospect, perhaps this whole trip was a necessary blunder – a reality check on our overly-ambitious itinerary for the next few weeks. We learned a lot about climbing in these mountains or, as Michael so gracefully put it: “how f*ing cold it is to sleep at 17,000 feet.” Most importantly, we spent 6 days above 14,000 feet, which should help us acclimatize for the long run. Those are about all of the up-sides I can think of.

However, the warm sun is shining again in the mountains and Michael and I have adjusted our plans so that our next adventures should be far more enjoyable.

Hacienda El Porvenir near Cotopaxi National Park, Ecuador

The next morning, slightly hungover from the wine bar the night before, a van and a guide, Carolina, picked us up from our hotel and we headed south on bumpy, country roads towards Cotopaxi National Park. It was nice to see some of the country communities rather than traveling by highway, but it was a little bit like a rodeo trying to stay in our seats.


Michael, Taylor and Mike getting pumped up for zip lining!

Our destination: zip-lining!! After getting outfitted, my Dad, Michael, and I hiked up to the top of 5 very long zip-lines which spanned back-and-forth across a canyon. My mom chose to avoid the inevitable virtigo and go for a hike to a waterfall instead, saying that zip-lining once is her lifetime (a few years ago in Nicaragua) was enough.

After zip-lining, we took the van to the hacienda for lunch. Hacienda El Porvenir sits at around 11,600 feet is an active hacienda, meaning it is not just a place for tourists to stay, but still engages in some of the traditional agricultural and animal activities. Our meals were delicious and primarily made on-site with local ingredients. The buildings are very nicely decorated, with large, fresh flower arrangements on all the tables and giant, always-lit fireplaces with sitting areas around them. It was a very classy place that attracts a ton of attention in the high tourism season. Lucky for us, we had the place mostly to ourselves.

Sharon, Mike and Taylor enjoying tea and empanadas by the fire

At the same time as us, two ladies from South Africa arrived and we spent a good amount of our time in their company. They were energetic, well-traveled, and good-humored anesthesiologists who provided a lot of entertainment with their stories of traveling in Africa and abroad.

Mike, Michael, Taylor and Sharon outfitted and ready to ride

The first morning was everyone´s highlight. After a good breakfast, we were outfitted in traditional Ecuadorian-cowboy style with panchos, chaps, and our hats (which we bought in Otavalo). My mom got the best chaps with long, dreadlock-like hair that earned her the nickname "Chewbacca's mother." It was hilarious. Then, properly dressed, we were given a horse and left for a 3.5-hour ride over the hacienda´s land that abuts Cotopaxi National Park. In the earlier morning, we had a glimpse of the top of Cotopaxi, but the clouds obscured most of it during the ride (Unfortunately, Michael and I have yet to actually see the mountain we climbed). Nonetheless, we had great views of a lower and closer volcano, and it was wonderful to ride through fields of grasses and wildflowers with its rocky peak looming overhead.

We returned to the hacienda just as a rainstorm arrived - and it rained on and off almost until we left the next morning. Most of our remaining time at the Hacienda was spent sipping wine, reading, talking, and/or playing games in front of the roaring fire. It was very peaceful - definitely a highlight of our trip.

Michael, embracing his cowboy side, sitting by the fireplace

We arrived back in Quito, and after some packing, we headed out for our final dinner together before my parents left. My parents were ready to head home and Michael and I were ready to continue our travels, but none of us really wanted to say goodbye. I am so appreciative that they came down for those two weeks to travel with us, and I miss having them here now to chat over a bottle of wine.

The next morning, Michael and I caught a taxi to the airport at 5:15am, the beginning of 40 hours of continuous traveling by plane, bus, and taxi. Ultimately, after an overnight bus ride, we arrived at the final destination of our trip: Huaraz, Peru!!!

The Cloud Forest of Mindo and back to Quito, Ecuador

Mindo can be accurately described as a little alpine village in the heart of the cloud forest. There is one main cobblestone street lined with small stores and restaurants, each with the upper stories used as homes or hostals. We stayed at the Dragonfly Inn, a beautiful wooden building next to a river with very comfortable rooms.

Our time in Mindo was very relaxing. My Dad was perhaps the most excited, as he sat out on the deck with his camera focused on hummingbirds for hours. As Michael said, my Dad was like a fat kid in a candy shop. The first morning, Michael and my Dad also spent hours with their cameras in the famous Mariposario, or butterfly house, about a 45 minute walk from the town. My mom and I went walking by the river and then met up with them, but we were mostly interested in watching the butterflies' cocoons hatch open and newborn butterflies dry out their wings - a surprisingly fascinating event.

One picture Michael took at the mariposario

Another picture Michael took, this time of two Owl butterflies

To celebrate Mother´s Day, we went to a nice restaurant for lunch and had the best crepes with chocolate sauce and ice cream for dessert that I have ever had in my life. A rain storm arrived by the time we finished, so we retreated back to our rooms for a relaxing afternoon of napping, reading and listening to the rain.

The next day, my parents woke up at the crack of dawn to go bird watching, for which the area is famous. They saw something like 70 species just walking along a road for 3 hours. They came back exhausted and took a nap while Michael and I fed our internet addiction at the local internet cafe.

That afternoon we enjoyed a local chocolate tour. Like many Ecuadorians, the tour guide had lived in the States for about 20 years and thus, his English was perfect. The chocolate company there basically buys the best of Ecuador´s coco plants, and processes them into "nubs," the basic unit that is combined with sugar and other ingredients to create all kinds of chocolate. These nubs are then exported to the U.S. to make fancy dancy chocolates.

After the tour, which ignited Michael’s hidden passion to become a chocolate-maker, we feasted on an incredibly rich home-made brownie with a hot chocolate drink. We returned the next day for lunch just to get another brownie before we had to leave.

While Mindo was beautiful and relaxing - well worth the trip - we had seen most of what there was to see, so we made our way back to Quito to re-pack and set off for our final leg of the trip to the Cotopaxi area.

The group on La Rhonda street in Quito

After Mindo, we had one night in Quito before heading off to the wilds of Cotopaxi National Park. La Ronda Street is known for its artistry and restaurants, so we ventured over there for dinner. After some good Mexican food, we stumbled upon a wine bar that advertised live music... but was completely empty. We were a bit doubtful at first, but soon the musician (who we believe was the restaurant owner) started to play and all four of our jaws dropped at the same time – he was incredibly good!! He alone was one of the best live entertainers we´ve ever seen. I couldn´t count how many different instruments he played, including several types of traditional wind pipes. Soon a large family of really nice Ecuadorians joined us, and the musician switched to a guitar and more contemporary Ecuadorian music. Within the hour, the place was packed and everyone was singing along. It was a fabulous evening, and we stayed there several hours past our expected bed time.

Sharon and Mike, drinking the Cocktail de Amor, and enjoying the live music

The Markets of Otavalo, Ecuador

Our next destination was Otavalo, Ecuador, famous for its overwhelmingly HUGE market on Saturdays. We arrived late Thursday night and we all went separate ways for most of Friday. My parents took a bus to a nearby village with local leather artisans and took a boat tour around a small lake. I wandered around Otavalo people-watching and admiring the daily market bustling with locals dressed in the traditional style - men with long black ponytails wearing Panama hats and women with long blue skirts, fashionable belts, and blankets on their heads - all topped off with several gold teeth.

Michael and I, sporting our new Panama hats

Michael, on the other hand, took a bus to San Antonio de Ibarra, a nearby village with local woodworking artisans. Sometimes I don´t know why I let Michael shop on his own. He goes all the way to South America, tours through fantastic wood working shops . . . and buys a hand-carved wooden figurine of the Abominable Snowman. Um... what are we going to do with a wooden Yeti?

Anyways, we met up in the afternoon and went to a local pizza joint that reportedly had live music. The pizza, wine and conversation were wonderful as we waited and waited... and waited... for the music. Two hours late, and clearly drunk, the band of three showed up. One played a traditional guitar made from a turtle, the lead man sang and played traditional wind pipes, and the third played a normal guitar. They were really enjoyable and the drunkenness only seemed to add to their fun-loving nature. We went home happy.

On Saturday, the market exploded into a seemingly never-ending maze of little stands or blankets selling crafts, blankets, panchos, hats, scarves and just about anything else we could want. We shopped and shopped until the early afternoon when we all ran out of money and energy.

The rest of the day was spent traveling by bus from Otavalo to Quito and then Quito to Mindo. It went surprisingly smoother than we expected and got to Mindo by dinnertime.

Sacha Lodge (the Rio Napo in the Amazon), Ecuador

Sacha Lodge!

I could never get used to the sound of red howler monkeys at dawn. But I´m getting ahead of myself …

As our law school graduation gift, my parents splurged and arranged a 4-day, 3-night stay at Sacha Lodge, the closest thing to an all-inclusive resort in the jungle. The Lodge is located about 60 miles up the Rio Napo, a huge tributary to the Amazon River, from the nearest town. It is an incredible jungle paradise.

Just getting to the Lodge was an experience in itself. We flew from Quito to Copa, a booming oil town in the jungle, and then hopped a boat down the Rio Napo for about two hours, followed by a short walk and then a canoe ride across the lake on which the lodge is located. From the start, I felt like royalty compared to our prior jungle experience – they even had cushions on the boat seats! That’s high-class around here…

The lodge is an extensive network of beautiful wood buildings raised up over the lake and marshy swamp, including a very nice lounge and a mariposario (a butterfly house). Each private cabana has its own porch and hammock, mosquito-netting-covered windows, and the most comfortable king-sized bed we’ve had on this trip. All of the water, even in the shower, was filtered and drinkable. Each meal had about four home-made courses with a fish, chicken and beef option and fresh, hand-squeezed juice from jungle fruits. The staff (all but two are from the indigenous communities nearby) act as if they were trained at the finest French restaurant in Paris. When Michael asked for a fork, it was brought out to him on a clean, white platter...

Just another buffet in the Amazon (at Sacha Lodge)!

Our group consisted of: the four of us; Deborah and Lance, a good-humored and quirky couple from Australia; Efrain (“Efie”), our brilliant naturalist guide who could perfectly imitate more bird and frog sounds than I knew existed; and Pablo, our quiet and endearing native guide who did not speak very often but added to the group by spotting animals and explaining traditional practices, such as stopping on a trail to make a hat from gigantic palm leaves. We were lucky to have such a good group.

Sharon (and Michael in the back), trying to hide from the rain

Each morning we awoke at the unfriendly hour of 5:30am to have breakfast and get into the jungle when the animals were the most active. And each morning the red howler monkeys awoke with us. I’ve never heard such a frightening and evil noise - they sound like a horrible swamp monster of childhood nightmares.

That first morning, we hiked through the jungle to the base of a set of three towers connected to each other by long, hanging bridges. We spent the next 2.5 hours in the midst of the canopy, hundreds of feet high. Efie had a powerful spotting scope and, between him and Pablo, could find and identify tons of birds that we wouldn’t have known were there otherwise.

After relaxing and eating lunch, we went fishing for pirannahs off the lodge’s deck. We used raw beef for bait and it was difficult to keep it on the hook for more than a minute under water. The pirannahs were quick, aggressive, and so numerous that you could just watch the meat being torn to shreds at the water’s surface. These pirannahs share the lake with many caymans (alligator-like creatures). The experience kept me from swimming in that water for the rest of the trip (Michael and my Dad jumped right in though!).

Taylor with an aboriginal umbrella, courtesy of Pablo (and check out the machete!)

Over the next few days, we took many walks and canoe rides in search for various animals and plant-life, including anacondas (for better or for worse, we did not encounter any), monkeys, and caymans.

Our second early-morning trip was to the famous parrot clay lick near an indigenous community. The clay lick is on a steep edge of the river with exposed clay where many species of parrots regularly arrive by the hundreds to – you guessed it - lick the clay. When we were there, one green species dominated and it was impossible to count their numbers.

After watching the masses of parrots licking clay for over an hour (it’s going to take me a few decades before I have the enthusiasm of a true bird-watcher... if ever), we entered the indigenous community next door. Efie explained that the once-cohesive community recently divided into two extremes: one group wanted nothing to do with the outside world and retreated into the depths of the Amazon with the threat (which they have carried out since) of killing anyone who tries to make contact with them. That community continues to live in traditional ways completely unconnected to the modern world. The other group stayed put, quit hunting and fishing, and is now the pioneer model of an indigenous community seeking to sustain itself on tourism, attracting the attention of all the surrounding countries, including the president of Paraguay, who visited just a few weeks ago.

The women of the community put together a tour of traditional dances, houses and hunting traps that included an energy-cleansing ceremony with a shaman. Next to the gift shop is a huge satellite dish, the first step toward the community’s goal of providing internet for all school children. This community is rocketing into the modern world.

The last truly notable excursion was on our last night when we visited the fourth tower, which we nicknamed "Home Tree" after the movie Avatar and which was a highlight for everyone in the group. The tower is essentially a gigantic tree house with a stair case winding its way around the massive trunk (about 8-10 feet in diameter) all the way to the top of the tree in the canopy. The child within each of us could remember dreaming of such a place. It was so cool. The jungle canopy stretched as far as the eye could see, and dozens of cappuccino monkeys played on a nearby tree.

We finished our time at Sacha Lodge with a tasty outdoor BBQ on the deck and an incredible night-time canoe ride under a clear sky full of bright stars. It was hard to leave that place.

Sharon and Mike at the lounge at Sacha, cocktails in hand

The following day we left the Lodge for Quito and made it all the way to Otavalo. It was notable day for the variety of transportation modes we employed, which included traveling by foot, canoe, motor boat, taxi, shuttle, van and plane. It was interesting, but probably sounds a lot cooler than it actually was.