Well Seasoned
Four seasons in one week in one gorgeous country? We’re not crazy — we just don’t believe that too much of a good thing is too much of a good thing. By Jenna Schnuer Illustrations by Michael Crampton
As we zip around the cobblestones of Quito’s Old Town, stray dogs saunter along the streets, eyeballing the car. It’s past midnight, and the buildings look deserted, the windows and doors shuttered tight. Although it’s a cool, clear night, few people are wandering around. But with three friends in tow, two who live in Quito, an impromptu first-night-in-town stop at the city’s main square, La Plaza de la Independencia, seems perfectly reasonable.
When we first step out of the car, the square seems as quiet and desolate as the surrounding streets. Three steps later, music that is big on brass instruments catches up with us. And then we see them: a pack of tipsy people dancing away to the blaring tunes of a band stationed atop a chiva, an open-top party bus, with the brilliant white Government Palace as their backdrop.
Welcome to Ecuador.
After years of trips around the United States and Europe (and, just once, to Mexico), I finally succumbed to my friend Kathryn’s stories of her year in Ecuador. I persuaded her to fly south with me (and to play interpreter to supplement my remnants of high school Spanish) and embark on a quest: With the hazy, slow days of the seemingly endless swelter of a New York City summer approaching, we would chase after a year’s worth of seasons (and adventures) in a week. Although Ecuador is just slightly larger than Colorado, the country offers a wide variety of climates and topography — and it rarely takes more than a few hours to reach any spot from Quito (though I quickly learned that getting around is 90 percent of the challenge).
Spring
Determined to spend time acclimating to Quito’s altitude (9,252 feet) before tackling greater heights in the mountains, I have a day in the city at hand. We pay the 25-cent fare for the public trolley and head to Old Town.
Just 12 hours after the quiet of the area at night, the square is a changed place. Sunshine floods the historic area and shutters are open wide, revealing tiny mom-and-pop restaurants serving plate lunches for just a dollar or two and bakeries selling empanadas and sweet rolls filled with mora (blackberry) jam, plus electronics stores, Internet cafés, and more. On this bright Sunday morning, the weather is nothing less than perfect as residents stand on balconies or lean out the windows of their pastel-colored buildings — pale yellow and orange walls, with the occasional bright turquoise thrown in, highlighting the curve of the cobblestone streets.
Old Town has a bit of steep to it. One street slopes up, while, down an alley, a tall staircase is the fastest way down to the main street (though it makes for an exhausting climb back up). Quito’s altitude adds a layer of tired to uphill climbs, but sometimes a slow schlep up is well worth it: An imposing church off in the distance looks like a must-see, so the gradual stepping up to the neo-Gothic Basílica del Voto Nacional begins. Along the way, four preteen skateboarders test their English on us and mug for the camera. They beam over the attention before zipping off down the hill.
Although a statue over the front entrance welcomes visitors with open arms and a heart-shaped window softens things a bit, the basilica has, to put it mildly, a stern exterior. What it doesn’t have is a sign warning of the trembly-legged adventure that awaits us inside.
Kathryn and I begin climbing the stairs of the church, taking constant breaks to fend off the dizziness and fatigue that the altitude brings on. Climbing a mountain would probably have been easier. About 100 steps up, we walk onto a large balcony overlooking the seating area of the church; a huge stained-glass window glows brightly. More panting out-of-towners reach our level. After we go another 50 steps or so, one of the constant surprises of Ecuador reveals itself: a café, with floor-to-ceiling windows, serving rich coffee (and World Cup soccer games on the tiny TV in the corner). In the distance, we see the massive statue atop El Panecillo of La Virgen de Quito, the angel who watches over the city.
It is at this point that I have to admit to being a chicken. Another 50 steps (and several breathing breaks) up is a sign pointing toward the belfry. The problem? The next set of steps is a tightly wound spiral staircase that shoots through the ceiling, making it impossible to see how high up it goes or if anybody is coming down. While I have few fears, climbing tightly wound spiral staircases is one of them. Instead, I spend time shooting photos of the stellar views of Quito from the subspiral level while Kathryn goes on. It turns out that the spiral is topped off with a climb up some bouncier-than-they-should-be ladders that, thanks to openings in the walls around them, give climbers the sense that they’re climbing on air. In the United States, the climb up would be a lawsuit waiting to happen. But in Ecuador, it’s just a chance to test one’s mettle, to see how far you’ll go for a good view on a
gorgeous day.
Summer
From Quito, it’s a quick 25-minute flight to Coca, where we head to Rio Napo and into a motorized canoe. After four hours — including one stop at an oil drilling station to replace a part — the driver takes the motor down to a slight purr, and, up front, our guide pulls out a paddle to help steer the long boat around the twists of the tributary. The tall trees, big sky, and boat spray from the wide river are replaced by massive leaves bending toward the water, vines, calls from birds hiding among the plants, and humidity. And then more humidity. I keep reminding myself that this is no theme-park version of the Amazon rain forest — there won’t be any animatronic hippos shooting water into the boat. This water is home to real black caimans, anacondas, and Amazonian manatees.
A short while later, we make one final turn onto Challuacocha lake. The simple yet elegant thatched-roof buildings of Sani Lodge, owned and operated by the local Quichua Indians, are just ahead. One hundred percent of the profit from Sani is used to develop social programs and infrastructure for the community.
The lodge is our opportunity to eat, clean up, and sleep before our next-morning hike through the rain forest. It’s during this trek that I am given a one-word piece of advice: “confidence.”
That’s the tip one of our guides offers up for crossing the logs that serve as a bridge across the swamp we’re facing. It’s the tail end of the rainy season, so two hours into the hike (having already seen a vibrant green-and-yellow wild parrot that wanted nothing to do with a cracker and a plum-throated cotinga, with feathers a brilliant aqua-blue that has yet to be replicated by any paint manufacturer), we are already well acquainted with the harsh grip of the mud on the rain forest floor. Rubber boots are a must when hiking around Sani. There used to be handrails along the bridge, but they’ve long since fallen into the water, so the only aid I get is verbal, rather than physical.
“Confidence.”
I shuffle across, my heart beating faster than I care to admit. This time, the fear is of possible humiliation, of having to be pulled out of the swamp by the other hikers. But I succeed, and once across, I am a bit giddier than I had expected to be. Soon after, our Quichua guide, Domingo Gualinga, sets up a telescope so we can peer into a hole in a tree high above us. The giant brown eyes of night monkeys stare back. Though summerlike temperatures and humidity are not, in any way, my favorite conditions, my discomfort washes away at the sight of those amazing eyes.
Fall
We fly back to Quito so we can catch a bus to Otavalo — an adventure recommended only for those with a strong stomach. For our $2 fare, we are treated to a two-hour race along winding mountain roads with no guardrails as other buses come frighteningly close to us as they whiz past from the opposite direction. As a special bonus, we also get to watch Black Hawk Down in Spanish while the bus’s exhaust fumes threaten to overtake us.
The beauty we see once we’re off the bus makes up for the ride (almost). While the leaves won’t change colors anytime soon (or ever) — especially on the grayish-green eucalyptus trees that dot the mountains — it’s fair to say that Otavalo’s average temperatures are what we on the East Coast of the United States call “sweater weather.” The city’s midday warmth quickly gives over to cool afternoons and even cooler evenings that require a fireplace or heater. Or at Casa Mojanda MountainSide Inn & Farm, which is nestled into the mountains above town, an evening soak in the hot tub to steam off the chill and ease the aches from a day of hiking.
While the easiest way to get up to the inn is by taxi, the most satisfying way to return to town for a bit of shopping is by hiking down along the path that skirts Otavaleño farms and homes.
“¿Cuáles son sus nombres?”
A girl who is probably seven years old answers with a series of four or five names. We encounter her and her classmates while following the path down into town. Although the children are ostensibly in the middle of a school lesson, their desire to run off and play is obvious. Their teacher, challenged by her charges’ wayward attentions, offers us the same mildly exasperated smile that first-grade teachers all around the world share. A few minutes later, we hear footsteps behind us. Two of the students run up, slowing their pace so they are just steps behind us. One girl is dressed in traditional Otavaleño clothing of a white blouse, wrap skirt, dainty slippers, and gold necklace; the other is in a sweat suit with cartoon characters printed on the front.
While both keep their heads pointed straight ahead, they follow us with their eyes, shyly answering our questions. Then, with a quick jump over the edge of the trail onto the steep slope that leads to their homes below, they’re gone.
Once in town, we wander up and down the streets, poking our heads into stores. One stops me cold: Fat cones of brightly colored thread line shelves around the store. Emboldened by several days in Ecuador, I flub my way in Spanish through a request for wool. The shopkeeper pulls bags out of a corner and reveals pounds of wool in warm brown, bright turquoise, and brilliant red. At just $3 per cone, they are worth the arm ache that comes from carrying two around for the day. Besides, the chill of the previous evening has stayed with me, and I am dreaming of knitting up a thick cap that will carry me from fall straight into winter.
Winter
With no desire to tempt fate a second time with a bus ride back to Quito, we hire a driver and a car for $55, which is worth every penny in comfort and saved time. With just 24 hours left, we have but one season left to conquer. The fastest route to winter leads to the snowcapped Cotopaxi, the world’s highest active volcano, an easy day trip just 90 minutes outside of Quito.
Along with a father-daughter duo from Chicago, I travel (Kathryn is sick in our hotel) to Cotopaxi with Fernando, a bilingual guide from Safari Ecuador, who gives fair warning about the road conditions in the park. It is soon clear that the $10 entry fee the government collects from each person does not get funneled toward road repair. But even hard-core potholes can’t detract from the park’s sparse beauty (well, until the series of three that takes out our rear right tire). Tiny purple flowers called chocho grow close to the ground, hiding from the wind. Packs of wild horses, descended from animals that broke away from a hacienda long ago, graze on the grass, their manes grown long.
As our SUV, its odometer at 512,000 miles, climbs above the tree level, the flowers and horses disappear. A stripe of 100-year-old lava serves as a reminder that this frigid place could glow hot at absolutely any moment.
At about 14,700 feet, we park in the last spot for cars to stop. The wind is fierce, and I have to push the car door open with my legs. I take just a few steps and breathing becomes a chore.
“What can we see from up there that we can’t see down here?” asks the Chicago dad (who instantly becomes my new hero).
“It’s just the goal,” Fernando replies.
But with a quick three-way glance among the dad, daughter, and me, it is decided: The goal has changed. Two Chicagoans and a New Yorker know winter well enough, so an hour’s climb up the volcano — with tiny blades of ice cutting into our faces — is suddenly off the itinerary.
Back home, it takes me two days to recover from my weeklong adventure. Next time, I think I’ll spread four seasons (and the adventures that go with them) out over 365 days.