Quilotoa Region, Ecuador – Crater Lake, Creepy Men, and the German

We’ve all read stories in the newspaper from time to time reporting on how an overloaded bus in some foreign land slid off of a mountain road killing all 35 people on board. Well, on our ride from Latacunga to Isinlivi, we were on a similar bus, in a foreign land, and on a twisting and steep mountain road, just like what the papers describe. Thankfully, though, we didn’t have any casualties. 

The road was normal enough when we left Latacunga, or what passes for normal here in Ecuador. After a while, though, we left the city behind, passed through small villages, and entered the mountains where the road twisted, turned, and narrowed. Arriving at the hairpin turns, our driver would honk the horn alerting any on-coming traffic that they are about to confront head-on a large, hulking bus. 

Things got more harrowing as the road narrowed still and turned to gravel. It was only a one lane road for the last third of our two-and-a-half-hour journey. On-coming cars would have to stop, back up until there was a slight widening of the road, which then allowed us to proceed with only inches separating us from their car and, similarly, only inches separating our tires from the edge of the road and a drop off hundreds of feet below where we would meet a certain death. Meanwhile, on the other side of the road, towering hillsides loomed over us, ready to easily slough off during the next heavy rainfall. If I was a landslide, it would be here that I would do my sliding.

Our pace slowed to a crawl as our driver ground the gears to make our ascent, waited for yet more cars to back up or, in a couple of instances, having to perform a three-point turn of sorts to negotiate some of the tighter curves and zigzags.

On arrival in Isinlivi, we were greeted by Baloo, a giant St. Bernard dog, lying in the doorway of our wonderful mountain lodge and hostel. The views were fantastic. The grounds and facilities spectacular. Our large room’s windows overlooked the valley and the far-off hills and pastures in their multiple shades of green. It seemed to be too nice of a place for this remote and forlorn village in this remote and forlorn corner of rural Ecuador. Regardless, it was quite a welcomed change of pace for us given our previous two plus weeks of living out of basic hotels and no-frills hostels. 

Our mountain lodge.

Some of the views from our room and from the grounds.

Before dinner, we took a short walk outside the village down to the river with a return by the road we came in on. Baloo got up from his sleepy spot and accompanied us for the entire distance. Everyone in the area seemed to know Baloo for he was greeted warmly everywhere we went. And, in turn, so were we. 

Baloo waits for Mary Kay and I to start our walk.

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School children in their tidy uniforms walked slowly up the steep hills from their rural farmhouses to the in-town school. From our vantage point off of our balcony, they didn’t appear to be tired or complaining about their walk, as I would have expected if these were school kids from back in America. Here, it was just another day for them.  

Soon after breakfast, it was MK and I that were doing a similar walk. We were heading to the even smaller and more remote village of Guantualo and the Monday morning market that was being held there. Pre-printed directions offered at the hostel weren’t the best: “Turn left when you see a house,” “Take the faint path to the right soon after crossing the concrete bridge.” “At the fork, take the left path that goes through a row of trees between two farmhouses, then walk up and across the open pasture until you come across a road at the top of the ridge.”  You get the idea. 

MK’s great sense of direction saved the day on more than one occasion. So too did a man, leading several horses on a rope, who pointed us in the right direction when the correct way seemed confusing.  

This kind man gave us much needed directions. 

After several miles of this and an elevation gain of 2,000 feet, a German lady, Nadine, whom we met at breakfast back at the hostel, had caught up with us (of course she did, all Europeans are stronger and have more endurance then us less-than-active, fast-food-eating, drive-everywhere Americans).

Nadine and Mary Kay chat it up. 

She walked with us as we arrived at the bustling market in the town square at Guantualo. Unfortunately, we were too late to see the animals being auctioned and slaughtered, but we saw enough of their various cuts of meat being sold in the stalls. Kichwa people from all across the region had descended on the town to buy their meat, fruits, vegetables, grains, and an assortment of other supplies and basic necessities for the week ahead. 

We bought some empanadas, fried bread, apples, and strawberries for an impromptu lunch while sitting on the steps of an adjacent building. A man approached and grabbed at MK and Nadine. He smiled a toothless grin after doing so. “Hmm, white girls, yummy,” is what his evil smile seemingly said. After a spell of people watching, I walked a bit to find this man, our own Chester the Molester, just so I could get a picture of him. 

Our own Chester, the Molester.

Soon thereafter, we began our descent back toward Isinlivi. We were thankful for bringing our trekking poles, not only for their use in assisting us over uneven terrain, but for their use in fending off the countless aggressive dogs we came across throughout the day.

Soon, villagers with their supplies from the market bundled across their shoulders or on their horses’ backs passed us as we trudged on. Little kids, so cute and adorable, excitedly took the candy that we offered. With their smiles and glee, you would think to them that we were the second coming. 

Later, we overtook an old man carrying a bundle of leafy greens. He told Nadine that he used them to rub on his sore shoulders and muscles. It was also clear that he was hard of hearing for he kept pointing to his ears when we spoke, indicating we should speak louder.  He was a very sweet old man. 

Compare him to the man MK and I came across later in the afternoon when we walked around town. His glassy eyes, set in a big cherubic face, and the swaying of his swarthy build indicated he was drunk. He constantly wanted to shake my hand. He was one of those people who spit and slobber when he spoke. In fact, a spot of his saliva found its way to a corner of my lower lip when he asked us questions we couldn’t understand. Walking away, I shook his hand one last time. He used his middle finger to tickle my palm as we did. What the hell!? 

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At dinner, Nadine discusses with us our transportation options for the following day. 

We had two options to get from Isinlivi to Quilotoa, our next scheduled destination. 
The first option involved a half day’s journey starting by getting on a villager’s milk truck, hopping in the back, and travel to the town of Sigchos. Once there, we would have to flag down a bus to take us to Chugchilan and then from there, flag down another bus to take us to Quilotoa. 

The other option would be to hire someone from the village and have him drive us in his personal vehicle through the mountains and then arrive in Quilotoa in only one and a half hours. We liked this second option. So did Nadine. We split the $35 cost (I paid a little more than an equal share knowing the car would endure extra wear and tear due to having to haul my fat ass up and down the mountains) and at 9:00 a.m., the three of us were on our way. 

We’ve grown to like Nadine. She’s fun to be around. The fact that she speaks passable Spanish is an added bonus for she is able to interpret for us when needed. In addition to her excellent English and, of course, her native German, she knows a little Russian. 

“It was mandatory that we learned Russian when I was in elementary school,” she said. “I grew up in East Berlin,” she added. “I was twelve years old when the wall came down.”

Contrast her, and just about any European, against the majority of Americans. Most of us only know one language, English, and lazily attempt a new language only when we have to. On that point, the best Spanish I can manage so far includes words for “hello”, “goodbye”, “please”, “thank you”, “where is the bathroom”, and “I need more toilet paper”. 

Victor, our driver, took us on roads and lanes that in some cases were nothing more than a wide goat trail. He drives this route three to four days a week. As such, he is able to expertly navigate his Toyota 4-Runner through the rocks and ruts on a route that only he and the locals must know about for these do not exist on any maps or charts that I am aware of. 

The route took us in deep valleys then climbed up numerous switchbacks to the high plateau were wind and dust prevailed. We drove through several indigenous villages. These were forlorn and destitute places. We wondered how anyone there made a living. 

On our arrival to Quilotoa, we were greeted by the crater and its lake that dominates the scene. It was one of the most magnificent views we have ever seen, and we’ve been fortunate to have seen a lot. 

  

We dropped off our bags at the hostel, for it was too early to check in, and began our short hike along the crater rim. Nadine went in the opposite direction with plans to encircle the entire lake along the six-mile rim trail, something we plan on attempting tomorrow. 

We negotiated the ups and downs while hiking at an elevation of around 12,000 feet. We were soon winded from what would otherwise be a modest walk. In general, MK has the toughest time with elevations at these levels so she struggled a bit. On top of that, she wasn’t feeling well in the first place, having stomach and intestinal troubles since this morning. 

We returned to our hostel to check in, have a little sumptin’ sumptin’ to eat, and have MK take some medicine in the hope to cure what ails her. But it was all for naught. Her condition worsened. She alternated between shivering in bed or visiting the toilet. 

I reluctantly left her to take off for a look around town. There wasn’t much to see, just a handful of hostels, small restaurants, and a gift store or two with clerks sitting at the checkout counters bored out of their minds due to a lack of customers. 

I quietly opened the door to our room when I later returned to the hostel hoping to find MK in a better condition. No such luck. In fact, she was feeling worse. I did as instructed and went to the reception area where I, in the best Spanish I could muster, asked, “Necisito más papel higiénico por favor?”

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We said our goodbyes to Nadine at breakfast the next morning. She was off to Cotopaxi to do some bicycling and then to the coast to take surfing lessons. We enjoyed her company and were sorry to see her go. 

Later, we struck up a conversation with another German couple who were readying themselves for their hike. They were off to Chugchilan while we were about to embark on our six-mile hike around the rim of the crater. Mary Kay was feeling much better and was ready and able to take on the challenging day ahead. 

We were all somewhat nervous, though, since weather forecasts from all of the various sources we researched said there would be heavy rains today. We shared this bit of news with our receptionist, a local woman, who shook her head. “No,” she said. “Don’t worry, there will be no rain today.”

But it was a cold morning; upper 30 degrees and very windy, with gusts approaching 40, if not greater, miles per hour. These were not favorable conditions for some of the exposed ridge walking we had ahead of us. 

Just as we reached the outskirts of town, two little kids, ages around nine or ten, tried shaking us down for some money. I gave them some lollipops instead indicating that in exchange, I wanted to take their picture. They obliged me, but the little bandits still wanted money. We ignored them and went on our way. 

The little bandits.

After another twenty minutes, we arrived at a saddle between two high points along the rim and sat in a sunny spot on the grassy patches adjacent to the sandy trail. The gray-ish white of the volcanic tuff along the distant crater walls contrasted with the dull greens of the shrub-like vegetation that dominates the landscape. Everything is almost desert-like; high, dry, windy, and dusty. 

The water in the crater’s lake alternated colors between bright turquoise when the sun shone down upon it, to deeper greens and blues when in the shadows of the clouds racing overhead. 

Backpackers, who have been hiking town to town, passed by. Their final destination was only a few minutes away. Meanwhile, a wandering dog appeared out of nowhere. He circled our seated position several times before sniffing at my feet and then laying down against my thigh. Above us was a large bird of prey (a condor, maybe?) that was motionless in the sky, the winds and the thermals keeping it in one place while it looked down below for a meal. 

At mid-morning, we approached another saddle. A scattering of rundown buildings had signs indicated we could find a cup of coffee. “Hola” came a voice from within. The man at the door waved us in. Seated at a simple bench was his wife tending to a small cooking fire. A large, soot-stained pot was steaming. She opened the lid to show that she was boiling some coca leaves to make a tea and told us to wait five minutes before it would be finished. We chatted some, again trying our hand at our very rudimentary Spanish, while the pot boiled. The question they asked that seemed to be the most interesting to them was how much it cost us to fly from America to Ecuador. We said our goodbyes and thanks after warming up with their tea and some instant coffee.  

The trail alternated between a course along the ridge tops to a course through fields brilliant with wildflowers. The winds did not abate. In fact, it seemed at times they had gotten stronger. This made the ridge line portion of our walk somewhat dangerous for at times the tread of the trail was only a few feet wide with steep drop offs at either side. Extra care and attention were called for at these moments.  

We were elated when we finally reached the high point of the crater rim. The views were spectacular from our perch at 12,893 feet above sea level. The colors of crater’s lake continued to alternate from turquoise one moment to deep greens and blues the next. Away from the crater, the distances were immense. The deep valleys below and the colorful mountains and hills filled our view for what seemed all the way to the edges of the earth. 

On a rocky outcrop next to the trail, two Andean condors sat and looked things over. These majestic and magnificent animals stood boldly against the cloud filled sky, becoming skittish as we approached. Having had enough of us, they took off flying high above then out of sight down in the valleys below. 

We wearily walked into town as we finished with this gem of a trail, thankful that we had the opportunity to hike it. This has to be one of the most underrated day hikes in the world. There is not much written about it, but it deserves more attention than it is getting. 

Oh, and it never did rain.

To see more on our hikes in the Quilotoa region, please see the following video: