Conquering the Avenue of Volcanoes: Mountain Expeditions from Quito, Ecuador

Quito demands respect at 9,350 feet (2,850m), but it's merely the appetizer for Ecuador's volcanic main course. Having experienced altitude sickness during my first expedition to the Tibetan Plateau years ago, I've become methodical about acclimatization. I spent three full days in Quito before attempting any significant elevation gain, hydrating religiously with my insulated water bottle that keeps water cold despite the equatorial sun.

My accommodation strategy centered on gradually increasing elevation. I began at Hotel Casa Gardenia in Quito's historic center, then moved to the higher Papallacta hot springs (3,300m) for two nights before attempting my first summit bid. The thermal pools there provide perfect muscle recovery while your body adjusts to the thin air.

For summit days, I relied heavily on my high-altitude gear which reduced knee strain on steep descents by nearly 25% according to my fitness tracker. The investment in quality equipment becomes apparent when you're navigating loose volcanic scree at 15,000+ feet with depleted oxygen levels.

At 19,347 feet (5,897m), Cotopaxi stands as Ecuador's second-highest peak and one of the world's tallest active volcanoes. Its perfectly symmetrical cone has become emblematic of the Ecuadorian Andes, but its beauty belies serious climbing challenges. After two reconnaissance days exploring the national park's lower elevations and archaeological sites, I committed to the summit attempt.

The standard route begins at the parking area (15,000 feet), where I met my certified guide, Fernando. While I've summited peaks independently in North America, local regulations and safety considerations make guides mandatory on Ecuador's major volcanoes—a requirement I fully support given their active status and glaciated terrain.

Our ascent began at midnight under a blanket of stars so bright they seemed artificially enhanced by the thin atmosphere. Wearing my expedition headlamp with its 450-lumen output, we navigated the initial rocky terrain before transitioning to crampons at the glacier's edge. The beam's red night-vision setting proved invaluable for checking my altimeter without destroying my night adaptation.

The final 1,000 feet tested every ounce of my physical conditioning. Each step required deliberate focus as we traversed 45-degree ice slopes with thousand-foot drops below. The predawn summit arrival rewarded us with what mountaineers call the 'mountain shadow'—Cotopaxi's perfect triangular shadow projected onto the clouds below as the sun crested the Amazon basin to the east.

Despite Everest's reputation as Earth's highest peak, Ecuador's Chimborazo (20,549 feet/6,263m) holds a fascinating geological distinction: due to Earth's equatorial bulge, its summit is actually the farthest point from our planet's center. As an archaeologist fascinated by how ancient cultures interpreted their landscapes, I was drawn to this mountain that the indigenous Puruhá people considered sacred.

Chimborazo demands serious preparation. I spent a week progressively tackling smaller peaks—Rucu Pichincha (15,413 feet) and Illiniza Norte (16,818 feet)—before attempting this behemoth. The night before my climb, I carefully organized my expedition pack which balances minimal weight with sufficient capacity for emergency gear, extra layers, and my research equipment.

The climb itself traverses multiple ecological zones, from high desert scrubland through alpine tundra to the permanent ice cap. What makes Chimborazo particularly challenging is its final approach—nearly 5,000 feet of elevation gain on summit day across highly variable terrain. My mountaineering boots with their rigid soles and excellent insulation proved essential when temperatures plummeted to -10°C (14°F) near the summit.

During our brief summit celebration, my guide shared that pre-Columbian peoples harvested ice from Chimborazo's glaciers, transporting it to coastal regions as a luxury good. This intersection of cultural history and natural landscape epitomizes why I'm drawn to high-elevation archaeology—the extreme environments that both challenge and sustain human adaptation.

Between summit attempts, I dedicated time to exploring the rich archaeological landscape of Ecuador's highlands. The volcanic soil here supported intensive agriculture that sustained complex pre-Columbian societies, creating a fascinating parallel to my research on the Deccan Plateau in India.

The Ingapirca ruins, Ecuador's most significant Inca site, reveal how these master builders incorporated astronomical alignments into their architecture. Using my archaeological compass with its clinometer function, I verified the summer solstice alignment of the site's elliptical temple—a feature I've documented at plateau sites across four continents.

The lesser-known site of Rumipamba on Quito's outskirts provided fascinating insights into how the local Quitu-Cara culture adapted to volcanic hazards. Excavations reveal multiple occupation layers separated by ash deposits, demonstrating remarkable cultural resilience in the face of environmental catastrophe.

Perhaps most moving was my visit to the indigenous market at Otavalo, where contemporary Kichwa artisans maintain weaving traditions dating back centuries. I documented textile patterns using my field notebook with its water-resistant pages—essential when afternoon downpours are common. These patterns contain encoded knowledge about agricultural cycles and mountain deities that continue to shape indigenous relationships with the volcanic landscape.

My training as an archaeologist has taught me to value indigenous ecological knowledge—something that proved invaluable in Ecuador's mountains. While modern equipment certainly enhances safety, understanding local weather patterns and plant resources adds crucial dimensions to mountain survival.

In the páramo ecosystem—the high-altitude grasslands between forest line and permanent snow—I documented medicinal plants still used by indigenous guides. The sunfo plant (Clinopodium nubigenum), when brewed as tea, effectively counters altitude-induced nausea. I carry a portable herb press to preserve samples for my ethnobotanical research database.

Indigenous weather prediction also proved remarkably accurate. My guide on Illiniza Norte pointed to a particular formation of cirrus clouds that indigenous communities call 'horses' tails'—a reliable indicator of approaching storms within 24 hours. This knowledge prompted us to begin our descent earlier than planned, avoiding an afternoon electrical storm that would have made the exposed ridgeline extremely dangerous.

Perhaps most fascinating was learning about traditional navigation techniques. When dense fog enveloped us on Rucu Pichincha, my guide demonstrated how to identify north using subtle differences in moss growth patterns on rock faces—a technique I've since incorporated into my field methods. I documented these observations using my weatherproof camera which handles extreme conditions far better than smartphone cameras.