That would be me. The abominable mudman. Courtesy of
the Ecuadorian rainy season.
I've got a good mid-week trek planned, so I decided
Sunday afternoon to start warming up for it.
I crossed the river that runs in front of Banos and
started climbing the hill on the other side. Now, I'm
using the term "hill" rather loosely here, and it's a
bit of a misnomer.
If you were to take this hill and transplant it in the
middle of Iowa, it'd look like Mt. Everest. You could
probably see it for 300 miles in any direction. But,
comparatively speaking, it's smaller than the gigantic
mountain peaks around here.
So anyway, up I go. And, yes, it's the rainy season.
This means rain. Lots of it. One of the
under-appreciated side effects of which is an
astounding amount of mud.
So up the mud trail go I. There's not much to say
about my ascent, except that it's much harder when
you've got to deal with the extra suctioning power of
mud with every step. (Mud is a recurring theme, here)
Halfway up the hill, I got extra motivation to pick up
my pace when I got chased by an angry and very
antisocial dog.
When the little canine bastard finally let me go in
peace, I sat on a wet (and muddy) rock to catch my
breath. I also downed one of the 20 or so protein bars
I'd bought before leaving.
When I reached the cloud layer, the rain stopped. But
the wind became more and more fierce (and there
definitely wasn't any escape from the mud!) I couldn't
see more than 10 feet in front of me, but I knew I was
headed in the right direction: up.
Many a muddy step later, two microwave towers emerged
from the fog. Cool. I went over to them and found that
they were manned by an Ecuadorian technician. We
chatted a bit, and then it was time to start back
down.
Normally, going downhill is much easier than going
uphill. Not so in the mud. If there's one primal
desire that mud has, it's to take innocent trekkers,
make them fall down on their ass, and slide them
downhill as far as possible.
That wasn't what I had in mind, though. Slipping and
sliding with every step, I made my way down. Some
parts of the trail had fallen victim to mudslides
between the time that I went up and came down. At one
of these, I found myself knee-deep in mud.
I can't begin to describe the sense of panic you feel
when you think you're about to step into a couple
inches of mud and find your leg sinking down to the
knee, nor can I convey the depth and eloquence of my
cursing at the time. Truly Oscar material.
It was actually amazing to see how many different
colors and consistencies of mud there could be on one
trail. Frankly, all I could think about was that it
all looked like trails of soggy wet doo-doo. (Pardon the
analogy, but it can't be helped!)
One of the scariest moments came closer to the bottom,
when I could see the raging rapids of the river below.
The trail cut across what could only be described as a
giant rock/mudslide. Unlike the rest of the trail,
there was no grass or trees--it was all exposed rock
and mud at a 40 degree angle, 500 feet or so from top
to bottom.
The trail cut right through the middle of it, and
small parts were covered by mini-mudslides that had
happened earlier that afternoon. If I slipped or if
the ground gave way, it'd be a one-way trip down to
the raging river below.
I could also see and hear rocks and pebbles dislodged
from the rain and water from above bounding down past
me. Were one of those to hit me, or if a real mudslide
to happen when I was there, I'd also end up in the
river. Great.
So I was torn between three directions to look: below,
at the trail, or for danger from above. Since the
trail was so narrow, I opted to look forward and go
through as quickly as reasonably possible, trusting in
God for the rest. Obviously, it worked, and I can now
look back and laugh. Har, har, har.
After cleaning up in my new luxury accomodations (at
$4 a night, mind you), I ate a chicken and went to bed
early--around 9:00 or so.
Woke up this morning and it was--surprise!--raining
again. No matter. Unlike the wicked witch of the West,
I don't melt.
I ate another chicken for breakfast and then rented a
mountain bike. Remembering how I hadn't been able to
sit down normally for days after mountain biking in
Peru a couple years back, I forked over an additional
three bucks for one with dual suspension.
I'm not convinced it helped. The seat was made of the
most un-cushiony material known to man, and my ass is
still sore as I write this. But I'm getting ahead of
myself.
I rode East from Banos in the rain, on a--what
else?--muddy, pothole stricken road. The road followed
the river downstream, but was up about 300 feet or so.
Mountain to the left, road, then cliff overlooking
river to the right.
This made for some absolutely breathtaking scenery. I
won't try to describe it, since I wouldn't be able to
do it justice (the pictures I took'll do the talking
for me), so I'll just leave it at the fact that it was
some of the most beautiful and lush mountain scenery
I've ever seen.
At one point, the road went through a tunnel in the
mountain. It was straight (thank God), but totally
unlit and only wide enough for one car.
All I could see going in was total complete darkness,
save for the speck of light at the other end. I rode
straight towards the light, my senses on full alert.
There could've been a boulder in the middle of the
road and I would've had no clue until I hit it.
There was no boulder, but there was this big pothole
about halfway through that almost sent me over my
handlebars. Quite invigorating.
Several miles down the road, you could see a waterfall
breaking down from the cliffs on the other side of the
river, and a long swinging footbridge leading from our
side to the falls.
Sensing adventure, I left my bike at the top and
started climbing down our side towards the river. A
Belgian and a German guy had the same thought as well
and came down with me.
Naturally, there were parts of the trail going down
entirely covered in deep mud. After the German and I
had made it through, the Belgian started going. He
lost his balance and almost toppled down into the
river 100 feet below before hurling himself to the
other side against the rock wall. Turns out he knew a
lot of choice English swear words as well!
The footbridge was excellent, but not for the faint of
heart. It bounced quite satisfactorally and offered
great views of the muddy rapids below.
After climbing back up and biking down a ways, I came
across a sign advertising the longest cable car ride
in Ecuador. Fantastic!
But the term cable car hardly describes it. Think
small wooden platform with thigh-high grill around it
with two small wooden benches on either side.
Suspended by cable that stretched a very long ways
from one side to the other. Yeah!
Since it was from the top of the cliff on one side of
the river to the top of the other cliff on the other
side, it was considerably higher than the suspension
bridge. It was an awesome ride. My only regret is that
there wasn't a woman with me who was afraid of heights
that I could have totally freaked out by rocking the
cable car a bit. Heh, heh.
Anyway, I kept riding on after that until the town of
Rio Verde. Once again, I climbed down the cliffs by
the river to witness the most powerful waterfall I've
ever seen. Up close and personal. A truly magnificent
sight.
I don't even think my pictures will do it justice. The
roaring thunder of the falls, the way the earth
trembled and the way gigantic sprays of water shot
back up from the rocks simply can't be captured on
film.
After a hearty meal, I hired a local with a pickup to
drive me back to Banos (along with a Belgian, German,
Irish and Basque guy. We bounced merrily in the back
of the pickup with a clear tarp stretched over our
heads, comparing notes on where to go and what to do
while in Ecuador.
On their recommendation, I'm going to check out the
hot springs and baths for which this little city is
named tonight--should do me some good!
Alrighty then.
Till next time,
Gabriel
The abominable mudman
