Heavy rains throughout South America this year brought destruction, and the Quilotoa region of Ecuador was no exception. Rock slides were common and roads crumbled leaving huge gaps and treacherous conditions for unsuspecting motorists. The locals seemed to take this in stride maneuvering deftly around obstacles and barely marked missing roadway. Hiking trails, as I had learned all too well were affected too, but most remained intact.

After my adventure the previous day I was looking forward to a scenic, peaceful four hour hike from Chugchilan to a highly recommended hostal in Isinlivi. I booked a room for the night.

I was hoping Faye would join me: perhaps it was the dog bite she had gotten, or
our “bridge” crossing, or walking on “the goat path” the previous day that dampened her enthusiasm. She left on a bus back to Latacunga after breakfast.

I went over a map of my intended hike to Isinlivi thoroughly, speaking to a guide in Chugchilan for further confirmation, and was assured it was a well marked, safe trail.

I set off alone with the sturdy stick I acquired the day before-other hikers that day were doing the loop in the opposite direction. I followed the road out of Chugchilan reaching a footpath heading down to the river. A local man confirmed the way. (The path wasn’t quite as clearly marked as I had hoped.) One wrong turn brought me to the hut of an old Kichwa woman who spoke only Kichwa. I gathered she was none too pleased by my trespassing. I expressed my apologies in Spanish and quickly retraced my steps to the proper path.

The map came with a description of the hike and mentioned a sandy, steep decline. The beginning was easy enough-I thought this isn’t bad at all-until the drop was almost vertical. But the path, unlike yesterday’s, would perhaps yield a scrapped knee or dirty derrière-not an end of life. I used my walking stick with every step. Finally, reaching the bottom, I was glad I was not returning the same way.

In the valley was a tiny village with church and school. I stayed awhile watching the children, some were talking with one another, some were playing-boys invariably play futbol(soccer), girl’s seem to engage in less active recreation. I was greeted with “hola.”

The directions mentioned two river crossings: a suspension footbridge no longer in use-it was too dangerous-and the second, sturdier bridge a bit further down. I arrived at the first bridge and noticed its compromised state-many planks were missing.

Confident that I was well on my way to the second bridge and Isinlivi, I walked on. Four young blonde women came towards me.

They had just been walking along a small meadow, finding it strange that water was soon up to their ankles. Then they heard a roar and the side of a hill opened up gushing with mud. Wet earth came spilling down, sweeping everything up in its path. Locals were yelling for them to run and guided them to safety. A cow was killed in minutes. Fortunately there were no other known casualties. The good bridge was wiped out.

I missed the mudslide-and the crossing of the river-by minutes.

The young women were shaken. We chatted a bit then they walked on. Their legs were muddy up to their knees.

It took me a minute to register the events. The good bridge was gone?? How would I be getting to Isinliví?

I decided to investigate my options and walked the short distance to the mudslide area assured by the presence of lingering locals. They were busy cutting up, and cleaning the entrails, of the freshly killed cow. I asked them about getting to Isinlivi. A few told me, “There is no way to get there now.” One local suggested I use the old/unsafe bridge then bushwhack along the river until I joined the proper path. However, the previous day’s hike was enough to satisfy any desire for precarious paths and bridges.

The only option was to return to Chugchilan. I did not look forward to ascending the steep path I had come down. There was a different route by road, but it was much longer and there was, according to the locals, no chance of encountering any vehicles.

I stopped again at the small, now vacant, village, this time to muster strength for the climb. Back down by the river, near the mudslide, retained a threatening air. I thought it best not to stay too close. The locals showed no concern.

The 750 meter(2460 feet) climb was arduous and slow going. Once again my walking stick was indispensable. About midway a man carrying a machete passed me on his way down offering me encouragement. “You’re almost there.” He said with a big smile. I appreciated his kindness and forged on. My trek was for many locals their usual route.

Once I reached the main road I hitched a ride in the back of a pickup truck. It wasn’t a far walk, but it was uphill and I was tired.

Back at the hostal news of the mudslide was on most people’s lips. Strategies were discussed for hiking out to Isinlivi the following day. Many were certain they could get there using the old bridge and bushwhacking or hoping the mud had settled enough to walk on near the new bridge.

I was invited to hike with them, but declined.

I had already decided I’d be heading to the coast for some relaxation.

The crown jewel of the Quilotoa region is its crystalline crater lake. Extremely strong gusts of wind dissuaded me from walking along the crater’s rim, but the 400 meter walk from the rim down to the lake had its own challenges. The narrow, serpentine, loose path was very steep and walkers competed for space with the donkeys that transported tourists up from the bottom. After enjoying the view, I made my way back up with considerable effort and frequent stops. Passing me were the local men, women, old and young, and children who guided the donkeys up and down several times a day or carried necessities.

I spent the night in a comfortable hostal offering private bed and bath with a wood burning stove, dinner and breakfast for $15. There I met Faye, from South Korea, who was hiking to Chugchilan, about 13kms away, the following day. I was tempted and we decided to hike together.

Equipped with a map, and the maps.me app we set off around 10am. Faye confidently led the way. The beginning was not auspicious. Shortly into our hike some dogs came out from their domain and Faye was bitten. Frightened, but not deterred Faye now with a good bruise on her leg, decided to walk on. The dogs’ owners made amends by arming us with a sturdy stick to ward off any other aggressors. We picked up two more.

We verified our route with the family and continued hiking. The terrain was hilly. The path sandy and rocky. The landscape was dotted with small settlements of wooden and cement shacks and patches of crops. Signs with arrows confirmed our path as did the maps.me app. All seemed in order until we arrived at “a bridge” crossing a ravine. The “bridge” was a single tube that went the length of the wide gap hoisted with several vertical cables attached to a single cable above. Crossing it would require shimming horizontally along the tube with arms used for guidance and moral support. It was a daunting passage, but the well worn path on both sides gave us confidence. (I had seen people using similarly funky bridges in Asia.) “People must use this all the time.” I said.

Faye went first. Standing about 4’10″(1.47 meters) she struggled to reach the cable above that sloped down toward the middle, but she got across. My going second gave me just enough time to get thoroughly spooked. The sway of the pipe did nothing to ease my nerves, but I too-with some much needed encouragement midway-got to the other side. We congratulated ourselves for our accomplishment and walked on–so elated as to not notice the precarious path we were embarking on.

Moments later the precipitous path could no longer be ignored. It narrowed to less than a foot in width with a cliff on one side and a very deep drop on the other. Adding further concern, the path itself with a tilt toward the abyss was loose sand of inconclusive weight bearing capacity. The situation was clear to me. We would not survive a fall. Faye wanted to forge on. Her small feet fit the path better than mine. My survival instincts kicked in. I wasn’t taking another step forward and the only movement I managed was with my mouth uttering a word beginning with F. Even the small patch of earth I was sitting on felt uncomfortably unstable. Talking with Faye calmed me, but I was not willing to walk on.

Unfortunately, the only alternative was traversing back over “the bridge”. Faye and I had different fears. I preferred the bridge to the path. The sky was darkening and rain would definitely make the path even more treacherous than I was certain it already was. It didn’t take long for us to agree-we made a good team-to go back over the bridge. I thought of Philippe Petit, who walked on a high wire between the Twin Towers, for inspiration. Faye prayed.

The crossing was without incident. We forged up some steep, but passable hills in search of a road. Some school children pointed us in the right direction and soon after we hitched a ride to Chugchilan.

Sharing our exploits with the driver, he concurred that we had been on the right path all along…until we showed him the picture of “the bridge.” “That’s not a bridge, that’s a water pipe!” I won’t describe the look of horror on his face.

We repeated our tale anticipating the-now that we were out of danger-amusing reactions of dismay. We were not disappointed. The photos clinched it. (People asked to take photos of our photos to show their friends.)

“You’re safe now.” one man kindly conceded. “That’s all that matters,” he added. When we tried to justify our choice by repeating the advice of the locals and following the signs, we learned the path had become too dangerous from erosion. “It’s suitable for goats, not people.”

But why the path came to and continued beyond “the bridge” remains a mystery.

I slept relatively well in Chugchilan that night relieved that disaster had been averted but questioning my judgment at arriving in such a predicament.