from laguna quilotoa to chugchilan | andes, ecuador

Dear Zander, 

When the pick-up truck driver came to a jarring stop in Quilotoa, and we hopped out of the bed, my first thought was, "my ass is numb," but my second thought was, holy crap what are we getting ourselves into? The hike from that blue-green, translucent crater lagoon in the Andes mountains back to Chugchilan, our itty bitty remote village whose name I don't think we ever pronounced quite right, finally began to seem like the big deal everyone had tried to tell us it was.

Uncharacteristically, I was nervous about the hike. My stomach was complaining at 9:00am when we got to the lagoon, and we know better than to second guess queasy stomachs when we travel. We were both exhausted. We'd hiked - what? 15 hours in 3 days up to that point at some crazy altitudes. The clouds were heavy and thick with a coming storm. Our only map was the hand drawn guide Edmundo had given us. What if we got lost? We'd have no way "out" once we started; our way back was our feet.

We voiced all this, and to tell you the truth, I thought you'd be cautious (and smart), and suggest that we enjoy the crater and catch a bus back to town. But instead, you reminded me (kind of indignantly, even!) that we had traveled by way of about 15 different buses to get to this remote part of the Andes, almost lost my hiking shoes but miraculously got them back, and spent a small fortune to stay at the lauded Black Sheep Inn just for this hike. For this one hike. And you said, so we're here, let's do it.

So we did.

...when you started singing, "Gangster's Paradise" as we hiked between sky-high, narrow crevices in the mountains, and you didn't remember all of the words - and neither did I, but we rapped on anyway, I loved you more.

...when you cheered me to the finish of that three hour downhill climb like you were at a Redskins game and RG3 was scoring the winning touchdown with seconds left because you know how much I despise downhill hiking, I loved you more.

...when we started climbing all the way back up right after we had reached the valley, you said, "Uphill hiking is the worst," and I responded, "We're perfect for each other because when you're down, I'm up," and you laughed at my horrible joke, I loved you more.

...when I admitted that to get through the steepest section of the entire hike, I pumped myself up by singing "Eye of the Tiger," but I couldn't remember the tune, so I sang Katy Perry's "Roar" instead, and you stared at me for a long moment before saying, "Rocky would knock you out for that," I loved you more. (Remember that part? It was at the very end, and there were horses, no... sheep? Pigs? Some animals and a "farm" mentioned on the guide, and we weren't sure, but the route was a shortcut?)

...when I started writing and singing - out loud - love songs to the green benches that appeared every time we needed a break, and you never once recorded it to blackmail me, I loved you more.

...when the older man passed us in his work clothes, sweating and thirsty, using the route as so many of the locals do - as their walk to work, and you gave him a full water bottle from our pack, I loved you more.

...when we stumbled back into the Black Sheep Inn dirty, exhausted, and proud with accomplishment, I loved you more.

...and when we silently, telepathically agreed never to talk about how the 70-year-old couple that we befriended and had hiked the route that same day had beaten us back... well. We're not talking about that, now are we?

Love, 

Cyndi