I’ve been working on a trilogy of Victorian sci-fi/fantasty/mystery novels that include period artwork. I stumbled onto Frederic Edwin Church’s 1862 painting of Ecuador’s second highest volcano and loved the work, so visiting the mountain itself was on my To Do list while in the country.
The Secret Garden is an adventure-focused hostel near the volcano. Upon arrival, we got a military-boot-camp-style welcome speech detailing the various (somewhat pricey) tours, including reaching the top of Cotopaxi itself. The latter included phrases such as, “Altitude training,” “Starting at midnight,” “Break for breakfast at 3:30 AM.” All this so one can reach the summit at dawn and hope for clear weather. The day we arrived, the summit expedition had failed due to bad conditions, and a separate hike to just the bottom edge of the glacier was described by multiple people as, “The fiercest winds I have ever encountered.”
They offer several easier excursions, including a couple of free hikes, horseback riding and other activities. I only half-listened to the speech as I kept getting distracted by the view.
The lodge sits in a valley ringed by three volcanoes (click, zoom in, scroll around) with more in the distance. We started our stay in one of their “birdhouses,” a wooden, tent-like hut. I grumbled about it being too short for me to change clothes in, but it featured a big net out front to lounge in while being paralyzed by the spectacle.
The view of Cotopaxi is always changing. Sometimes a cloud will form a wispy halo at the peak, other times fluffy clouds cling to the canyons on the sides. The light is always shifting, sometimes reflecting gold off the ice. Then the whole view gets blocked by a wall of gray and you give up for a bit, only for the peak to… well, peek out. About every 15 minutes, I’d stop and stare, muttering, “Holy shit, look at that.” I could post 100 pictures and it wouldn’t do the live experience justice.
Secret Garden has a herd of llamas that you can feed, as well as a bunch of dogs lounging in front of the fireplace. Hummingbirds dart flower to flower, and frogs croak around the jacuzzi.
Another thing I liked about the place was the lack of wifi. They have a router you can use from 10-12 and 5-7, but otherwise it was a mercifully unplugged experience. However, you’re sort of a prisoner. The closest town, Machachi, is a 45 minute drive via a dirt and cobblestone route that can sometimes be described as, “That ain’t no road.” If you like the nightlife and got to boogie, Secret Garden is not for you. However, if you’re into outdoor adventure, or just want to lounge in a beautiful garden to read and occasionally note the spectacular view, I can’t recommend the place enough.
We were the oldest guests, about twice the age of a lot of the backpackers the place draws. These people, too, made me stop and stare, either with their sheer beauty of youth or their mysterious wealth and freedom that allows them to travel. Some had been to Peru, Bolivia, and Colombia all in the same months-long trip, generating tall tales I couldn’t even imagine at that age. I was borderline starving in college and for a couple of years after. I’m envious.
Secret Garden offers a snack at 5 PM, a way to get everyone together to sign up for the following day’s excursion. The tours are a first-come, first-served affair, so if there’s something you want to reserve get on it.
We signed up for the Cotopaxi hike to the glacier (not the summit, just the bottom edge of the ice cap.) Fourteen people got on the bus. When we arrived at the parking lot partway up the volcano, a few folks stepped out into the wind, looked at the steep path and said, “We paid for this?” They immediately got back on the bus.
The first leg of the hike was up loose, slippery, volcanic sand that robbed about 40% of every step, exactly like trying to hike up a dune at the beach. Sleet blew in our faces despite the 70-degree day in the valley below.
After a grueling trudge of perhaps 40 minutes, we reached the basecamp refuge, functioning as a visitor’s center and a handy break for those of us doing the comparatively easy hike. Upstairs, those trying to reach the summit slept in preparation for their midnight start. More of our party gave up there. The refuge sits at 15,953 feet above sea level, so it is no surprise that some of the hikers weren’t feeling great. Our guide said the route beyond was even harder.
On the second leg, my fingers began to tingle. I called out to my significant other a few yards ahead of me to tell her I needed to turn back, fearing altitude sickness. But the howling winds carried my voice away. I’d spent 10 minutes trying to adjust my scarf and hood. When I put my hands back in my pockets, I regained sensation (fingerless gloves were a bad idea) so I trudged on. Our guide was merciless, stopping for a single break. Two more 20-somethings gave up and turned back.
Despite our guide’s warning, I found the going easier on the second leg. The ground was rockier, making each step more efficient. Also, there were a few level or even downhill sections as we skirted the mountain. The rock colors varied as well, some rusty ochre, others sulfide yellow. Even so, more folks turned back.
The views were not spectacular on this particular day. In place of the “fiercest winds,” clouds blocked out anything more than a hundred yards away. But even in this Martian landscape, life finds a way. Random clumps of lichen or succulents clustered in the lee sides of rocks. Sometimes ice formed on the other sides.
Eventually, the glacier came into view and a cheer rose among the seven of us that had stuck it out, half the number that had boarded the bus. We took a few photos but soon our guide urged us back.
The refuge served coca tea, hot chocolate and snacks. Our guide passed around baggies of banana bread from the inn. I asked how many days a week he does the tour. “Todo,” he replied. When I asked how long he’d been doing it for, he said 10 years. Even with an occasional vacation, the man must have thighs of oak.
Cotopaxi has claimed quite a few lives over the centuries with eruptions and avalanches. Thirteen people were killed in an avalanche in 1996, trapping others in the refuge. The volcano was rumbling and releasing gas as recently as 2023. Most spectacularly, it destroyed the regional capital Latacunga in 1768 and 1877. During the latter eruption, mud flowed more than 60 miles to reach the Pacific.
An option on this expedition is to rent mountain bikes. They’re loaded onto the bus, which then stops near the base of the mountain so you can cycle back some of the way. The dirt road has a very rippled surface, shaking the bike so hard as to be difficult to control, particularly on the slick sand. The bikes themselves were in poor condition, with worn seats and/or missing handlebar grips. The chain broke on JJ’s bike, causing her to crash. She had some impressive bruises as a result. I skidded on several occasions but managed not to break the bike or any bones. The only advantage in biking over riding the bus was being able to stop and take pictures along the route, and I hardly did that. I’m not sure I’d recommend the bike option, though it did provide further bragging rights. “My parents would never do that!” said one impressed young ‘un.
Soon after loading the bikes onto the bus, I spotted a condor hovering over the neighboring volcano. It swooped down into a field, but was too far away to get a decent picture.
Photos from the summit posted around the hostel made me jealous, but I’m old, out of shape, prone to altitude sickness, and I’ve already had surgery on both knees. I’m not attempting an all-night climb up a mountain of ice. Those of us that made it to the glacier bonded a bit, smiling to one another as we passed in the hostel and dining together as if we’d survived a trip up K2. But then the expedition that had reached the summit returned, grinning as they peeled off their gear ibefore headed to the jacuzzi as a unit. Next lifetime, perhaps.
On our second night, we got one of Secret Garden’s “hobbit houses.” Super cute, tall enough to change clothes in, with equally marvelous views to the birdhouses.
The hostel’s food had generated complaints from reviewers online, but the owners must’ve taken those to heart. There was usually too much, you could always go back for more, and it was above average cuisine. Hamburgers, wings, pancakes and other familiar fare took turns with local beans, tasty soups, and endless banana bread. We frequently found ourselves overstuffed. They deliver the meals to long, shared tables, forcing you to be at least passingly friendly to fellow guests. In the evenings, these tables turn into social hubs where you can jump into a conversation or a card game.
The day we skipped the organized outings, we snuck off to find the path to the waterfall sans guide. As was tradition in Ecuador, we took several wrong turns and eventually had to return to the inn and ask directions from someone that had done the route – through a copse of mossy trees, beyond the pastures of horses and cows, up the hill through another copse of even mossier trees…
The stream is cute but, compared to the titans of Baños, the falls did not impress me. One of the Irish backpackers had enjoyed the swimming hole, but he swims in the North Sea.
The non-stop visual drama of Cotopaxi was my favorite part of the trip. I would’ve liked to do at least one of the other hikes Secret Garden offered, and maybe even stay a couple of nights on the opposite side of the mountain. Unlike the well-heeled backpackers, however, we only had so much time.
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