Hunched over with my hands on my knees, gasping for air, I tried to foster within me a sense of equilibrium-of stability. I searched hard for that short burst of strength that would drive me to the top. I waited for that little voice inside to scream, "Your fear is irrational!" But it never came, and I turned away.
I woke up to my cell phone alarm at 5:30 on Saturday morning. My eyes still registering a blur of white walls and wooden doors, I reached across my mattress for my trekking clothes and my backpack. I walked into the kitchen, where my cereal had already been poured the night before. I added the milk and fed myself half-consciously. In the same sink where I put my dishes I brushed my teeth, and headed straight out the door.
A teacher from my Spanish school here had planned an excursion to Cotopaxi, the highest active volcano in the world. So on my first day of class, which had been the last day to register, I signed my name on the attendance sheet and paid my dues.
Our teacher and guide stood at the front of the bus and dished out our itinerary for the day while passing out water bottles and goodie bags full of snacks.
"In just two hours we'll be at Cotopaxi park, where we'll begin our climb. An hour or so after that, we'll arrive at the refugio where we can get warm, relax and have lunch. Those of you who wish to continue and are brave enough, you can pass the refuge and trek to 5,000 meters (about 16,400 ft). Lunch will already be prepared by the time you make it back after a couple of hours."
"I'm going to do it," I decided, rather preemptively, without the slightest bit of recognition to the weather we'd be facing once we arrived. "This is my test. No matter how hard the terrain, I'm going to make it through. I'm going to make it to the 'top'."Wonder woman had surfaced again.
Our bus weaved through roads riddled with trash and random herds of wandering llamas and other sights reminiscent of a third world country, and took halt at a rest area for a bathroom break, where a few indigenous women were selling handicrafts.
As I was getting off the bus, our guide nudged me. "You better get some gloves," he said, his brown eyes beating like sun rays. "It's cold up there." So I bought some yellow knitted alpaco/type gloves, thinking they should do the trick.
Our bus began screeching up the jagged hills of Cotopaxi National Park, using all its might, coming just short of forsaking what sounded like its last leg of life to the unrelenting landscape. I looked around to see the reactions of the other passengers.
"Not the brightest day," my bench-mate sarcastically speculated.
It began hailing. "Just a little obstacle," I assured myself. I'd be damned if I let a few drops of ice stop me. I was determined.
The bus finally made it to the base without giving out, and the 25 or so of us unloaded onto the sandpit and immediately began the trek. The air was thin and frigid, and I maintained concentration on my breath, hugging close behind the guide. We would stop every 10 minutes or so to wait for others to come into clear sight, then we would proceed, slowly.
As the wind grew angrier and more forceful, my steps followed suit. Each one became more intentional, with more solid footing. As the sheet of ice was layering itself, I was gaining traction.
"I'm really going to do this," I thought. Again.
A beige building suddenly appeared in my depth-of-field. At 4,800 meters, we had reached the refugio.
I walked in and immediately took my gloves off. I sat there, cusping my hands and using my breath to warm them. I had to get warm, I had to go out again.
The guide walked through the small, wooden cafeteria. "Son malos condiciones. Quien va a continuar?" (Bad conditions, who is going to continue?) Six of us stepped forward. Four Germans, a middle-aged American mountain-climber man, and me.
I started doing jumping jacks. A couple of guys joined in. I walked outside, reached in my backpack, pulled out a small handkerchief, and tied it tightly around my nose and cheeks. "Let's do this," I thought. For me, there wasn't even another option.
I again stayed close to our guide, who never spoke. Each step he took, I took. I pleaded for more oxygen with each breath. I tucked my hands under my armpits. I couldn't think much else but how cold they were.
"We have to wait," one of the Germans said, two had been left a little too far behind.
We waited for a minute or so, then proceeded, the others still not too close. The Germans all introduced themselves to me, but neither could they release their hands for a shake. I couldn't remember their names, all I could think about were my hands.
All of a sudden, my hands and toes felt warm again, my head began spinning, and a great fear swept into my veins. This wasn't a fear I was used to; not one that whispers its way into my life constantly and allows me to overcome. No, this fear felt real. My mental life-jacket had suddenly shifted gears into safety mode.
A former professor's voice came into my mind. "You know, what I like about you is you're so inspired that you're always operating in the fourth of fifth gear, but sometimes I worry you may not know when to put on the brakes." It became time to put on the brakes.
I paused. "Necessito un minuto." I said. My guide must not have heard me. He kept going. I turned to the guy behind me. "I need to go back."
"Are you sure you don't want me to just wait with you? We have 30 minutes." He asked, concerned.
"Thirty minutes?" I paused. I searched around inside for that inspiration, but my mind had left me deserted. My thoughts weren't there, but my body was screaming. I needed to listen to my body. I needed to bring it back to safety.
"Thirty minutes? No. You go ahead. I need to go back," Is all that would spill out.
The guy pointed about 100 feet down. "I think they're going back too, let me at least take you to them."
As I let the man guide me through the sheet of snow that had seen centuries more than I have, I breathed the biggest sigh of relief ever in my memory. I realized that as I turned away from the glacier, I was actually turning to face something far greater and more meaningful: I was facing my fear of failure. A fear that's been incessantly gnawing at me since I stepped foot on this bleeding heart-shaped continent we've all come to know as South America; or rather, since I was born into this world. And suddenly, this volcano came to mean so much more.
I bowed my head, humbled by the Earth's power and magnitude, and proceeded with one foot in front of the other. Heel-toe, heel-toe...
Once I got back to the refugio I glanced back at my tracks. Five minutes behind me the group was descending.
...Really?
"You almost made it. But it's okay," the American man comforted me, "It was rather anti-climactic."
I gave him a smile, and looked down at my steaming hot bowl of soup.
I did make it. At this point, failure is a hollow word.
So I'm not superwoman. It feels really good to admit that.
Thank goodness you won again, Earth. I don't think I'd worship you so much if you couldn't so easily outdo me.
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