“There is no greater diorama than Ecuador” - Hubert Herring

I tested some of the holds, doubtful if they were going to break. One in particular felt more solid than the rest, so I pulled on nevertheless. Moments later on the ground, I saw my ankle and my brand new rock shoe, it had exploded in both sides, tib and fib. I started hyperventilating while my friend tried to calm me down, and desperately try to ask for help at 5100m (17600ft) from sea level. I had an old Nokia phone with a little service, so I had to make a call. The rescue was extreme. The weather turned to shit, while this older guide named Cristian who coincidentally was on the mountain with his older British clients fixed rappels and lowered me down the mountain bit by bit. Snow and hail got in my eyes and jacket, I felt cold and worthless. At the mountain shelter a mule had been called from the nearest town to help me get down. My foot was strapped to the mule's saddle, causing my achilles tendon to rip and my cartilage to disintegrate while the mule shook the water off like a wet dog after a swim. It turned dark, and finally I couldn't hold it any longer and shed tears. I had a nerve pinching fear that I wasn't going to be the same again, but I had a bigger, deeper and never-ending fear to go back, to the pressurized bubble of the high social class of the city of Quito; which I will later define as: “A decaying society, shaped by the remnants of Spanish colonialism and reinforced by the aspirations of an elite class who is characterized by a counterfeit Europeanized behavior; this social construct is part of a pseudo-modern feudalism further compounded by the scarcity of a solid national identity in a place with abundant natural resources. As a result, we, Hispanic South Americans, will forever be impoverished both in identity and resources, and trapped in a cycle of trying to outmaneuver our neighbors before they do the same to us.” So, I was very afraid to go back. I had been kicked out of high school, I had feelings for a young woman who thought I was a complete fuck up, which I was; my only escape and freedom was this shady, unconventional, and impossible to understand for the common relative, this activity called climbing. I was fresh to the sport/ethos, but powerfully ambitious, maybe too much to even think I could pull this route on and claim a first ascent through a variation to the summit of a ‘little’ peak in my home land, Ecuador. As I drove into the hospital for urgent care, and heard the words from my uncle, the surgeon, “this is serious you might not walk again”, the despair of my mother and the evidence of my phone log, I could only think of one thing: I'm going back. I was 16 at the time.

There's really no greater diorama than the country of Ecuador. Geographically it is a miniature South America. Being the second smallest country in the continent, the ocean, jungle and snow covered volcanoes follow each other in immediate succession. Ecuador is a geographical paradox, where one can see hanging glaciers from the bush of the jungle, high altitude plains alternate with extremely fertile valleys that get cut by gigantic ravines that drain water into the Pacific. On summer solstice mornings the ocean can be seen from the high tops of dozens of active volcanoes. Ecuador also has sovereignty to the Galapagos Islands. 

A motivated soul who is seeking to travel amongst ‘The Majestic Andes of the Equator’, can access our peaks from almost every aspect despite the typical terrain challenges: if one wants to access peaks through the East, one will find itself amongst the mythical and vast Amazon basin. If one wants to target the West faces, one can gain altitude pretty quickly through the highlands, and on some occasions, the north and south faces of many formations have had little attention over the decades. Latin American historian Hubert Herring once said “Let a high fence be built around Ecuador”, highlighting the uniqueness of this country and the importance of its preservation. 

Ecuador, named hastily after the French geodesic expedition of 1736 that calculated the equatorial line, is a unique and fascinating wonder. Historically, it has seen some of the world's greatest events, specially in science, carrying a remarkable list of explorers who have left their mark in our modern world. Europeans such as Reiss, Stubel, Boussingault and continuing into the world's most renowned naturalists La Condamine, Alexander von Humbolt, and also, Charles Darwin. But we cannot deny Edward Whymper his mention, first man to climb Cayambe, Antisana, Chimborazo, and many other volcanoes, also most likely the first European man to reach altitudes above 6,000m (20,000ft) for his time. 

In Ecuador, the last of the reigning Incas, Atahualpa, was born and fought his battles there, and for a brief moment in history he controlled an empire that extended from nowadays southern Colombia to northern Chile. Some of the conquistadors made their historical slashes in nowadays Ecuador including the Pizarro brothers, Orellana, De Soto and Benalcazar, furtherly driving the apparatus of the Spanish colony and Catholic Church for next centuries to come.

But it wasn't until Richard Spruce and Alfred Russel Wallace, fathers of botany, entered Ecuador through the east by the land of the Jivaros (headhunters and headshrinkers), and with their efforts in restructuring botany, by pure chance put Ecuador in the map of myth and legend. Not only they discovered and cataloged tens of thousands of species but they stumbled upon an ancient blueprint of one of the world's most famous and yet unfound treasures, the Llanganati treasure. Spruce’s first book Notes of a Botanist on the Amazon and the Andes is the first fond reference of the Llanganati and the treasure. The words hidden and treasure, are nowadays synonyms of my home land, recently portrayed in somewhat vexed big screen shows such as Welcome to Earth, Edge of the Earth, and Expedition Unknown.

One of the first men to take exploration in Ecuador seriously wrote: “In the heart of Ecuador lies a mysterious region called the Llanganati. This is an area steeped in superstition, a land of legend and tales of treasure. It is hostile, as inaccessible as anywhere on earth, where mist dense as glass fiber obliterates the mountains for months on end.” The man who wrote this, Hammish McInnes, who led the FA of Roraima’s prow in Guyana, was the leader of an expedition in 1982 that entered the depths of the Llanganati mountain ranger conformed by himself and: J. Brown, J. Reinhard and Yvon C. Yes you read it well, Chouinard himself. 

So does the legend goes: in 1533 after being captured by the Spanish in Cajamarca (nowadays Peru), Incan emperor Atahualpa proposed a ransom of a room full of gold for his freedom. While the treasure caravan was on the way, Spanish conqueror Francisco Pizarro ordered Atahualpa to be killed. The Incan general in charge of the main caravan, took the treasure and hid it in a remote and hostile location, the Llanganati mountain range. Hundreds of people over the last five centuries have tried to find this elusive treasure. People from many nationalities and origins. Many have disappeared. And then it comes to my generation of modern explorers, to ask ourselves, could we be the ones to find this treasure that is supposedly hidden in our own land?

Many of us Ecuadorians; who are by the way its own kind of mountain people who have the significant advantage of climbing rock and ice all year long, with 12 hours in sunlight and dark all year long, and have easy access to both serious altitude (and no altitude at all); have opted to travel abroad in search of routes and first ascents, including myself. Common destinations nowadays for our teams are Peru, the US, and obviously the Himalaya. First ascents in Ecuador aren't too common, our “golden” age of traditional mountaineering happened way long ago, even as far as Whymper in the 1880s claiming all the first summits. Since then our slow advance, political disrepute and absurdly disgusting bureaucratic corruption has made progress slow, uncommon, but on a few occasions extraordinary. In my generation's time, not too many sought for new routes on unclimbed, uncharted terrain. Most of our very talented mountaineers, become guides, and stick to the slow doldrums of commercial mountaineering through the normal routes. 

I think options in Ecuador for exploratory climbing/alpinism (Andinism) abound, and this has always been in the back of my head pinching like a needle to my brain telling me: you should go out more, you should climb new routes, and asking me questions such as why do you want to climb Mt. Cayambe through the normal route for the 25th time? Do you enjoy it as much as even to make 200$ minimum wage sweating your ass off for some touristic company? Nah, the north face of Cayambe has better, larger, bolder climbs still game. To answer my own question, Simon and I trespassed into the national park after our permit to enter through any route other than the main access road was denied. We then climbed most of the north face, despite the permit denial.

Probably our nation’s greatest explorer Mr. Jorge Anhalzer showed me a picture of a hidden, unclimbed huge rock face in 2013 during a conversation. This was the NW face of formation, Yurac Llanganati (in ecuadorian kichwa: the white mountain), linguistically dissolved as: Volcan del Topo (tupu in Quechua means pin), modernized into colonial spanish: Cerro Hermoso (the beautiful mountain). Since this point in my life, climbing this wall has been my ultimate objective. This wall is located in the heart of the Llanganati mountain range.

“That is one of the most beautiful walls I have ever seen!” was the first sentence of an email I received from the athlete manager of the international HQ of my main sponsor after sending an initial proposal to even try to climb this. I really struggle to this day to find an answer to why the series of expeditions I've made to the site never received support from my main sponsor / collaborator at the international level. Sometimes I believe it has been a mix of me trying to pull too hard on sponsorship and funds, or maybe this project is worth nothing for anyone except me. Or maybe it's just the fact that I'm Ecuadorian and no one gives a shit about us. Sometimes I can't stop thinking that it's me who is getting in the way of result, specially when they imply I have to partner up with some of the most renown athletes of the brand (and of the world) for this, but for me this ascent is Ecuadorian, and I've studied it, built it, and developed it. In this case I have to take some pride and state that this project is something I have to pursue with other Ecuadorians since it belongs to us. I also have that awkward and strange feeling that someone has been shittalking me to the brand. I have my suspicions on who that is, but the truth is, this project has no support from HQ and will probably never have. So, I'm on my own in this one. This doesn't mean I will neglect that I've been an athlete for the brand for the last 10 years, and I wear the brand with pride. Countless ascents and days and hours and especially good memories and good emotions; combined with important dreams: to be better, to grow, and to see how far I can actually go. That’s why, in between my reality and partnerships with third parties, I have become an amalgam with this brand. As a result I have created what I call the flag: A combination of most of the t-shirts I have trashed in my lifetime as a climber. They are all sewn together in one piece and if only those shirts can talk, what stories they have witnessed! And what unique landscapes have they seen.

The flag hangs proudly in my room next to my office desk. I carry the flag wherever I go on expeditions, but to this day, I haven't found the right occasion: a moment full of meaning and of such great importance to actually wave it high. It has been living in my backpack quietly, on multi day approaches, fast simul climbs, committing attempts, and first ascents. The flag represents me and my lifetime in climbing, the flag ties me to the sport and reminds me of who I am, no matter what others say.

I can see the flag every morning. I contemplate it before work. So many memories of sweat, blood, and rock dust in those pieces of clothing. On the good days it brings back joyful memories of summits, laughs, and proud ascents; on the dark days it comes together and yells back at me you're not worth it, you had to be better, you will never be recognized by HQ.

Re-reading over and over again the legend of the Llanganati treasure, the chronicles of the Spanish conquest and other elusive documents, I asked myself: do I want to be associated with a treasure hunter? The answer is yes, but, in order to find the real treasure that I seek, you will begin to understand that first of all I'm a climber. Secondly I'm Ecuadorian, and so, this treasure is not made of gold or silver or precious stones, but the first ascent, the unclimbed and uncharted cliffs of a wall in the unique Ecuadorian geography, that is the treasure I've been looking for all these years. That's the real treasure I want to find and own. 

But how do you even start to attempt such a remote and complex series of expeditions and climbs? I apply Twight’s words “10 years of practice to get to this point takes 10 years.” And so 10 years later here we are, in the middle of the mud and sweat, blood and bugs, contemplating what is probably one of the last unclimbed faces in the northern Andes, and risking flesh, bone, and mind to try to climb it. 

During the previous years I tried to prepare myself mentally and physically. The Llanganati is always wet and always raining. So, I have to train in the rain, I thought. Sometimes wearing layers, sometimes nothing at all. I went to the park outside my house and endured the cold, heavy rain of Quito. Other times, I just stayed outside in my underwear during a rainstorm to see how much time I could hold it. My mind also needed some training, and special discomfort, so I would stay in the Tangan waterfall and resist as much as I could, under the coldest and hardest pour directly in my head. I have taken training seriously, in that year only, I put in 1000 gym hours and 30k positive elevation gain only in climbing, not counting the approach or descent. But no matter how long I trained or how hard, all too soon October was already here, and we were supposed to depart any day. 

During the initial kilometers of the approach my 60 pound bag feels heavier than usual, I've been trying to hide it for over a year now, and I've been quite good at it. I carry a burden, a wet bag that fills up and then drains as things go nasty or go well. I've been trying to fight it for a while now, and it unfortunately all comes back down on trips and expeditions, when I'm away from home. 

It was a sunny day at the climbing park I had been developing for years; I picked up some cams from the floor and asked a friend for a belay while I was moving to another route. When I heard it, I didn't quite see it. A rock broke from above the anchors of the cliff by natural cause and landed on an innocent belayer, a first timer who had been brought to the park with an informally guided group lead by someone I knew, and who has deep ties to one of the most famous climbing brands of the industry. We tried everything we could to save this man's life, but the injury was too intense. Over the screams and chaos I was one of the few to keep it together. After witnessing the screams of family and the diligencies of local authorities I finally collapsed into a void. It wasn't my fault, but I built the climbing park. I wasn't responsible for anything, but I named the route where a person lost his life. It wasn't the best name ever, KMFDM. This will hunt me months back with accusations of attempted murder when third parties entered my facebook account and found dozens of videos of me dislodging gigantic rocks from cliffs to make routes safer. The informal guide in charge of the group, never admitted responsibility for the shit show created that day, no helmet. But even with that precedent, I mentally burst as I exited the President of Ecuador’s office, after being notified by the country's General Attorney and Minister of Tourism to give my version of the facts. Oh yes this became a big deal, and many fingers pointed, adversaries made, and of course old friends turned to enemies. But the worst thing is that someone lost his life in the base of a route in a climbing park I developed, and this will be a weight that I will probably never ever overcome. 

Back in my house I only hear the cries of alarm, and the sound of liquid moving with gravity. I finally see myself in the mirror. This is what I wanted, for people to climb more. May more people come, may more people learn, may more people experience feelings so unique that I wanted to share but didn't know how to share them. The photos and videos say a lot but they do not say it precisely, they do not express what is real. That's why I developed routes, that's why I had vision, that's why I worked for free to establish routes and climbing parks. I am a single person after all, an only child. The question then was where to look for refuge, mental refuge. The shock is hard to overcome. I wanted admiration and recognition for a job well done. I wanted to lead the charge but a life was lost.

I can't help but to think over and over of this incident as we cross one of the rivers on the approach to the heart of the Llanganati. Thankfully, a branch does not agree with my boot and I fall, coming back to reality. Nico walks a little ahead of me and that unfortunately keeps me to my thoughts. It's actually insane to think that even to this day, I wake up suddenly at night covering my head with both arms as if I was protecting my head from something. And of course, Ecuador, is not characterized for being made of solid granite, or pocketed limestone; we climb in andesite, and kitty litter choss. I was also there that day, when my old colleague dislodged a blender size block which killed my friend Javier’s husky a pitch below. Not the most pleasant sight and a delicate situation to manage considering my friend's wife was a near miss. Why am I thinking of this as the machete in my arm hacking through vines that are in my way? Proof that when a superior force gives you talent he also gives you a whip, not for attacking but for self flagellation. I have no answer, if that's the way it has to be, then that's the way it is. 

“Lets see who can keep the feet dry longer?” I joke to Nicolas as we take a break on the intersection between two smaller creeks. I remember the last time we were at this rest, mosquitos were bad. By some miracle they weren't as bad this time, a few tanagers flew above us and my lower back ached. This is day one and I am already feeling it, my shoulder itch is back, not a good sign. This is the point where things start to get interesting. It's all uphill from here, about 600m (1800ft) elevation gain on a steep slope covered in every square centimeter by vegetation. This is one of the bushiest, nastiest, and thickest jungles in the world. It truly does not exaggerate when I have to say it's more an obstacle course than a hike. However, to this obstacle crossfit-steroid infused course, you add the humidity, the rain, and the bugs. From little ants to creepy crawlers of all sizes, slime in the floor, branches, leaves and rotten trees. If a leaf falls on you it's probably carrying a little tarantula. If you fall you will get instantly stabbed with Suro (Andean baby bamboos sharp as knives). So, your best friends are not the GPS, or the rain layers, or the bug net, but the machete and the rubber boots; old remains of a dark era in the Amazonic countries. This jungle is the real deal, and it comes to a point where in order to describe it I've used the phrase: “Ecuador, makes Cambodia look like Kansas”. Hamish McInnes wasn't too far from the truth when in Ecuador he stated: “As any traveler in the hostile region knows, a large part of one's time is spent in a physical combat with the vegetation. Let me elaborate: take a common garden path through a dense wood, then tilt it about 50 degrees and multiply the growth by 100. Now visualize the ground criss-crossed by a network of slippery roots sometimes covered in large slimy leaves like a camouflage game trap. Above this level lie the first of the trip lianas, anchored at both ends, thereby forming snares so strong that only the machete or a pair of secateurs will sever them.”

It takes us about 7 hours to get up. Of course it is exhausting. The fun part is the mud, and how in a matter of minutes I am covered in it. We get up high to the Paramos, the high altitude andean grasslands but in the case of the Llanganati, this is a perennial swamp. Picture this as a sponge full of water multiplied by as far as you can see until the mist and constant humid clouds combine with the landscape. Pitching a tent can be challenging, no trees, so no hammocks. Luckily no snakes, we are too high in altitude. Occasional birds, and occasional Puma (Mountain Lion) paws print in the mud. 

The next day we cross these paramo fields to the origin of the Topo river, this is a tributary of the Napo river and then the big Amazon. That's how close we are, only 4000m (14.000ft) higher. This camp is interesting, it has signs of previous expeditions that have ended badly: tent flies, tent poles, entire tents ditched, some of them made of leather. Tuna cans, bullet cases, blunt machetes, if only there was a list of all those who have been through here it would be dreadfully fascinating. And in a log, a little skull with the letters IWIAS. This is the acronym of the jungle demons, the Ecuadorian Amazonic special forces.

Once more, I'm soaked to the bone. Nicolas takes a fall in the mud and decides to wait for me, sinking his legs into a bog. I arrive a little later and he asks- “Hey where are we?”. My answer is, “In the middle of F nowhere.” The trail remains silent, the grass is fully covered in water. I get a glimpse on the GPS and notice we are making good progress nonetheless. I decided to stash a pound of Isopure for the way back. I have the feeling it will keep me fueled when every calorie will be necessary. 

The next segments are quite involved leading to a campground infamous for disaster, it has a big tree and some evidence of plastic of an old tent is everywhere, from here we can start to see a tiny bit of our objective. The limestone pillars of Yurac Llanganati start to show up in the distance. Nico and I are kind of trashed by now but we decide to have a quick lunch and keep moving, once more we face an obstacle course of branches, tall grass, rain, mud; misery. But we keep up. I know soon enough we'll be reaching the intersection with the trail that enters this region though the west, through the Andes, so if we're lucky we still be able to witness some of Ecuador's big boys, the volcanoes. The view however disagrees, and we end up walking for hours following InReach vectors in a constant glare of white wet mist. The only thing I see in front is the next muddy step, Nico behind me breathes loudly and stops to catch his breath a few minutes below. Everything works well until we hit the first batch of this lovely plant we call flechas (arrows) (Chusquea tessellata). Flechas were first described by an expedition composed and led by an Ecuadorian called Luciano Andrade Marin in the 1930s. This expedition, with the aim of finding the Llanganti’s treasure, also contributed to botanics, geology and geography. It was an old school gig, done well to some extent. Back in the day the word was that wealthy explorers will hire the entire young male working class of the towns of Pillaro and Poaló to enter the mountain range. It was like if the old spanish conquerors were back, hiring with minimum of minimum wages or no wage at all, hundreds of porters to carry everything including heavy cases to this remote land. I can't even imagine the burden, the logistics, the effect of the environment and most of all the mistreatment of indigenous and mestizos in these expeditions. Anyway, things have changed in some way for the better, and according to Marin: “Flechas are hard to understand why they're here. Looks like the emperor himself planted them to prevent us Spanish from finding his treasure. A common flecha is not alone, it stands next to hundreds of its kind, sharp as navajas (blades). They stand to the height of a man and on some occasions taller, if one was to catch them with a bare hand it will be immediately sliced. If you try to machete them it will be useless and you will waste your energy and arm strength. They tend to cut your nose, cheeks, and eyes, if you step on them they will immediately come back leaving no sense of trail for the person behind, the key is to move between them, or if possible avoid them at all.”

Rain has decreased all of a sudden but thunder rings in my ears, it's only a matter of time until we get hit with more. It's about 5:30 pm, when we finally reach what I will call base camp for the next five nights. It's a mini swamp with 12° inclination, it's not the worst, not the coldest, or wettest, but it is what it is and we have to make it work. 

The next morning we have to back track down to retrieve our gear stash, ropes, rack, etc, and then try to stash it in our advanced base camp next to the only little lagoon on the formation. The morning starts cold and wet, and full of ticks. It is imperative in the Llanganati you check for ticks every morning, and they're usually not in the most pleasant locations. I removed 3 or 4, made a cup of instant coffee with whey protein and woke up Nico to start work. We still haven't been able to see the wall, not even a bit, and it should be too far now, maybe less than 2km (1mile). We retrieve the stash successfully and have to endure the flechas again. We get back to base camp around midday, good timing to make a first push to advanced base camp. Nico is absolutely astonished with the landscape, from the junglish paramos to finally a hike without obstacles, moving freely on mountainous terrain. This is until you first see them, glowing brightly against the dark limestone, the quartz bands. These are the width of a small car, and are found all around the mountain but there are a few super close to the faint trail to access the summit of the formation. Not in Alaska or the Alps I've seen such formations, there are quite the scene and we have to stop to check them out. We move up, and up, and once more, rain starts. We hurry and put up another Mega Mid to keep us partially sheltered while a huge storm hits and floods the floor of the mid in a matter of seconds. We pitched it in the wrong place but truthfully, there isn't a better one because everything is rocky, slippery, inclined, and covered in moss.

Even though it's only a few meters away the main ridgeline to the summit looks intimidating, untouched, totally oblivious of what it actually means to me. It's actually hard to believe I'm risking my life, again, to get to the other side of this ridgeline into easier looking terrain. In Ecuador there are no helis for rescue, we are a small huge disorganized mess where EMS services are late, unequipped, or non-existent. I know I can't really fall here, the fall will be a disaster even if I survive it. We are days away from any civilized path, and of course there's the jungle, and let me be clear here by quoting Colonel Percy Fawcett during his quest to find the lost city of Z: “This is not today's rainforest, an euphemism that has stripped the tropical wilderness of its true natural meaning. This is the jungle.”

My feet keep slipping in the yellow moss that as the seconds pass, exfoliate water and become mud. For a quick second one believes that the footholds will get better but no, I start slipping and my heart pumps adrenaline. Protection? A flared offset cam in between 2 loose blocks covered in moss. This thing won't hold, and then on the other side of the sharp end, Nicolas watches me struggle. My fingers reach for moss, and that's what we're holding into. The problem is that this moss, and its roots, are time bombs. If one grabs them as a whole they hold for a quick moment, but one by one the roots start breaking, making the whole bunch weaker and weaker as time goes by. The move is definitely 5th class vertical -moss-. I look up and start feeling raindrops, not a good sign. I try to back down and return to the ridge to re-assess, but my footsteps have melted into this combination of smashed little roots and mud. I'm committed to going up. I desperately try to find any gear placements by ripping moss into the air, nothing. I ask Nicolas to watch me, I'm in trouble. I make a high step and pull more moss into a better position, and crawl, front kicking like if I had crampons (maybe they will work here) out of sight into the shadows of a big overhang that divides the main ridge. This is when I hear it, the Illapa - thunder. Few years ago, as I retrieved a hanger from a bolt I had hand placed to rap down and check out the conditions of the face, it got hit by lighting and melted on the entry point and on the exit point. I saw this with a bewildering fear once I retrieved it the next morning. We are sitting ducks here. Thirty meters higher with no protection I try to make an anchor to bring Nico up, there isn't any pro anywhere, only a big slabbed and smooth boulder buried in the moss at a 65° degree angle wall. Nico gets hit by hail, so do I. I have to build an anchor, cause if Nico falls in the crux we're both gone into the abyss, no stops to the Amazon. With no time, and no options, not even for knife blades or lost arrow pitons, I give Nicolas a body belay. He comes up drenched in water and mud, and looks at me with a face I've only seen a few times when we almost paid the ultimate price. “There isn't an anchor, is there?”, I nod. We don't have time to lose, we have to get out of this thing and abort the mission. Rappelling? Impossible were already stranded in a vertical swamp of moss and rain. I know that if we traverse right (SE) we detour from the main face and can find what looks to be some “easier” ramps that might connect to the saddle. We move in fourth class slippery, death slippery, terrain into the main saddle, when I notice in the middle of two loose blocks covered with moss, an old pin. This is no ordinary pin, it's a Chouinard. I guess I know now who took the slabs to the summit back in 1982. By then the storm is directly above us, we get smashed with rain and hail. I want to go down. So we get our hoods on top of the helmets, and look forward into the mist, to try to match the main descent to our high camp for the next few hours of cold, dampness and angst.

Some hours later we reach the mid and I realize I have little left inside. I sit down and try to make a brew of hot whey protein. My fingers are so numb I try to use the lighter until a few drops from my face fall on the stupid thing. Fire is out, we can't turn the jetboil on. I desist, and let my back collapse against the wall of the mega mid. It is folly, not with all the strength in the world can I pull this wall. It's the strategy, fast and light will just not work here. We need time, we need resources, and I need to soften the load of the heavy mental backpack I've brought to this place. Maybe it's one of those things that no one will ever come back to attempt, maybe it's just too crazy, or maybe I'm just not bold enough, and I'm not willing to sacrifice my wedding for this piece of untouched rock. I'm getting married in the US in two weeks, I have to make it out in one piece. This wall is definitely the treasure that lies under the beast. And I am the fly that is flying too close to the candlelight and will get its wings burnt. It is a squared box inside my mind, that will forever be stored in black and white, with thoughts of despair, suffering, and pain; and it will lay stored right next to congratulatory summit hugs and selfies, that never happened. There is no worse nostalgia than to long for something that never happened.

We slept reasonably well that night though it rained incessantly while the paramo grassland collected more water. Because of the deluge, I was snug inside the mid. My mind was a little confused with the dreams I had. In one of them I could vaguely remember: a teacher in highschool approached my desk aggressively and dropped a white piece of paper on my desk. The sheet was blank except for 3 uppercase letters written in bold red. RUN said the word. Back to reality I tried to get this off my mind, but it was impossible. This can't be the best of signs. But yet here we are prepping gear and the rest of our dry layers to try to go up again, for another attempt. We created a drying rack in front of the mid, it helps a little with the scarce and dim morning sun that attempts to generate some evaporation. This time we cross deeper into the NW face, this demands some downclimbing on sketchy death-slippery moss. For a few hours we roam around a faint creek that has low levels of water, if my prediction is correct, this is the headwater of the Mulatos river which flows NE. We are at its origin. I hike up to the base of the wall to try to scope an access point, only to realize we are surrounded by small impact craters. Apparently, during or after storms this wall decides to drop. And if it does, the blocks are big. I can't comprehend how this size impact craters can be generated in this number, there's evidence of a lot of fresh rock that has no lichen or moss that is now laying on the ground. This seems strange. I tell Nicolas to stand back, while I take a quick look. The chimney system that was our “Plan B” entry point to the face is now white product of a hail storm that's happening at the top of the formation. The torrent of water and hail is so big it reminds me of a white water rapid like the ones near the small city of Baeza in the Napo province. This is how much water this mountain collects. I look back down at my feet, and keep moving up step by step to initiate our return to the West face of this forsaken wall. We find a rock, covered in veins of pure gold. How is this even here? Looks like some 500 meters higher there has been some more rock fall and this could be a residue. Maybe the Incas were not too far away from the truth about this place, and maybe the treasure legend is somewhat true in a way. This proves why McInnes and crew entered the Llanganati trying to find the treasure back in 82, and who knows, maybe they found something similar.

As we walked back disheartened, a sudden clearing in the clouds and for about 20 seconds the main wall came into view with an inexplicable breathtaking grandeur. I gazed at it like I was enchanted. Wind and tiny pieces of hail hit me in the face while my hood bounced back and forth. The rock seemed to rise up and up without any respite, I could even see another chimney system and a few ledges. Then in an instant it was gone, as if it wasn't even there.

Hours later we get hit by rain, again. Nicolas and I are drenched to the bone in a matter of minutes, this time we aren't too high so I'm not too worried about lighting. We reach a point where we had downclimbed before, just to see that the moss and mud that collect water, becomes an instant death trap. I carry a small ice axe hammer with me, and maybe with this tool I can try to prevent a fall to our death. I give it a first go, and come back spooked. Nicolas decides to try, there's nowhere to place any protection so we're pretty much free soloing in this vertical garden. Nicolas cruxes out, I can see his feet sliding in the moss foot holds. I encourage him but ask him to be careful, he is only a few feet away from me. I can hear it in his voice, he is in trouble. I think it was at this instant I realized the seriousness of the situation. A few simple moves could become a disaster to our expedition, and to both of our lives. I felt fear from him, so I decided to grab his harness’s gear loop with my right hand. If he's gone, I'm gone. On the other side of the runout, a 500m (1500ft) fall into the unknown jungles below the Llanganati. This is not going to be our end I thought, but I couldn't keep looking, so I closed my eyes. Miraculously Nicolas topstepped on the mud and then traversed diagonally to the right on vertical wet, and slippery moss covered rock. I was so glad he was safe but I couldn't see him. He had the tagline with him and was able to throw the thin cord closer to me. As soon as I grabbed it, I clipped in and with a body belay made it back the V5 -boulder problem on moss- crux towards more horizontal terrain. I had felt this despair a few times in my climbing life before, this one, was very very close to tragedy. I collapsed in the mid, took a deep breath, and wished I was dry. 

After this, the rain, the mud, the general debilitation which had been building up seemed now concentrated in every footstep. Base camp was now indescribably dirty. The floor was a sea of mud and there's almost nowhere to cook. Everything was wet, boots, moisture covered my camera's lenses, and the rain started soon and continued with such ferocity nothing, not a square centimeter, was left dry. Since this episode, no matter how hard the storm is, how low the morale is or how trashed I feel. When I'm on expeditionary climbs I tell Nicolas or Simon, “I'm so glad I'm not in the Llanganati”.

The return home feels like defeat, again. This was probably my ‘last’ solid attempt since I'm moving to the US with my wife. It will take us a few days and two friends are supposed to enter to help us carry loads out. Unfortunately, they are only two days late so we're kind of on our own. I don't want to ditch any gear, it's not my style and it's not in me at all. After the swamp, refueling with protein brews, Nicolas collapses in the grasslands on top of a pass. I take some videos. We are not too far from our last campsite before the descent to the jungle. We set up camp and it isn't raining, at least not too much. We make a fire and I decide to burn my vest which used to be a thermoball jacket that is not in shreds after this ordeal. I think it gives me some closure, and the thought of when we could be back, lurks by. Nicolas waits for me at a rest stop, his words are precise but confusing at the same time, he says “The way I see this Llanganati thing, this is only starting”. The idea gets planted in my mind like inception, but I reject it and reply: “ I don't think so man, looks like this is the end”.

The descent to the river is brutal, a constant mudslide and the bugs and ticks are back. The river crossings are high and we were forced to use trees and ride them like a pony to cross white water rapids. After two days, we were back in civilization. Some sparks of happiness confront the general depression of defeat, but I'm still worried that this project, my lifetime's ultimate objective, is still beyond me.

Beyond the confusion and attempts, the reality is that this wall exists. Deep in the interior of Ecuador at the junction of the jungle and my personal purgatory. And between the streams, rocks, swamps and vegetation, a peaceful environment survives where no others have ever or, will ever be. Uncharted vertical terrain still awaits. My strongest memory of this place is summarized to a fading view, where rocks and yellow moss combine as far as the mist permits, in every direction, which provokes a thrilling feeling of being surrounded by this unique and extraordinary scenery of my home nation. The question that arises is, if I should keep this wall, of this dimension, in my home country, undisturbed? Or not? 

I will always wear the scars of my past, both physical and mental, with pride. Honestly, at this point, I have no more islands to maroon myself on, and I refuse to join the ranks of those who, lured by the unknown, will eventually fade into the pages of journals and books. I hoped, and I dreamt, but I never believed some things were going to happen to me. And when they did, they hit me. After hits and blows to the mind and body, there can be growth and transformation. I will not be one who lost his ultimate dream, tied to a rope on an unnamed wall—not yet, anyway. So, there’s only one thing left to do: We are going back. I’m 34 now.

Felipe Proaño Iturralde