HIKING CERRO CHIRRIPÓ
written on Friday, October 4th
I’m sitting in the airport, in a very reflective and positive place. Emotionally. I’m constantly shifting around because I’m in a sensitive, aching place. Physically. I’m on a lime green couch that overlooks the mountains basked in a hazy blue early morning light, and little planes flying by as the sun comes up. I don’t board for another hour, which is when I’ll fly into Orlando to surprise my mom for her 60th birthday celebration. (I hope) She’s convinced that I’m still on the top of a mountain right now, the tallest mountain in Costa Rica, freezing my ass off 12,000 feet closer to the sky…
This week, I hiked Cerro Chirripó, the tallest mountain in Costa Rica, and the highest point of the Cordillera de Talamanca mountain range. Chirripó is an intensely important landmark for Costa Ricans, as the hike up takes 10-12 hours and 20km of uphill venture that ends in a rocky plateau that overlooks the entire country, coast to coast. I’ve had my heart set on Chirripó since I arrived in January, and although the coordinating and planning took 10 months to pan out, every second, dollar, and step was worth it.
So…where to start? I did this adventure with my boyfriend, Nathan. The preamble-less hard launch is necessary because this story is incomplete without him. I met Nathan when I first came to Costa Rica; he’s an English teacher from England who lives and works and plays soccer in our amazing little teacher/Tico community. He’s a thoughtful and hilarious guy whose sarcasm and wit rivals mine (seems impossible, I know). He’s done tons of travelling and hiking around the world and was all for the prospect of summiting Chirripó.
So, we planned this for our October break, a 4-day trip that involved two nights at base camp and three days of intense hiking. As for me, I’ve hiked a lot in my day. I try to hike as often as I can now that I live in the mountains. However, the longest hike I’d ever been on before this was a 10-hour relaxing river venture in Zion National Park six years ago. Despite my ten months of acclimatizing to the 4500 foot altitude of Barva, and the walking muscles I’ve built up this year, hiking Chirripó was hands-down the most physically challenging thing I’ve ever done. The hike is set up in two parts: first, an 8-10 hour hike uphill. It’s about 15 kilometers in distance with a total ascent of 6,000 feet. At that point you arrive at Crestones Base Camp, where you rest for the night and recover enough to summit the mountain the next day. After that, it’s another 5 kilometers, 2 hours, and 1,000 feet of incline to get to the summit. Most of the ascent in that hike is packed into the last half hour, which is a near vertical scramble to the summit. From base camp, there are several different hikes, peaks, and lagunas to explore apart from the main event, Chirripó. Once you’ve had your fill, usually after another night of rest (or not if you’re insane), you can begin the descent, which is 5-7 hours of downhill; lighter on the cardiovascular, harder on the knees.
This is how we did it:
On Monday we rented a car and road tripped four hours to San Gerardo de Rivas, a tiny smidge of a town nestled deep in the mountains, resting in the midst of the Cordillera de Talamanca mountain range. We checked in for the hike and rested up at a hotel just down the road from the park entrance. Tuesday morning at 1:30am I was wide awake, planning the yoga routine I was going to force on Nathan when he finally dragged himself out of bed. By 2:30am we were out the door and on the trail. Until the sunrise I was literally following in Nathan’s footsteps, one pace behind him to keep in the light he was holding. At one point very early on, my contacts kicked the bucket, so I was sightless for two kilometers until putting my glasses on. From that point on, it was glasses for the rest of the trip (thanks, Roka). We had clear, dry skies (the main reason to leave so early: avoid the tireless rain), and we were constantly stopping to look up at the star-filled sky, like salt spilled on black paper. I felt like we were making incredible time, burning through the kilometers in record time. Despite that feeling, we were passed by many people before reaching the halfway point. Every physical challenge I’ve encountered in the last several months (and there have been many) reared up during this ascent. I had been sick and lethargic the weeks leading up to the hike, and that time spent on the couch rather than training was kicking me in the ass. Nathan was always happy to stop and let me rest, and never made me feel rushed or slow, and I’m still so appreciative thinking back on it. We made it to the halfway point in 4 hours and seeing that after eight kilometers we still had seven to go…was soul-crushing. Little did we know the next seven were going to make the first half seem like child’s play.
I had read so many blogs and websites about this hike, and I knew that each kilometer was named and characterized with their own little personalities. I couldn’t remember what they were called, but I knew there were two that were infamously hard. By the time we reached the first, we were already dead. Cuesta de Agua (the Water’s Climb) at kilometer 8 was a rocky, gruelingly steep incline with hardly any reprieve. My hips were screaming at me at this point, with a sharp pain that I hoped wasn’t leaving any lasting damage. Directly following Cuesta de Agua was La Barba de Viejo (The Old Man’s Beard). Adorable, right? No, it was horrible. Almost as bad as Cuesta de Agua. As we drug ourselves through these kilometers and got closer and closer to basecamp, I started wondering if my body was even going to allow me to keep going.
As if the mountain gods knew what I was thinking, it blessed our lives with kilometers 11 and 12. When I first saw Las Quemadas (The Burns), I almost cried. I was already burned, burnt, burning. I didn’t want to do a kilometer called the fucking Burns. Thankfully it was a facetious little kilometer, because “The Burns” refers to an area that was burned during a huge forest fire years ago. The trees and stumps were singed black, and the landscape transformed before our eyes into a beautiful display of dead, black wood, and electric green vegetation that’s sprung up from the ashes, healthy and vibrant and flourishing. Where most of our hike was dark green forest, clay, mud and beige rocks, it was as if we had just entered an entirely different world.
bleeding trees?
Flowers springing up, trees cracking open to show blood red interior, and straightaway paths that eased our aching limbs, the Burns was the reprieve we needed. Following that was El Jardín, (The Garden), just as easy-going and even more beautiful as it opened up to follow along the mountainside and offer sweeping views into a valley of endless peaks and picturesque dollops of clouds below. Moss grew on rocks in a bright yellow green. Low hanging trees met overhead to create little tunnels of shade. The air was cool and breezy; it felt like a different world, like an ancient fable, like an elven hideaway from Lord of the Rings, like forest nymphs were going to float out of the trees and crown us in wreaths of vine and moss.
The idyllic fairytale didn’t last long enough. There was a kilometer I had heard about in the blogs. I couldn’t remember at what point it was located in the hike, but the name was impossible to forget: The Hill of Regret. We left The Garden kilometer, and The Hill of Regret was waiting for us like an ominous doorway. It was a brutally steep hill, worse than Cuesta de Agua, but it would have been fine if that was all. It wasn’t. We got to the top of The Hill of Regret to be greeted by a new kilometer reading: The Regrets. I hadn’t remembered that The Hill of Regret was only the preamble to the most difficult kilometer of the entire ascent. This had to be the last one. Right? We were over 14km by Nathan’s Garmin’s account. This had to be the last one. The pathetic fallacy came through and it began raining for the first time that day. Didn’t matter, we were already soaked through from our 150+ heart rates. We were almost there. Nathan started counting down the kilometer by hundreds. They went by achingly slow. 200 meters left. Where was the basecamp? Both hips were losing climbing power at this point. And then we turned the corner and saw a sign…
El Ultimo Paso. The Last Step. We had miscalculated, we had one more kilometer before arriving. It was at this point I gripped my pant leg in my fist and started pulling my right leg through every painful step. I didn’t want to give up, not at all. But I didn’t want my body to give up for me. The countdown started again. The signs containing motivational quotes became more and more frequent. My favorite said something about how your body may lose strength, energy, and power, but your will to prevail is stronger. My hip flexor and my will to prevail were not on speaking terms at that point. We trudged through the rain, limping, cursing, praying. And then there it was: Welcome to Crestones Base Camp. We had made it.
After checking in to Base Camp, eating, and having a little gratitude cry, we passed out. Hardest nap I’ve ever taken. When we woke up for the dinner bell, I had to face some hard truths. My hip wasn’t doing so hot. I popped an ibuprofen and tried to stretch. But as I limped down to the mess hall, my spirits were down. I’d had this entire trip planned to the nines. Day Two we’d summit Chirripó, then hit the other two smaller peaks on our way back to base camp. Day Three we’d summit another peak, Ventisqueros, before heading back down. At this point, I wasn’t sure I was going to make the summit. As Nathan and I sat in the freezing cold mess hall, bundled around our steaming hot chocolate, we talked possible alternatives. Getting down the mountain was Priority One at that point, and if I still couldn’t walk tomorrow morning, we’d try to save the summit for the morning before we left, and just take it easy. I was going really hard on myself, wishing I’d trained more, knowing I did what I could and also being so grateful to my body for getting me to basecamp. We set our alarms for 1:30am again and hoped some restorative sleep would perform miracles.
Thankfully, it did. When we rolled out of bed at 1:45, chattering teeth and covered in goosebumps, I was relieved to find my hip had returned to a normal level of soreness. The summit was on. We prayed we’d packed enough to stay warm at the peak. It was 6 degrees Celsius when we left, and I had on a thermal layer, two lightweight hiking pants, a fleece jumper and a raincoat. Despite 12 year old me screaming about hypothermia, I knew as soon as we started walking, I’d be toasting. It was cold, really cold, and lightly raining the whole way, and yet we had to take constant breaks to keep from sweating. If we got wet before the coldest part, we were done for. We were lucky to have a dry hike the day before, but that luck had run its course. One step behind Nath in the pitch black, jumping over streams and puddles and dodging pits of sludge that would leave our feet drenched. We had no idea what was around us, only seeing two feet ahead of us, hoping we were on the right trail. Thankfully Chirripó is famously well marked, and in the mist and fog we gained more and more altitude. We were exhausted, sleep deprived, aching, and devoid of energy. We crammed some protein bars halfway through the 5km trek and hustled to try and make it for sunrise.
By the time we reached the start of the summit climb, our stops had become minutely. Nathan carried all of our supplies to keep weight off my hip, but I was still barely plodding along. Between the huffs and the puffs were our exclamations of “Fuck this is brutal.” We passed signs that read “Zona de Reisgo”, Risk Zone, and were cautioned with every step. As we turned corner after corner to steeper inclines, I took one last break. I heard Nathan say, “I think it’s right here.”. I gathered the little energy I didn’t have and walked through the break in two huge rocks to the rocky summit of Chirripó. Fuck yeah.
The summit was like being in a cloud, completely whited out and freezing. My toes and fingers were beyond hope but we were cheesing so hard for those pictures. The folks already at the top cheered and congratulated us as we made those final steps and signed our names in the register.
What a feeling.
When we’d had our fill of the freezing glow of achievement, we headed down to start defrosting. After a kilometer or two of descent, the clouds broke, and the sun came through. We had missed the clearing by half an hour. We stood in the sunlight, knowing we didn’t have it in us to go back. The early morning sunlight basked everything in a dewy glow. It felt like Iceland; black rock, orange/green shrubbery and deep, beautiful hues giving definition to the mountains. That walk back was a highlight of the trip—feeling so accomplished, so dead, and just fully surrounded by an incredible, quiet beauty. We took pictures as we waddled back to base camp.
To be honest, the feeling didn’t hit at the summit. It hit when I got back to basecamp.
By the time we were back the sun had come out in full effect. We’d had no idea we’d get any sun at all and we were in awe. We took our shoes and wet layers off and sunbathed, cold breezes coming by and cooling us down just to be heated by the sun again. We just sat there, splayed out. I was exhausted, yes, but also weirdly energized? The weight of what we’d accomplished was hitting and it’s as if the world gave us beautiful, rejuvenating weather to celebrate it. We were quick to burn, being over 11,000 feet high, but we were gluttons for the warmth. The tight pull of the sunburn on my cheeks as I type this is a reminder of those exuberant moments. We drank coffee and played cards and gingerly shifted around like the elderly with our aching hips, glutes, calves.
Despite the amazing feeling of accomplishment at everything I had done, I was feeling really guilty. I had planned this trip for months, we had both put so much money and now energy into it, and we weren’t going to do any of the other hikes that were up there. As I crushed Nathan at Casino I felt increasingly worse about it (the hiking, not beating him at cards), and the view of the Crestones Peak was taunting us with its picturesque spires. It was only 11:30am and we were waiting for the lunch bell to continue refueling, and I threw out the suggestion we go out again. It was just too beautiful a day, too difficult to access, too opportune to not take advantage. I was feeling way better than when we’d returned, and we agreed if it hadn’t clouded over after lunch, we’d go for a stroll.
Turns out the Crestones hike was under 2km, perfect distance for a couple of sore amateurs. Or so I thought. I was feeling bad for hindering Nathan’s experience, meanwhile he was secretly hoping we were going to lie around base camp for the rest of the day. When we reached the sign that read Crestones Hike – Difficulty Level: High, I watched Nathan’s will to prevail evaporate from his body and dissipate into the heavens. C’mon, it’ll be fun, we’ll take it slow! Who was I? Clearly not the same girl that had to be talked into summiting mere hours earlier. But the sun was on my skin and I was wearing a tank top for crying out loud. This stroll on steroids was happening.
Turns out it was the best part of the trip, for both of us. We went back and forth playing Categories and making fun of one another, and the ascent flew by. We took stops like senior citizens strolling through a retirement community, easing down onto rocks and taking in the beauty of the valley before us.
We reached the peak of Crestones and it was almost surprising when we did. Sitting atop those rocks we could see everything we had hiked through that morning. The sun lit up Chirripó like a flashing light saying, You did that!, and we marveled at the strength our bodies gave us to accomplish so much. In very me fashion, the reflection was the best part.
And then in very metaphorical fashion, all the best things come to an end, and the drizzling began as the clouds shaded over the summit of the highest point in Costa Rica. It was on the hike back to the base camp that I found out that my trusty rain jacket was not, in fact, waterproof. As we shivered back up to our room to ring out our socks, I couldn’t even be mad. There wasn’t an ungrateful bone in my body.
The next morning, we slept in. And by slept in I mean we woke up after the sun had risen at 5:30am. We were back on the trail, saying goodbye to base camp by 7:30. The hike down wasn’t as harrowing as the climb up, but it surely wasn’t a breeze. We made it down the first half in three hours, flicking off La Cuesta de Agua as we breezed by. The weather was so nice I was only rocking a sports bra, I didn’t break a sweat once and my heart rate was chillin in the 110’s. Child’s Play.
We stopped for a snack at the halfway point and that’s when our luck with the weather ran out. A heavy drizzle that would continue for the rest of the hike had us bundled in our water-resistant rain jackets, squelching through wet shoes that hadn’t dried from the Crestones descent. The rain severely slowed us down in the second half, and where I was jogging down the Hill of Regret hours earlier, I was gingerly stepping from rock to rock on what was supposed to be “the easy part”. As I’ve made clear, Nathan’s in way better shape than I am, and my knees were ready to call it quits when we still had 4 km to go. We were slipping, sliding and complaining for the final stretch of Chirripó. (I was complaining. Profusely. I think Nathan said his knees hurt a bit. Which he probably just said to make me feel better.)
My favorite part of the descent was how in awe of ourselves we would get whenever we reached a particularly steep bit. Wait, this is so steep. We did this? Oh my god, built different. After three days of grueling hikes, tens of kilometers, endless trails, the whole way back was a reflection on how strong we had been at the start. And to be fair, how strong we were now. Amidst all the complaining (on my end), and asking God for it to be over, and wondering aloud (Poor Nath) how long a kilometer even was anyway, I never wanted to give up. I was so happy to be there, so impressed with my strength, so emotional from how full my cup was. And I know Nathan felt the same way. (Well, maybe not the emo bit but definitely the other stuff.)
Victory picture!
As I make my final descent into Orlando (this descent from the comfort of a Southwest jet) I’m looking out over the same patchwork fields I always gaze at when I travel back home. It’s different now, though. I’m a Florida girl, raised in the flatlands, highest point a landfill, and definitely not one that I’ve summited. I wasn’t built to weather altitude, to be in 6 degree weather, to walk up a hill for Christssake. I’m coming down over the swamps, over the land of zero hikes, over my home that prepared me only to walk on a sidewalk around a fountain in a gated community, and I can only feel so proud of what I learned about myself this week. This week I was the girl I never thought I’d be when I was a kid. This week I was the person I dreamed of being as I huffed up Green Mountain in Colorado with my family years ago. I was the person I promised myself I’d become when I started hiking in LA. And I know someday soon, I’ll be the person I hoped to be this week, cursing out another trail, summitting another peak, running up another hill. Stronger, maybe. Just as grateful.