Staring at the summit of Volcan Cotopaxi at at about 5,100 meters.
Part 1: Robbed
It was a cold, groggy morning in Quito. The kind of start where you’re not fully awake, but the plan is already in motion. Ours? Get the hell out of the city as fast as possible and try to squeeze in a hike at Cotopaxi National Park—just an hour and a half south. Volcanoes, mountains, lagoons… it sounded like a nice plan.
We shuffled to the bus station and grabbed the first bus heading toward Latacunga. We were meant to get dropped off somewhere along the way. The bus was mostly empty—a few locals, the driver, and his staff. About 40 minutes in, the driver pulled over and began spraying down the seats. Strange, but we didn’t think much of it. He even disinfected our bags, which again felt a bitextra, but not alarming.
Then he asked us to put on seatbelts—deeply buried in the seats, by the way. While I wrestled mine out, he placed my bag in the overhead compartment, “for safety.” It was right above me, so I didn’t really think twice. Neither did the boys.
Fast forward 45 minutes—we’re suddenly rushed off the bus, dumped on the side of the highway. The staff shouted “¡Aquí!” and off we went. About a minute later, Xavier noticed something: his laptop was gone. I figured he must’ve left it at the hostel. An hour and a few phone calls later, I checked my own bag. My laptop? Gone too.Cue immediate panic.
There was no doubt now—we’d been robbed by the bus staff.
We’d heard stories from other backpackers, sure. Getting robbed was almost a rite of passage in Latin America. But it still stings. After checking everything, we realized they also took our cash, my camera, Xav’s backup phone, Ethan’s chargers, and for some unknown reason, my fake $5 Oakleys.What the fuck, honestly.
So here’s the tip:if you’re bussing through Ecuador, don’t ever put your bags in the overhead compartment. Keep them on your lap, strapped to your chest, glued to your leg—whatever it takes.
Part 2: Pissed
This part doesn’t need a dramatic monologue. After trekking to the next town, adrenaline still buzzing, we filed a police report at a tiny station where no one spoke English. Somewhere along that way, I also saw my first dead body. Yeah. Just lying on the side of the road. A moment that shook me more than I expected. Not something you hope to witness while backpacking, but there it was.
We finished the day by inhaling a ridiculous number of shawarmas (I think I had five), hitting the local store, and buying bottles of booze. My weapon of choice? Rum. Felt appropriate.
We got back to the hostel expecting to have a few quiet drinks, maybe chat through the trauma, and get to bed early for the hike the next day. But somehow a game of ping pong, then Jenga, then one too many “we’ll just have a bit more” moments led to me draining that rum bottle completely. I haven’t been that drunk in a while—but it really did the trick. What was meant to be a 10 p.m. lights out turned into a 2 a.m. spiral of dumb jokes and letting go.
Part 3: Elevated
Fuck. What time is it? My eyes cracked open at 7:30 a.m., and my first thought was, “Do Ihave to get up?” The other boys were in the same boat—hungover, dusty, and squinting through crusty eyes at breakfast.
We planned to head to a nearby lagoon, Laguna De Limpiopungo, but the logistics weren’t looking great. An Uber couldmaybe get us there—but good luck finding one to bring us back. It was already tough enough finding a ride out.
So I walked up to hostel reception just looking for help, and that’s when I got hit with the old faithful: the tour sales pitch. But this one was actually decent. For just $10 more than a standard ride, we could do a full-day tour with a guide, including the lagoonand a hike up Cotopaxi, plus lunch. Hungover, rattled from the day before, and craving something to snap us out of our funk, we signed on.
Our guide, Hiam, spoke very little English, but enough that we managed to get by. He drove us through Cotopaxi National Park, and the views were stunning. Massive open plains dotted with boulders, horses grazing in the distance, windy dirt roads, and a jagged skyline of mountain ranges. And rising above it all: the snow-capped beast that isVolcán Cotopaxi.
Eventually, we pulled into the car park at 4,100 metres. One step out of the car and you instantly feel it—freezing cold and air thinner than a piece of paper. Hiam started throwing on layer after layer while we stood there in flannels, shivering.
He pointed up. It was time to climb andaltitude ain’t a joke.
I don’t know how many of you have hiked at 4,000+ metres, but let me be the first to say: it sucks. Every step feels like a chore. Your legs are heavy, your lungs scream, and your heart pounds like you’re running a marathon. Within minutes, I at least was struggling.
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But South Americans know a trick: coca leaves. Yeah, the same plant they use to make cocaine. Our guide chewed them constantly, and soon we joined in. It actually helps. Within minutes, I felt lighter, clearer, more capable. If only the damn leaves didn’t get stuck in the sockets where my wisdom teeth used to be, I would’ve eaten the whole bag.
We reached the refuge at 4,800 metres and ducked inside for a hot chocolate. Ecuadorseriously knows how to make that drink. The summit was another 1,000 metres above us, which we definitely weren’t trained enough to attempt, but Hiam offered to take us to 5,200 so we could have a better look at the glacier.
It was brutal, but we agreed.
That extra stretch was no joke. The terrain changed—slick, icy, unstable—and our trail runners weren’t built for it. My legs were screaming, but the moment we reached the glacier, it all fell away. Standing at 5,100 metres, staring at this massive wall of ancient ice with the clouds swirling around us—it was breathtaking, in every sense of the word.
Then came the downhill mayhem.
Now the descent. If I’m honest, going down scares me more than climbing up. Something about that “what if I slip and fall to my death” vibe just hits different. So while the boys confidently started down, I tiptoed like a paranoid goat.
But then—out of nowhere—Hiam justtakes off. Full sprint. Down the mountain. Not a slow jog. Not a casual stride. A dead-ass sprint down a hill of loose gravel.
And one by one, we followed.
It felt insane at first—like running down a landslide. But once you lean into it, it’s actually… amazing? Exhilarating, even. Our hour-and-a-half ascent turned into a 20-minute gravity-powered sprint. We were laughing, skidding, dodging rocks, totally in it. Shoes filled with dirt, hearts racing, hangovers completely forgotten.
After pouring half the mountain out of our shoes, we moved on to the final stop—the peaceful lagoon hike. It was beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but after everything that had just happened, it felt like the quiet credits scene after an action movie.
Redemption Arc
Somewhere between being robbed, downing a bottle of rum, chewing coca leaves, and sprinting down a volcano, something clicked.
Sure, I lost a laptop. And a camera. And fake Oakleys. But I also stood on one of the most iconic volcanoes in South America, made it to 5,100 metres on a hangover, and sprinted down a mountain laughing like an hillbilly.
The Cotopaxi trip was chaos, yes. But it was also clarity. Backpacking is full of “what the hell just happened” moments. And this one? This was a story worth the mess.