Quilatoa

It was cold. It was really fucking cold. I was wearing two long sleeve shirts, a wool sweater, two pairs of thermal long underwear and Jean overalls. I was wrapped in a sleeping bag equipped to deal with below zero weather. The earth beneath the tarp that created a floor in the makeshift shelter had become almost icy since the sun kissed it goodnight. The frozen dirt sent a shiver down my spine. I began to move to generate heat within my bag; the closest thing to a consistent bed that I own. It was around 4:30 A.M. And all I wanted was the sun to come up over the mountains and bring me some warmth.
Chilled to the bone and unable to sleep, an hour passed as I waited for the warmth I knew was nearby. Finally, the darkness beyond the walls of the tent began to soften and light started to sink into the shelter. I sat up, and pulled my arms out of the protection of my sleeping bag and reached all around me for my bag. My fingers found the wrappings of the tea and the clink of our small portable stove. I unzipped the tent and scrambled outside into the silent cold mountain air. In every visible direction I saw only green and brown peaks, cascading downward into a crater filled with dark aquamarine water. Mist grabbed at the peaks and cracks in the mountains and the sun began to rise and burn off the clouds far above the crater. The earth was still and the atmosphere was completely hushed, save for the small sound of a flame heating water. I closed my eyes and crossed my legs, sitting up straight and focusing on only my breath. I cleared my mind and enjoyed the cold freshness of that frigid and spectacular morning. The water boiled and I drank the hot tea quickly, finally bringing some relief to my frozen skeleton. The light from beyond the mountains grew stronger and the air began to grow warmer. I crawled back into the tent and finally found rest.
I awoke to a dog barking, somewhere nearby, and I felt the sensation one gets when they are trapped in a small and warm space. A feeling of both comfort and panic. The sun shone through the tent, heating the air within it, and I sat up and started removing layers of clothing that never seem to maintain the proper temperature. After a breakfast of ramen noodles and bitter black tea we headed down to the bank of the lake. We stepped into a kayak and paddled our way into the center of the lake. At the center we stopped and drank in the tranquil scenery around us. Our hands froze to ice as we sat upon the ancient crater enjoying the beauty of our worlds nature. Mist grew thick in the distance over the peaks to our left and the green landscape was reflected both in the stillness and in the color of the cold water.
Later, I sat upon a small horse, my paint covered overalls, green llama sweater and orange hippie headband screaming to all the locals that I am in fact a giant gringo. If that had not been enough, my large backpack was on my shoulders and my skin had turned red from the exaggerated Rays of the sun. we climbed and I looked around me as the altitude increased and the crater became the background as opposed to the main attraction. I felt cold, but it was the kind of cold that simply bites at your skin butt never really penetrates into your system. The world around me seemed spectacular, the sound of hooves on dirt and Kitchwah infused Spanish followed me as I rode along the winding incline, up to the small village of Quilatoa. We climbed into the mist, the temperature dropped and the water grew greener to my eyes. The fog was thick around me and the strides of the horse mandated my view. I was riding from the center of an ancient eruption into the heavens. The air was thin and the world seemed stained with bright white clouds. I rode up into the sky, headed toward god, and although I had not died, I had found peace.