Director Jud's Blog

When Wyatt and I began planning this adventure months ago, Cotopaxi was the mountain that always lingered in the background.

Every training hike, every early morning workout, every acclimatization climb in Ecuador ultimately pointed toward one objective: standing together on the summit of one of the world's highest active volcanoes.

On Tuesday, 10/13/26 that objective suddenly became very real.

After a slow morning organizing gear in Latacunga, we met our guide, Julián, loaded crampons, gaiters, ice axes, and helmets into the truck, and headed toward Cotopaxi National Park. An hour and a half later, after bouncing along rough Ecuadorian roads, we arrived at the trailhead and began the short but steep hike to Refugio José Ribas.

Perched at nearly 16,000 feet, the refuge has served as the launching point for Cotopaxi climbers for more than fifty years. Thousands of mountaineers have passed through its doors on their way to the summit, and for one night, Wyatt and I became part of that tradition.

After settling into our bunk room, climbers from several countries gathered for dinner. Rice. Chicken. Hot tea. Simple food, but exactly what everyone needed.

The dining room carried an unmistakable mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. Everyone knew why they were there.

In a few hours, alarms would start ringing.

In a few hours, we'd all be heading into the darkness.

Trying to Sleep at 16,000 Feet

By 7:00 p.m. everyone had crawled into their bunks.

Actually sleeping was another story.

At nearly three miles above sea level, even resting feels different. Breathing requires more attention. Your body never quite settles. I spent most of the evening somewhere between sleeping and thinking about the climb ahead. According to Wyatt I also did some snoring, but there seems to be little proof it was me.

Then, almost immediately, it seemed, alarms began sounding throughout the refuge.

11:00 p.m.

Time to go.

We gathered downstairs for a quick breakfast of bread and tea while completing one last gear check. Soon helmets were on, headlamps were glowing, and we stepped out into the cold Ecuadorian night.

The stars were incredible.

For a few moments we stopped simply to admire them before beginning the climb.

Into the Darkness

The route began on loose volcanic gravel above the refuge. Historically, climbers stepped onto snow almost immediately, but Cotopaxi's retreating glacier has added a longer rocky approach.

For the next ninety minutes we climbed steadily toward the ice.

Most of the time I stared at my boots and the small circle of light cast by my headlamp. One misplaced step could mean a twisted ankle and the end of the climb.

During one break, Wyatt suddenly pointed toward the sky.

A shooting star streaked overhead.

His excitement immediately made me smile.

Those little moments are often the ones that stay with us. Long after summit photos are forgotten, I'll probably still remember Wyatt seeing that shooting star at 17,000 feet.

Eventually, around 16,400 feet, we reached the glacier.

It was time to put on crampons.

The Glacier

Once roped together, everything changed.

The mountain immediately felt bigger, steeper, and more serious.

Our headlamps illuminated a frozen landscape of ice, crevasses, and enormous snow formations. Some of the cracks disappeared into darkness so completely that it was impossible to judge their depth.

Julián led calmly through the maze.

His coaching throughout the night was remarkably consistent. In his Ecuadorian accent his mantra was:

"Take it easy."

"Go slow."

And occasionally:

"Jud, not that slow."

At nearly 18,000 feet, his advice made perfect sense.

One of the great surprises of high-altitude climbing is that success rarely belongs to the strongest person. It belongs to the person who slows down enough to keep moving.

Heartbreaker

Around 18,400 feet, we encountered the section climbers call Rompe Corazones or "Heartbreaker."

The name is appropriate.

The glacier had retreated, exposing a brutally steep section of loose volcanic gravel. Looking up, the slope seemed endless.

Step.

Rest.

Step.

Rest.

Step.

Rest.

By this point, altitude had become the true challenge.

At nearly 19,000 feet, you're functioning with roughly half the oxygen available at sea level. Your legs may feel strong. Your lungs may feel fine. Yet every few steps your body quietly demands a pause.

The climb becomes less about fitness and more about patience.

One careful step at a time.

Eventually we regained the glacier around 5:00 a.m.

I stopped to take a drink and looked uphill.

Above us, a string of headlamps from other climbing parties stretched toward the summit. From where we stood, they appeared impossibly steep, almost vertical.

Both Wyatt and I looked at the mountain and silently wondered the same thing:

Do we still have enough left?

Sunrise and the Final Push

The answer, thankfully, was yes.

The final thousand vertical feet were the most demanding of the climb.

Now we were navigating steep snow and ice slopes, occasionally reaching angles that required careful placement of crampons and ice axes. We moved among seracs, crevasses, and drops whose bottoms remained hidden in darkness.

Meanwhile, dawn was beginning to arrive.

One of the strangest things about Cotopaxi is that you're standing almost directly on the Equator, surrounded by glaciers and temperatures well below freezing.

For hours we had been climbing beneath brilliant stars. Then, almost instantly, the eastern horizon turned orange.

The entire mountain seemed to come alive.

Julián finally added a new instruction.

"We have about ninety minutes to reach the summit and begin descending."

For the first time all night, we needed to increase the pace.

Not fast.

Just a little faster.

One step.

One breath.

One more step.

The Summit

And then suddenly, after hours of climbing through darkness, ice, fatigue, and doubt, we stepped onto the crater rim.

A few moments later, Wyatt and I stood together on the 19,347-foot summit of Cotopaxi.

I've spent a lot of time trying to describe what that felt like.

The truth is that reaching a summit is never just happiness.

There is exhilaration, certainly.

But there is also relief.

Gratitude.

Exhaustion.

Disbelief.

You spend so many hours focused on a distant goal that it becomes difficult to process when that goal suddenly becomes reality.

I looked down the route we had climbed and couldn't quite believe we'd come from there only a few hours earlier.

Then I looked over at Wyatt.

And that was the moment that mattered most.

I was standing on top of Cotopaxi with my son, a young man I have known literally since his first breath.

A son I love.

A climber I trust.

And a person I genuinely respect.

Over the years I have watched him grow into someone capable, thoughtful, resilient, and adventurous. Standing together on that summit felt less like reaching the top of a mountain and more like celebrating the journey that brought us there.

The views were extraordinary. Volcanoes stretched across the horizon in every direction. The summit crater dropped away beside us. Sulfur drifted from the active volcano below our feet.

Yet what I remember most is simply sharing that moment together.

The Long Way Down

Of course, every climber knows an important truth:

The summit is only halfway.

After a brief celebration, photos, hugs, and a few moments to absorb the experience, we turned around and began the long descent.

The same slopes that felt intimidating in darkness looked even steeper in daylight.

Carefully we retraced our route through crevasses, down snowfields, across the gravel slopes, and back toward the refuge.

Eventually the glacier ended.

Then the refuge appeared.

Then, finally, the trailhead.

Hours after standing on the summit, tired but incredibly grateful, Wyatt and I returned to the vehicle.

Cotopaxi had challenged us. It had humbled us. It had rewarded us.

Most importantly, it had given us another shared experience that neither of us will ever forget.

And that, more than any summit, is exactly why I wanted to come to Ecuador with my son.