The Quilotoa Loop - It's Not Just About The Hike

When I decided to take on the Quilotoa Loop hike in the Andean highlands, I was in for a bit of a surprise. Spoiler alert: it's not actually a loop! You start in one high-altitude village and end up in another, staying overnight in some pretty rustic hostels with no heating—not exactly luxury living! By the time I finished the hike, I saw that the trail could be perceived as a loop after all. You see, a loop can symbolize unity and connection, and with every step I took in my Keen's, I felt a stronger bond to the people, places, and traditions of life in this region. 

 

 

This growing affinity is precisely why I trek around the world; as I made my way through the environment and challenging terrain, I had time to truly connect with a country. I was not just a visitor; I became a part of it all.

Take my journey to Isinlivi, for instance, which kicked off my trek. There I was, meandering up the road, when I spotted a yellow school bus parked with a bunch of locals gathered around it, blocking the lane. Suddenly, a group of guys popped out, decked out in festive cream-colored fedoras, mint-green shirts, and matching scarves! The green color symbolizes fresh starts and good health. The men's faces were hidden behind colorful mesh masks, painted with blue eyes, and adorned with tufted eyebrows and mustaches. They proudly wore blue sashes reading "Comunidad Hierba Buena," which means "good grass community." There were hugs and smiles, and everyone began celebrating the New Year, even though it was a day late. In the following days, I noticed puffs of white smoke and heard firecrackers popping in the distance, evidence of more joyful celebrations in small villages around the highlands.

 

After settling in, I took an acclimatization walk around Insilivi village, which sits at an elevation of over 9,000 feet. It proved challenging despite my pre-trip prep! As I made my way uphill, the stunning green quilt of terraced farmland surrounding me was incredible—every inch of those mountains was being farmed! I wound my way along a narrow trail, teetering on rocks to avoid the mud and streaming water. Peeking down into the valley, I spotted the Toachi River Canyon—a stunning gorge with cliffs, vibrant rainforest flora, and a rushing river just begging for some whitewater rafting!

Winding back through cobblestone streets toward the village, I passed a local church with a hand-carved, double-arched wooden door depicting religious narratives. Above the door, multicolored silk flower garlands added a bit of joy to the weathered facade. A neighbor, dressed in a straw wide-brimmed hat and yellow muck boots spattered with sludge, walked up the road to deliver root vegetables to a friend. A flock of chickens trailed behind her and then clucked down a side alley. 

 

 

Once I reached the village square, I paused to admire a mare poking her head out of the back of an elevated enclosed bed truck. She looked like she was patiently waiting for her owner to finish business at the local government building. Each of these quaint scenes added to the tapestry of life in this peaceful, farming town.

The next day's trail to Chugchilan, a good 14 miles from Isinlivi, wound through natural rivers and idyllic farm roads. Young eucalyptus trees, wired together to create fences, kept the cows, pigs, and goats contained. Large, spiky agave plants, fluttering pampas grass, and bright purple Andean lupins dotted the landscape.

One of the most memorable encounters happened just before lunch. I met an intriguing, older indigenous woman hiking in the opposite direction. She had the softest brown eyes and this sweet, weathered face. She stood at about half my height, and when I first saw her, I thought she was a child! I motioned with my phone to ask if I could take her picture. Despite the language barrier, she understood and agreed. Then she quickly extended her hand. I understood, too. I removed my backpack and fumbled through the top pocket until I found a one-dollar Ecuadorian coin, which I pressed into her palm. Her lips curled into a slight smile at the exchange, and she quickly turned to continue on her way.

After that, I shared my tuna sandwich with two stray dogs that had joined me on the steps of a small church. Then it was back to the hills! I ascended a steady, steep incline for about an hour, gaining close to another 1,000 feet in elevation. I had to stop several times to catch my breath and was glad to have my hiking poles to help me gain traction up the slope. Once I reached the top, I rewarded myself with a fresh granadilla, Ecuador's version of passion fruit. A local farm boy had been patiently waiting for travelers like me to crest the mountain so he could sell his fruit, and I just had to try it! I broke open the orange rind and was surprised to find a gelatinous, seedy pulp inside. I brought the fruit to my lips and sucked the jelly-like substance, amazed by its sweet, slightly citrus flavor.

 

 As I rested, I realized this last ascent made my thighs feel like heavy bricks, and I began to doubt my ability to hike another full day at even higher altitudes.
The next morning, my eyes scanned the sky. Partly cloudy. I knew if I lingered too much, Quilotoa's blue waters could be completely covered in the usual foggy blanket that rolls in each afternoon. Seeing that blue lagoon inside the crater is the highlight of this trek, and I didn't want to miss my chance to see it! About an hour and a half outside of Chugchilan, the sky was a miraculous clear blue, and I was treated to a vision of the snow-capped Chimborazo Mountain, Ecuador's highest inactive glacial volcano peak at 20,702 feet. 

 

There was a burning in my chest from the constant climbing once I made my way from one side of the canyon to the other. I stopped briefly to eat half a sandwich at a gazebo overlooking a small waterfall, but I reminded myself that this was not the big prize for the day. A black-chested buzzard eagle flew by and perched on a tall tree near me, encouraging me onward. 

 

When I finally reached the top of the crater, I was treated to a view that honestly took my breath away. Even after seeing numerous photos of Quilotoa Lagoon, I couldn't help but exclaim, "Oh my!" when I finally caught sight of the aquamarine waters below the volcano's edge, with billowing clouds above reflected in the water and sunlight illuminating the scene. Then, within a span of five minutes, the clouds rushed in, blanketing the entire mountain. I couldn't see the water or the volcano's edges, and I could barely see three feet in front of me. I had to rely on the edge of the rim trail in front of me, which led me through a remarkable transformation in just a matter of yards—from a pine forest to a cloud forest to the volcanic ash sands. Thankfully, about 45 minutes later, the clouds had moved on, revealing the massive volcanic crater filled with shimmering water.

 

I thought my hiking was about over, but it wasn't! My guide informed me it would take another hour to hike along the rim to reach the hostel in Quilotoa Village. As it turned out, non-hiking tourists can take road transport to get here. But it is just not the same as working for it! The air was brisk, and for the first time on the trek, I donned my mittens and knit hat to fight the chill at 12,841 feet. 

 

Once I reached the village, I was surprised to see many people milling about, shopping at the handicraft stalls, eagerly waiting for freshly roasted corn, or getting their picture taken with an alpaca, colorfully decorated for a perfect tourist photo. 

 

I was drawn to a local brewhouse when I noticed, through the window, that a small wood-burning stove warmed the room. I plopped down in a wooden booth and ordered an Iguana IPA. As I took my first sip of the amber ale, I was reminded of life's little pleasures, and my mind replayed each step I had taken along the rugged path. The land was beyond breathtaking, and the spirit of the Ecuadorian people I encountered along the way showed up everywhere — in colorful markets, roadside celebrations, and warm smiles in the fields. Every moment was etched in my soul, a testament to the newfound reverence I had for this beautiful land that had cradled my journey into the Andes.