The Hill of Death

I was ready for it this time. A few weeks of high altitude hiking and chopping through bamboo forests with my trusty machete had me in prime form. No longer was I a wheezing, soft-skinned city slicker. The steady diet of warm potato soup, the cold nights in breezy wooden houses, the early morning serenades by the demented rooster, even the dreaded Hill of Death: none of these things posed a threat to a hardened bear tracker such as myself.

In a kind of perverse way I was almost looking forward to a bit of a challenge. Like the way a Trekkie looks forward to an all night marathon of Kirk and Spock re-runs: a tough but rewarding endeavour, requiring both commitment and stamina. So when Armando asks me back to Buenos Aires for another attempt at finding the lost collar I'm quick to don my shiny black gum boots and raise my hand, stupid fool that I am.

The team is the same as before and I meet with Armando and Alberto in Otavalo. This time we have tents, warm sleeping bags and the proper radio. This time we're doing things properly. Armando's even found a different road that takes us closer to the wooden house on the top of the mountain. Our walk up is only an hour this time, instead of four.

We arrive at the house and the day is still young. We decide not to spend the night and instead head straight down to the valley where the collar is hiding. With a not-so-reluctant farewell to the strutting rooster and the grunting pig we set off. Our path takes us down the Hill of Death and this time I take note of both the steepness and the length. At the pace the lads will surely set coming back up it will be a decent climb but nothing I could not now handle, being fit, acclimatised and mentally prepared.

The sun is setting as we arrive at the isolated farmhouse just below the patch of forest where our collar lies. The farmer is home and he invites us into his house both for dinner (a hearty potato soup) and to sleep. Just one more example of the warm and open generosity these poor, country people seem to be overflowing with.

Closer inspection of the house reveals it to be nothing more than a shed. The walls have large gaps in them through which wind whistles, and the floor is bare, cold mud. In truth we would be better off sleeping in our tents but this would be a little insulting to the farmer. After donning my sexy black thermals, I zip up my sleeping bag so tight that only my eyes are showing. Despite this I spend the night hugging myself for warmth. Since the floor (i.e. the ground) has a bit of a slant to it, I wake up several times with my face buried in the cobwebs of the wall that I've rolled into in my sleep.

Despite the uncomfortable night I'm still feeling positive when the first few rays of sunlight creep over the tree-covered mountains and pull me from my sleeping bag. A revitalising breakfast of warm potato soup has me ready to tackle a day of exploration. The lads take readings with the radio and even to my relatively untrained ear the signal is pretty easy to narrow down. What's more we quickly discover a well hidden but relatively clear path that has us in close range of our target within an hour of walking.

We use the path to circle the spot with the radio. We narrow down the signal as much as possible before heading into the dense bamboo forest, doing the legwork while we can move freely without the need to hack. Eventually the three of us agree on a rough location and starting above the spot, so we can walk downhill instead of up (experience is a wonderful thing), we push into the tangle.

Alberto leads the way, I follow close behind and the two of us use our hands and feet to sift through the piles of decaying leaves as we go. It's a somewhat optimistic approach, since the collar we seek is the same earthy brown as the leaves we are sorting but there are few other options. Armando follows last of all with the radio equipment. He holds the antenna high as he carefully adjusts the tuning and as we push further down the hill he directs us a little left or a little right.

A moment of luck. Armando gives an excited yell, and informs us that the collar has changed from inactive to active. The collar gives an active signal only when it is moving. This means that at some point in our random searching we've made contact with the collar and awoken it from its months of idleness. We hold position and begin to dig through the piles of mouldy leaves and decaying wood with more dedication.

It takes only fifteen minutes or so before Alberto pulls the collar from beneath a pile and raises it above his head like a trophy. It's good news, not only have we found the collar but the bear is not attached to it. Either an illness or a stint of low food has caused the bear to lose weight. As a result he's been able to slip the collar off over his head and make good his escape. Annoying as this is for our data collection, it's a far better result than finding a bear with a bullet through its skull.

Our search has taken less than three hours. It's barely mid-morning and our mission is complete. Things could not have gone smoother and we reward ourselves with an early lunch and a relaxing moment in the cool shade of the forest. Alberto gets the extra Oreo biscuit (they come in packs of four) as reward for being the one to unearth the collar.

We head back to the farmhouse as triumphant victors. We display our trophy to the farmer and explain how it works and even give him a listen with the radio. This is both a bit of chest beating to satisfy our egos (how clever are we, that we can find such a small thing in such an expanseless forest) and to spread the bear message to one more region of the community.

This farmer will undoubtable tell the tale of these weird strangers and their bear obsession to his neighbours and beyond. With any luck some of them might have second thoughts before shooting a bear. It's not important to us whether they hesitate because they now have an understanding of the bears' importance, or because they now know we can track down dead bears, which would then point to the murderer.

We pack up our gear and with a warm thanks to our generous host we head back to the car. It is still morning and with some hard hiking we can be back in Otavalo before nightfall. There is only the small obstacle of the Hill of Death to overcome and then it's steak for dinner, warm showers and comfortable beds.

Or so I thought anyway. As it turns out there was one more obstacle in my way, one that I had overlooked as inconsequential. In the valley at the base of the Hill of Death is the river and the small log bridge spanning it. This "bridge" is a collection of four thin logs piled on top of each other. Each one is no more than ten centimetres in diameter and somewhat rotten. The bridge is about three meters long and a meter and a half above the river. There are no handrails, only a few branches at each end to use for support.

This time I'm carrying a full pack of equipment (including the collar) so I'm somewhat heavier than I have been for past crossings. I slide my feet cautiously along the dead, wet wood. I inch my way across bit by bit, balancing my pack weight. I am one step away from the far side when the log under my left foot gives way with a solid snap, splitting in two, and disappearing into the river below. My left foot is now supported only by air. My right foot is still firmly planted on the opposing log and acts as a pivot. I turn a half circle in the air as I fall.

There are two equally likely possibilities here that could have resulted in an embarrassing but not overly debilitating fall. One option is for me to land in the deep water, emerging drenched but undamaged, apart from my pride. A second option, with an equally harmless outcome, is for me to land pack first. Since I am now falling arse first towards the river, my sleeping bag and warm clothes would make a perfect cushion for my fall.

The Universe pauses for a second while Fate and Lady Luck argue briefly before deciding on a third option for me. As I fall I manage to catch hold of the bridge with my right hand for just an instant. As a result I fall arse first but with my pack lifted slightly up. Meanwhile I am close enough to the edge to be well past the deep of the river. In fact I am perfectly positioned over a large, hard rock, jutting slightly out from the water. I hit this hard and bounce a little before sliding waist deep into the river.

I don't know if it’s possible for a normal person to sustain a concussion via a hard impact to their arse. If not then I am a medical anomaly and all the past unkind comments people have made about the location of my brain are now proven to be true. Pain, like fire, shoots up my arse and through my spine. Nausea overwhelms me and I see nothing but red for a few seconds until slowly the world comes back into view, somewhat obscured by white dots.

The pain is so intense that I actually forget to make the obligatory exclamation of pain that is expected in such circumstances. As my brain begins to function again I have a somewhat weird feeling that I messed things up and make up for it with a very late and almost theatrical "Owwwwwww".

I stay spread flat on the rock for a while, waste deep in the river with cold water rushing over my legs. Armando and Alberto come to see what has happened. I struggle to my feet and seeing that I'm able to stand (which I'm pretty happy about myself) they help me out of the water and up the bank.

I lie on the grass until the earth stops spinning. The guys spend a few moments asking whether I'm OK. I'm really not, but there are only two options: lie there feeling sorry for myself until it gets cold and dark at which point I can lie there feeling sorrier for myself, or get the hell out of there and find myself a nice soft, warm bed. Though tempted by the former, I decide on the latter and I pull myself to my feet and with a few deep breaths follow Armando up the path with Alberto a few steps behind.

Every movement is agony. With each step a pain shoots up my arse, burns up my spine and spears itself into the back of my brain. I can't think and I can barely see. I turn off my brain and my feet move on their own. I move slowly, almost shuffling my way up the muddy hill. To the credit of the guys they d adjust their pace to match mine. They are Ecuadorian though and offer no more support than this. This is my cross to bear.

I remember little of the walk apart from the fact that it is long, and it is painful. The last time I climbed the Hill of Death it felt like I was dragging a ton of bricks behind me. This time it feels like I'm dragging a small house and that someone is sticking me in the arse with a hot poker while a small gnome taps me on the back of my skull with a sharp hammer. Needless to say it is not a pleasant experience.

It must take a long time to reach the top because it's dark when we get there. Halfway up I remember that I have some Ecuadorian, panadol-like tablets in my bag. I'd bought them for a cold but after Armando examines the Spanish instructions on the back we decide that they're better than nothing.

After the tablets, the pain lessons for a little while but the break is short lived. About an hour after downing them I have to pull up against the side of the cliff to hurl my guts up. Twenty minutes later I stop again for another stint. I don't know whether it's the tablets or the pain making me throw up. In either case I feel no better after spewing than I do before.

Even the drive back down the hill is painful, as the car jostles from side to side on the bumpy road. I can't talk and although Armando offers to take me to a hospital I decide that what I need more than anything is a good nights sleep. It's dark and it's late and Armando shouts the three of us a hotel (i.e. the back room of someone's house) in the tiny town of Buenos Aires. Armando and Alberto treat themselves to a meal of chicken and rice but just the thought of food has me almost throwing up again.

I head straight to the room and either fall asleep or pass out. I assume the later as I wake in the morning fully dressed. I'm feeling better though, my head has cleared and my stomach has settled enough that I can eat a few bread rolls for breakfast. My arse still hurts like hell and it will be a good couple of weeks before the pain is completely gone.

Back at the volunteer house I spend a little time taking it easy before getting back into proper bear work. A new group of volunteers has started while I was away so luckily they are still in training and there are no hard walks for a few days. By the time the harder walks come around again the pain in my arse has lessoned to the bearable level that private school boys live with throughout their schooling. The memory of the Hill of Death fades as I get caught up in the bear work once again.

The day-to-day work of normal bear tracking becomes routine. Scattered among the usual walks are a few more interesting jobs. A group of us head out on a two-day hike with Alberto to activate an abandoned cage. We spend the night in a remote village called Cazarpamba. Here we stay in the school house and are awoken by the kids playing outside our door in the morning. Occasionally volunteer English teachers stay in the room we are using and the kids want to practice their English with us. The sun is only just up when the cries, "Hello, Good Morning, How are you? You my love?" (and I’m not sure why they were taught that last one) filter through the door.

The trap is positioned high in the mountains as far away from humans as possible, while still being within radio range of the volunteer house so that we can monitor the signal. After a full day of up-hill hiking we reach the site. To reactivate the trap we have to grease the runners so the door will shut and put in fresh bait. For this purpose I've carried the leg of a dead cow for the last two days and we hang this in the back of the cage. When all's done we chop some leafy bamboo and cleverly conceal the trap. It looks about as natural as my garage back home but it obviously works as this project is the only one to catch bears this way.

You'd think after my fall into the river I'd have learnt a little sense and caution, but where’s the fun in that. Dario, a friendly Ecuadorian lad living up the road from us, brings his horse down one day to give us all a ride. He's sixteen and wants to show off to the group of foreign girls, and if I were in his shoes I'd be doing the same. I'm reasonably comfortable on a horse after my riding experiences in Kyrgyzstan. The difference here though is that Ecuadorians prefer to ride bare back, using only a thin blanket as a saddle. The lack of comfort I can handle but the lack of stirrups is a problem for me.

Some of the girls, being ladies of the British Isles, have ridden horses since childhood and they comfortably ride the beast around the paddock a few times. A few others have never ridden before and Dario takes quiet pride in leading them around, holding the horse’s reigns. My turn arrives and I mount up. I start off at a gentle walk and feeling pretty comfortable in the "saddle", push the horse into a gentle canter.

As we hit the end of the paddock I discover that I need to turn the horse before we tumble down a steep embankment. I pull on the reigns and then brace myself against the turn by putting my weight in the stirrup (not correct technique I know, but then I never made such a claim). It’s at this point that I remember I don't have stirrups. The horse obediently (though I suspect, somewhat maliciously) turns in response to my command. I don't. Instead I continue in the same direction and end up tumbling over the side of the horse as it turns. I go down hard, rolling a little but I still twist my wrist as I land.

The horse, now free of its burden but a little unsure whether this was intended or not, walks a little way off but stays near just in case it's going to get in trouble. I climb to my feet and, following the old adage of getting straight back on the horse, do exactly that. The only problem now is that the horse has sensed my weakness. It knows now that I'm not totally in control here.

As I jump on his back (no easy feat without stirrups) he takes off again. I still manage to climb on, though it’s a precarious hold. The horse knows he has me and decides on an impromptu turn. I go flying for the second time, managing to roll as I hit the ground. This time the horse knows it's free. It bolts for the back fence and I am left with the undignified task of reclaiming the blanket and following after him, with a crowd of Ecuadorians and volunteers alike watching from a distance.

Eventually I corner the horse. I'd say by now you're all familiar with what some would could my stubborn streak (and others would call my stupid streak). I decide one more attempt is needed. I lead the horse next to a hill and use this as a step to mount up. Unfortunately I over do it and end up hanging off the other side of the horse as it once again takes off. It quickly puts on speed and takes another impromptu corner. I go flying for my third time. When I land this time I mistime my roll and end up jarring my shoulder: another injury to add to my collection.

After my third fall, the locals take pity on me and decide they better stop me before I kill myself. They send out a young kid (no more than twelve) who comes and, after an agile leap onto the back of horse, rides it casually back to the waiting crowd. Head low in shame I follow behind on foot. My shoulders killing but damned if I'm letting the Ecuadorians see that. I decide against anymore riding for the night and head inside to nurse my wound. It's several nights before I can sleep on my left side again.

A few days later we take some time off from bear tracking to plant a cornfield. A farmer kindly lends us some land for this. The land is high up near the edge of the forest and not overly useful for the farmer. Our hope is by planting the corn here it will attract the bears and draw them away from the other fields in the area. If this doesn't work then we can use the corn as compensation for farmers that do lose their corn to bears.

We're not sure if this is the right approach to take: allowing the bears to eat corn with impunity may encourage them to do it more. We’re still trying to find a solution to the conflict between farmers and bears. One of the exciting things about this project is that it is still growing and learning. They will monitor the results of this work and over time perfect the approach for the benefit of all.

Clearing land for a cornfield is damn hard work. It's a job that leaves us with a healthy respect for the local farmers and a greater appreciation for our own comfortable lives. For three days straight we hack our way through the bamboo. A few of the girls (though not all, it has to be said) decide that this sort of work is "mans' work" and call it quits after the first day (strangely though they seem less willing to concede that doing the dishes is women’s' work). Those of us hard core enough to stick it out end up with well-blistered hands. Bandaids slip off within a few minutes of starting work and most of us resort to wrapping our hands in electrical tape to stop our skin from rubbing off completely.

One of our standard bear hikes is highlighted by a momentous occasion. On our walks we often find bromeliads and bamboo that have been chewed by bears and occasionally we find claw marks on trees. This day however, we find extremely fresh footprints in the soft mud. We follow the tracks through the forest until we come upon a fantastic find, a mound of steaaming bear shit. At last I have an answer to the age-old question: bears do shit in the woods!

Two new members join our team: two puppies, a boy named Paddy (after Paddington Bear) and a girl christened Chiquita (meaning little-girl). These are to be trained with the hope that in the future they will be used to track bears. Tracking bears with dogs and then dart gunning them should result in much faster capture rates than the cages if we can do it properly. Training them to track will involve long days of making trails with bear scent (unknowingly donated by our bears in the Animal Rehabilitation Centre). At the moment however, our focus is on getting these guys not to shit on our deck and to stop stealing my socks.

It was a grand future for the two little pups and they were both coming along nicely (though they continued to steal my socks). Tragedy struck however and both Paddy and Chiquita came down with a virus. Paddy went first and was sick for three days. He was unable to eat and was vomiting constantly. At first we thought it may have been something we were doing to them but we later discovered that their brother, still living with the neighbouring family was sick as well. All three were still suckling from their mother at times so we assume this was how the disease was spread.

Whatever the cause, we came home from a trek one day to find Paddy had passed away. I was the only guy around, since Dave had gone to Quito to pick up new volunteers, and apparently dealing with dead puppies was another "mans' job" (and yet still I was expected to do the dishes). We unfortunately didn't have a shovel so I had to dig a hole in the back yard using a rusty old hoe. It took a good while to get deep enough but I wasn't keen on coming out one morning to find a slightly chewed Paddy dug up by the local dogs. The poor little guy was like cardboard when I slid him into the hole and I laid a few rocks on top of him before finally covering him with dirt and erecting a makeshift cross.

Chiquita started to get sick a few days later. We nursed her as we did Paddy and she seemed to recover. Armando was out at the project at the time and we decided not to take any chances. Since Armando and I were heading to Quito anyway (and on to the Santa Martha Rescue Clinic, but that's a story for the next blog) we decided to take her in to see Leonardo the vet. It was a close call but after a few days on a drip she recovered and is now a healthy little puppy and, under my close personal supervision, turning into the finest bear tracker this country has seen (I do, however, need new socks).