For context, I’ve spent most of my life as a solo hiker, venturing into the unknown and seeking adventures that challenge me. While I’ve also participated in group hikes, both as a member and a guide, solo hiking has always been my preference. Hiking in Latin America comes with its challenges—not just the risk of robbery but also the physical toll of long hikes at high altitudes (above 3,500m).
The Quilotoa Loop is one of Ecuador’s most popular and safest hiking trails, free from concerns of robbery. This allowed me the flexibility to hike after dusk if necessary. Along the way, I encountered jaw-dropping landscapes, navigated a landslide, and braved fierce winds near the crater’s rim. However, it wasn’t just the trail that made this journey unforgettable—it was Robin, an unexpected canine companion who decided to join me.
Though called a loop, the trail is a linear circuit for most hikers, typically starting in Sigchos and ending at Quilotoa or Zumbahua, with overnight stops in Chugchilán and Quilotoa. Many hikers also pass through the small village of Isinliví between Sigchos and Chugchilán.
Having done plenty of hiking in Baños de Agua Santa, Ecuador, I wanted to complete the Quilotoa Loop in a shorter time—possibly in just two days. This led me to hike in the opposite direction, starting from Zumbahua and ending in Sigchos. By doing so, I planned for the second day to be mostly downhill. It was this decision that brought me face-to-face with Robin, the dog who would redefine my journey.
Day 1: Zumbahua to Quilotoa
I left all my luggage in Baños de Agua Santa, my favorite place in Ecuador, and packed only a light backpack for the multi-day hike.
Early in the morning, I departed Baños and commuted through Latacunga before taking a minibus along meandering, uphill mountain roads. By late morning, I arrived in Zumbahua, perched at 3,500 meters above sea level.
After a light meal at a roadside restaurant, I began my hike around noon. I took a quick detour to explore Zumbahua, a town that still preserves its deeply rooted culture, thanks to its isolation. Then, I set off along the road toward Quilotoa.
The first day was largely a long road walk, surrounded by the desolate, pale-yellow straw scattered across the land and the jagged peaks of distant mountain ranges. The vast emptiness intimidated many hikers who typically ended their journey at Quilotoa, bypassing this stretch by bus.
I was the only soul walking that road. Yet, the deeper the solitude, the greater the reward.
About halfway, I encountered locals resting about 100 meters off the road. They invited me to try their homemade alcoholic beverage. I couldn’t identify what it was, but a single sip was enough to warm my spirit and elicit laughter from my gracious hosts at the expense of the outsider.
Later, I stopped to visit the Toachi observation deck, which offered a stunning, clear view of the canyon below. The road’s slope was gentle until the final section, where it grew steep and the temperature dropped sharply as I neared Quilotoa.
Under a sprinkling sky, my first sight upon arrival was a bored alpaca staring blankly at me. Though the day was ending, I was eager to visit the volcano crater, now a tranquil lake.
I hadn’t made hotel reservations, so I quickly found a rustic yet cozy place to stay, featuring a surprisingly comfortable bedroom. Without lingering to rest, I headed straight for the volcano’s rim, only a few meters away.
Although it was nearly dusk, I managed to snap a few good photos and began a short descent toward the crater. The sandy, steep path made progress slow, and as the night fell, the relentless cold forced me to turn back. My light waterproof jacket was no match for the dropping temperatures.
Quilotoa is a small tourist hub with a few places to sleep and eat, and supplies are limited. Despite this, I was satisfied—I had achieved my goal for the day.
Day 2: Quilotoa to Chugchilán
I started my second day early in the morning. Before leaving, I bought a couple of packages of biscuits for the hike. I thought they would suffice, not realizing that this scarcity would play a pivotal role in my journey.
My plan was to follow the trail along the crater rim to enjoy the spectacular views as I hiked to the next stopover. The trailhead began at the edge of the village, where a large group of stray dogs barked and surrounded me. I cautiously walked through them, and two dogs decided to follow me.
The rim trail was exposed to fierce winds, sweeping across without anything to block their force. After a while, the marked trail disappeared as I crossed over the hills. I assumed the dogs would eventually turn back, but they stayed, moving ahead of me as if they knew the way. At first, I dismissed the idea that they were guiding me, thinking they were simply wandering.
Despite my hesitation to follow them, as I love the thrill of exploration, I realized they might actually know the path. However, I had no way to reward them, as my limited supply of biscuits was barely enough for myself. After several dead ends and backtracking through sandy terrain, I reluctantly decided to trust them. Each time I lost the trail, they seemed to lead me back on course.
Hiking for hours made me hungry, but I had to ration my food carefully. During my first rest stop behind a rock, one of the dogs returned toward Quilotoa, but the smaller one stayed, gazing at me with its puppy eyes. It was time to move on.
The trail continued through open, wind-swept areas and sheltered downhill paths. Some sections were marked, but at times I ventured off-trail, hoping to save time—though this wasn’t always successful. My growling stomach forced me to stop and eat. Despite my limited supply, I couldn’t ignore the loyalty of my companion. I began sharing small pieces of each biscuit with him, keeping the larger portion for myself.
As the hike progressed, the dog’s companionship became the highlight of the journey. I decided to name him Robin, after Batman’s sidekick. At our next stop, I reconsidered my rationing and resolved to share equally—one biscuit for me, one for Robin. Though food and water were running out, I trusted I would find something in the next village.
After several more hours, I finally spotted a village in the distance. It seemed straightforward to reach, but the journey was longer than it appeared. In an attempt to save time, I slid down a sandy shortcut. Robin refused to follow, and I soon understood why—a large, aggressive dog emerged from an old shed. I had to scramble uphill to avoid a confrontation. Returning to the trail, I spoke to Robin: “So that’s why you didn’t follow me. Good job.”
Exhausted, hungry, and out of food, I reached the outskirts of the village. There, I encountered a French hiker carrying a tent. Robin’s excitement at seeing them made it clear he was accustomed to leading hikers in exchange for food and companionship.
Though I had grown attached to Robin, I knew it was best for him to return with the French hiker. I explained Robin’s role as my faithful guide from Quilotoa and shared how he seemed experienced in guiding travelers for a bit of food and attention. The hiker agreed to care for him and ensure he returned to Quilotoa.
Saying goodbye to Robin was bittersweet. He seemed familiar with these farewells and happily followed the hiker on their way.
Despite my hunger, the small village offered no dining options, although I didn't spend much time looking. I thought Sigchos was only an hour away, but I was sorely mistaken.
I continued along the road west of the village of Guayama San Pedro until I reached a viewpoint, where the trail seemed to disappear. Checking my position on the Organic Maps app, I confirmed I was in the right place. The map indicated a trail on the west side and marked a pin labeled: Broken path. Danger. After scanning the area, I finally located a narrow downhill trail, hollowed out and flanked by earthen walls.
It seemed strange that the only direct connection from the village to the main road was this precarious path. The altitude was much lower than Quilotoa, and the day had turned warm. I jogged downhill until the trail transitioned from being enclosed by walls to a narrow ledge with a sheer cliff on the right. As I approached the pin marked on the map, I discovered a landslide blocking the trail with loose sand. It was too wide to jump across, and while the slope wasn't entirely vertical, it was slippery enough to be dangerous.
Stretching as far as I could, I gripped onto any stable surface, cautiously moving forward. After several attempts, I managed to thrust myself across, moving quicker than the sand sliding beneath me. Beyond the landslide, the trail wound along the cliff, mostly downhill, until I reached a bridge—or what was left of it. The once sturdy structure was reduced to a single wooden pole and a few broken boards. My initial attempt to cross made it clear the risk was too high, so I opted to descend to the river and cross there instead.
What followed was an exhausting uphill climb. The trail led through green pastures under the blazing sun, and I was so focused on the ascent that I momentarily forgot my hunger. By the time I arrived at Chugchilán in the afternoon, I was completely drained. This village, smaller than Quilotoa but warmer due to its lower altitude, felt like a haven. I initially thought I might continue to the next leg of the journey, but I chose instead to relax and enjoy the village.
I found a cozy, rustic roadside hotel run by welcoming owners. When I finally sat down to eat, I devoured my meal like a lion, savoring every bite after such a grueling day.
Day 3: Chugchilán to Sigchos
On the third day, I woke up to a radiant sun. The morning air was still a bit chilly, but the promise of a warm, sunny day filled me with optimism. After enjoying the hotel's breakfast, I set out on the road. The initial stretch followed the main road, but unlike the desolate landscape of the first day, this time I was surrounded by lush green pastures, with the sun rising behind me.
Eager to leave the road and hike through the mountains, I spotted a trail on the map and decided to follow it. However, I soon discovered it was blocked beyond any possibility of crossing. I couldn't help but think that if Robin had been with me, he would have avoided this dead end. With no other option, I backtracked to the road. Thankfully, the scenic views on both sides made the walk enjoyable.
After some time, I noticed a dirt track leading down into a canyon. It was my opportunity to leave the main road, so I took it and hiked downhill toward the riverside. This was the least adventurous day of my journey—no companion, no fierce winds, no cold, no broken trails, and no landslides. Yet the expansive 360-degree view of greenery on a warm, sunny day made it a perfect ending.
After several hours of hiking, I took a longer break to sit on a stone by a stream and dip my feet in the cool water. I briefly considered taking a detour to visit the artist village of Isinliví, but by this point, I felt content with my journey. My focus was now on finishing the hike in time to return to Baños.
The final leg of the journey was a steep uphill climb to Sigchos. When I arrived, I found a place to eat, took a quick stroll around the village, and boarded a coach bus to Latacunga. This time, the bus meandered downward through a canyon flanked by lush tropical greenery, a vibrant contrast to the rugged landscapes of my hike.
