Volcanic Misadventures

We’ll climb a volcano. It seemed so obvious a decision. Since mom and Robert left we’d struggled to find enthusiasm for continued adventures in Guatemala. We were weary of the so-so food after eating so well in their company. Our thoughts began to wander to home and all the uncertainty that awaits us on our return. A volcano climb seemed just the thing to bring us back to the present and shake up the “travel monotony”.

We found a great company, Kaqchikel Tours whose name we could neither pronounce nor remember. Their description captivated us, a strenuous two-day climb to a mountaintop 500 meters away from the active crater of Santiaguito. We would climb all day then relax in camp enjoying the show of eruptions throughout the evening. Eduardo, the owner, repeatedly explained that it was “the hardest hike they offer … very steep, very slippery.” He even showed us pictures of an insanely steep dry riverbed of slick rock that makes part of the trail. It looked like a long waterfall not a trail, but it must be a trick of the photo, right? I had my doubts, but I was intrigued at the prospect and certain that I’d done harder things before.

The misadventure of las Israelitas may have tipped the scale. A month or so ago one of Eduardo’s guides took a group of Israeli women and one American guy to Santiaguito. The group struggled through 2/3 of the first day’s hike. They made it through the initial steep ascent and the grueling descent. But when faced with the intimidating climb that would bring them from the rocky wasteland at the base of the mountain to the summit, they mutinied. The guide convinced them that they couldn’t sleep there; they had to go higher to find flat ground, the first beach, where they could pitch their tents and call for additional food and assistance. With what I can imagine was a lot of whining and bitching they ascended with nary a trail in sight over the ash covered boulder field and collapsed at the first beach. They were safe. They could rest and help from Kaqchikel was on the way.

My understanding of the girl’s psyche or my comprehension of Eduardo’s Spanish failed me at this point. From the first beach one of the girls called her mother in Israel to ask for help. “Mommy send a helicopter.” A huge mess ensued with embassies, Guatemala’s tourism agency and poor Eduardo stuck in the middle. While managing the maelstrom of officials, Eduardo sent in guides to get the girls and carry their packs back to Quetzaltenango.

Somehow hearing this story emboldened me. I reasoned that I’m certainly tougher than someone who calls mom in Israel from the side of a mountain in Guatemala. Aren’t I?

On our appointed day we began in the cool of morning. We climbed for one and a half hours, crossed into a new drainage heavily dusted with gray ash, plunged 1 hour down a knee brutalizing trail before arriving at the crux of the day; the impressively steep slick rock watercourse coated in an 1/8 inch of ash. Partially on foot and on tush we slid and scrambled down the rock face with my sphincter-o-meter redlining the whole way. We crossed the vast alluvial plain jumbled with ankle twisting lava boulders and after a sumptuous lunch of Cheetos, bologne, American cheese slices, mayo, and Bimbo bread we began the task of ascending the infamous slope toward the fog enshrouding the first beach.

All day and night Santiaguito releases small explosions. A few minutes after each rumble a fusillade of BB sized ash-mud pelted us. It rained down: covering our clothing, filling my hair, carpeting the land and foliage, and leaving our mouths gritty. As we climbed higher, we passed steam vents contributing to the eerie mist. The moisture and ash give the landscape a veneer of thick moss, rounding out the rock; creating hanging gardens of ferns that venture hopeful fronds from steamy crevices. The scene is magical and foreboding; an apocalyptic Dr. Seuss drawing in monochrome.

In what felt like descending darkness we laboriously hauled ourselves and our packs through thick fog and rain, enduring a final exposed un-roped rock climb. Our wet hands grasped for hold, occasionally falling away with a clod of ashy-moss. Steadfastly Canuche tailed me with a stream of encouragement and butt boosts. Dirty, wet and shaking we hauled me up over the edge to our campsite on the fourth beach. Our climb lasted 9 plus hours and, per my heart rate monitor, burned 6,000 calories. A doozie of a hike that left me light headed and queasy.

To welcome us Santiaguito sent a torrent of rocks, some the size of VW beetles, catapulting down its flank and released a huge plume of ash. We stared in tired awe.

At many points during the day I had questioned the wisdom of my choice to join Canuche on this adventure, but at no point was that question more present than at dinner. It out did lunch. It began quite well with a hot brothy soup, but then our guide presented us with the main course: two boiled hot dogs, a pile of unseasoned refried black beans, and an artistic array of Doritos chips. I forced in a few bites and was swept away in a sea of nausea and exhaustion. I gave up, settling into the tent to rest only to awake to the primal need to purge my gullet. I staggered three paces out of the tent and promptly erupted in honor of Santiaguito, spattering my socks, Chacos and pants. Lovely.

Darkness fell as I sat recovering. In my final moments of wakefulness Santiaguito offered up an impressive conciliatory eruption sending red lava, crimson rock, and ash sprays up into the sky as high as fireworks. It was an incredible show. Did it merit the perils of the day? I’m still not sure. But I survived and I didn’t call mom to bail me out.