25/05/2020
December 21, 2018.
The last difficult climb is always the most difficult one ever undertaken. While on the trail, we curse it, ache, gasp for breath. We long for the end, pray it’s just over the next rise, and thank Jesus, Buddha, or the stars when we reach it. We claim it’s the last time we’ll do something like that. And then, miraculously, the pain and suffering and promises to never repeat such endeavors disappear over the beer at dinner. Our fantasies, egos, and situational Alzheimer’s disease overtake our better judgment. We are inexplicably ready for the next one.
And so, I attempted the 5,100 foot vertical hike of the 13,000 foot Volcan de Acatenango in Guatemala even after just eking out a hike up the Mayan Face, a 2,500 foot accent that we ended in the dark, which nearly did me in a week earlier. I had done some other hiking in between these two treks. I had built up more strength in muscles rarely used on flat land. I had given myself enough time to acclimatize around 7000 feet so that altitude wouldn’t be such a big factor. And it was my last day in Guatemala. A capping feat to a wonderful journey with an old student, current friend and talented Guatemalan guide, Eli Ramirez.
I met Eli nearly 20 years ago in Chicago. He was a hardworking 30-year-old with purpose and perseverance. His aim was to earn enough money to build a home for his growing family in Quetzaltenango, better known as Xela, in Guatemala.
Here’s what you need to know about Eli. On his overland journey to the U.S., he endured the suffering of traveling through Mexico in the empty tank of a gas transport truck, withstood the horrors of being caught by la migra at the U.S. border and returned back to Mexico, and without drama accepted his fate on his second border crossing in the Texas desert while drinking his own urine to survive. He had left his wife and young daughter back in Xela. El Norte was his ticket to things he could not have on his own in Guatemala. No obstacle seemed daunting. Less than twenty-four hours after he finally arrived in Chicago, he started working as a dishwasher for Charlie Trotter, the owner of one of the finest restaurants in the country, and a man he would later tell to f**k off when he prevented workers in the kitchen from speaking their native Spanish. He had his dignity no matter what he was doing.
Eli graced my English as a Second Language class with curious questions and an ear for language that quickly allowed him to turn words and phrases in to poetry. At an end-of-the-year party in my home, he presented a speech to classmates while standing atop a dining room chair. He had a flair, and he wasted no words.
This was my partner, friend and guide in Guatemala. Even there, he used his speech sparingly. On any given morning, without warning the night before, he would ready our plan for the day. I had to read his body language to know, “Yes, we’re leaving now to go to the farm,” or “Today we are going to visit the Mayan ruins.” At first, I wondered if I wanted to do what was announced, but in short order, his guiding words about history, culture, politics, geography, colonization, modern Guatemala, corn, or everything Maya illustrated another wonderful day.
For years we had talked about my coming to his home this time, and finally it had materialized.
Volcan de Acatenango is the third highest volcano in Central America. As the crow flies, its rim sits just a couple kilometers from the active Volcan de Fuego to its south. On my first full day in Guatemala, we took a short drive from Antigua to get a closer look at Volcan de Fuego. Nearing Fuego, an orange diamond road side read, “Vocan en Erupcion,” with the image of an erupting volcano. In June it had erupted violently killing many in the wake of its flow of ash and rock. Video from many onlookers captured the sight of a huge plume and pyroclastic flow careening down its southern slopes covering villages and roads. In November, another major eruption spewed lava and rock again. We crossed the river of destruction on the still-being-repaired road and meandered a short distance farther. Out of the car, we turned and stared up at Fuego as it rumbled again, emitting smoke and ash as if in slow motion into a cloudless sky. “It roars like a jet engine when you are on Acatenango,” Eli said.
After a 2-hour traffic jam entering Chimaltenango on Friday night, we snagged the last two rooms in the Hotel San Miguel, a spot for locals, not foreign tourists. Eli wondered if it would suit me. He’s used to pickier tourists. I laughed. For $12 it was spacious, clean, and modern– with cable TV! Our rooms were in a brand new building on the back of the property. The three story building hung on a sandy freshly cut 30-foot cliff. Our doors opened onto a 5-foot-wide concrete walkway with no railing. A night celebrating one of the honored saints of the town a little too much would lead to your last. At 8pm it was too late for a real dinner, needing to get up before dawn. Under a barren light bulb, we settled into a street stall across the street where we each had a tasty tostada. Our hostess/owner pulled away a cloth on her table to reveal a variety of toppings – guacamole, tomatoes, and cheese among others. It was a tasty treat before climbing into bed and hoping for a good night sleep. I knew Acatenango was not going to be an easy climb, but I rested with confidence, true or not, that I was ready. After 10 days in Guatemala, I had done several hikes and built up some endurance as well as the quad muscles that really only get used when moving vertically. I had spent several days in Xela acclimatizing at 7000 feet. A magical mix of idealism, hope, fantasy and that hiker’s Alzheimer’s disease led me to believe I was able. Unlike our hike up the Mayan Face, a 2,500 foot climb that we started 2 hours before sunset after a long day hiking with full packs stuffed with camping gear, we were doing Acatenango in one full day. That meant no heavy gear. Step by step is all it takes. One at a time. There is plenty of time. It’s a climb, but it’s just one foot in front of the other the whole way.
We wake at 5am and are gone by 5:30 on our way to La Soledad, the starting point of the trek less than an hour away. Just on the edge of Chimaltenango, we stop for breakfast. A woman and her daughter run a small food stall on the side of the road. They are busy making corn tortillas when we walk up. “Since 4am,” they tell us. Corn is the soul of Guatemala. It defines the rhythm and meaning of life here as it has since the Mayans began establishing their presence. The domestication and cultivation of corn probably led to the grandeur of Mayan culture as domestic agriculture did for many other great civilizations. It freed the Mayans to image and build great cities, many of which still hide under the jungles. Today, no meal is complete without corn in some form, but usually as a tortilla. In the highlands of Guatemala, corn, like all other vegetables, is planted and harvested by hand. There is no farm equipment here. None. Small plots are all managed as they have been for centuries. Manual labor, hands on the ground, forms the foundation of all farming. With it comes the desperate bond of man to the land, and especially corn. It is like the buffalo to the native North Americans. When the expanding United States exterminated the buffalo, the soul of what in meant to be a living being for native people died as well. In Guatemala, corn is still alive.
Eggs, black beans and tortillas. The breakfast of champions. And we are on our way. I am still short water for the hike, something I am vigilante about. On two separate occasions in the past I had become dehydrated, once alone in the Grand Tetons of Wyoming under a blazing and setting sun. I vowed to never compromise and always carry more than enough water. On that day in the summer of 1997, I had gotten lost hiking alone. I had missed a turn in the trail and found myself descending into a shadeless valley looking for the fork in the trail I had missed. I had already run out of water and so when I realized I had to backtrack up the valley, I was in trouble. Parched and hot, becoming desperate, I eventually made the trek up the valley, found the previously missed trail, and headed down anxiously looking for water. In time I found a creek and took no precaution as I swallowed nearly two liters before feeling sated. If Giardia was the price to pay for salvation, it was worth the cost.
We drive through clouds and drizzle until we reached La Soledad, a quiet village supported by eager Acatenango climbers. Except for the Pan American highway, which crosses through Guatemala, all other roads, and I mean all of them, are decorated with tumulos, that’s Spanish for speed bumps. They drive Eli crazy and add unneeded time to any drive, but they’ve saved lives. My stomach is a bit queasy and the tumulos don’t help, but I figure it is mostly nerves and anticipation. In Soledad, the local shop has no large water bottles. I ask again, “Grande?”, but I’m directed to a standard 750ml bottle. I buy 5. It’s a lot of water, but I’m sure I’ll need it, and if not me, someone else will. The load will lighten as we climb as the contents transfer from the bottle, to me, and out my pores to the sky. The wind is whipping and it’s cold, really cold for the first time in my 10 days here. I add a layer of Duofold under my windbreaker and toss a heavy fleece into my backpack. It will surely be colder as we climb. I tighten the laces on my boots, put on a wool hat, extend my hiking poles and with no fanfare, we head out of the parking lot, across the street and up the trail at 6:40am.
The first part of the trail climbs steeply through already-harvested corn fields on a trail pocked with multiple flights of mud stairs supported by wood branches. The trail is well-maintained and easy to follow, but the incline is endless. When the steps disappear, switchbacks appear leading higher.
In an hour, we reach the official start of the park trail at 2900 meters. There’s a nice map and small rest space along with a sign informing hikers of the rules of the trail. It isn’t until our decent 8 hours later that I notice some words at the bottom of the sign warning hikers that conditions can get cold. Words to the effect that “Your life can be at risk if you are not prepared” will take on new meaning then.
I’m belching my way up the volcano. Eli still hears me despite his failing hearing and asks me if I’m OK. “Probably something I ate this morning, but I’m fine,” I reply. I adjust the ear flaps occasionally on my hat. When I heat up, I fold the flaps over each other on top of my head. When I feel a chill, I pull them back down. The fields have given way to a lush and wet forest. Drizzle and mist reign over us, but the rain is light at most and the trail isn’t slippery. It’s cold, but I generate enough heat so only my hands feel the effects.
I’m slow and steady, much slower than Eli’s pace, but Eli tells me we are making good progress. At the next rest stop, there is a small temporary shop selling coffee, tea, hot chocolate and a few sundries. I have no appetite at all. I think it must be from the increasing altitude. I can barely finish half of the hot chocolate I order. We sit and chat with a snappy Pittsburgher by way of California who is on his decent with a heavy pack and a giant camera around his neck. All is good in the world for him. He’s on a several-month trip driving through Central America. He fits the bill of a 20 something traveler. It’s indescribable but obvious at the same time by the lilt of his voice and his matter-of-fact view of it all. He inquires to Eli about his binocular support strap and wonders if it is part of a new trend of back supporters that are all the rage on the internet. Eli seems unaware of what he is talking about. I ask him if we are about halfway. It’s been a couple hours or more. He thinks maybe we’ve climbed a third. Clearly he’s on his way down and forgotten common etiquette of supporting hikers as opposed to deflating their confidence.
The guys at the stall say there are a couple paths up to the saddle below the peak – one steeper and more direct, the other longer but more gradual. I immediately opt for Door #2. I read on some blog a couple days earlier that this was the choice to make. As we eventually continue, I feel nothing that makes me feel we’ve chosen the lesser of two evils. The path switches through cloud forest and dead pine trees, victims of something similar to the Mountain Pine Beetle that has devastated so many forests in the Rockies that I saw on our trip to Wyoming several years earlier. I drink a bit, belch some more, and still have no appetite, nothing, not even for a biscuit. I know that’s not right, but I push on. We are climbing steadily, but among the trees, it’s hard to gauge how high really. It’s slow. I share the pace with another hiker as we leapfrog each other as each of us stops to rest at a different point. Every simply constructed rest stop has a sign showing that we’ve gained another 200 or 300 meters. At nearly 3800 meters, we near the final mini-ecosystem on the mountain. At this level, the trees begin to disappear. We are above the clouds, but I don’t realize it until we round a corner and finally see the top of Acatenango. Under my feet the trail has turned to hard volcanic rock. Above me I can make out a trail that seems to lead near the top of the volcano. After four hours, the final part of the trail seems like just a matter of time. Satisfaction and relief wash over me. I’m moving slowly, but I’m moving, step by step, one step at a time, and that’s all that matters.
We reach a saddle between the peak and another lower apex and Eli assesses the route. I see only one way up on the northwest ridge but others we’ve come across seem to be headed east. We take the northwest ridge. Within steps, the trail becomes severe. Its inclination steepens and the hard-packed trail we’ve been walking is now a slippery combination of ash and tiny volcanic rock. A full step up includes a half step back down. I’m dragging. I think about the Throng La pass in Nepal almost 30 years earlier. At nearly 18,000 feet, the effect of the thinning air was severe. I had begun to count steps. 20 steps and a break. Here I try to take 15 before resting. I can do it. I stop, gasp, and give myself a minute before the next 15. It’s a slog, but I’m moving. I see Eli perched on a rock 25 meters above me, which seems a long time away. I try to keep my head down and focus on my steps. I’m convinced this is the best way to make progress. When I finally reach that large rock, Eli is gone. I’m not sure which way he’s gone, and I don’t really see a trail anymore. It’s all just rock and scree. I call for him. I’m breathing heavily now even after pausing after the 15 steps. He responds and directs my eyes significantly higher up and to my left. “You need to move left before climbing,” he yells back at me. There is no trail. I’m beat, exhausted. It’s steep. Fear. Fu***ng fear. That’s one of the reasons I’m here: to beat the fear. I have a fear of heights. The steepness of the slope adds to it. I don’t want to fall off the mountain. It can’t really happen but I don’t know that. I could fall, roll head over heels without anyway of stopping. My energy is gone. It’s harder to stand because I don’t want to fall, so I cling to the mountain. The poles are a hindrance, so I shorten them and fasten them to my pack. Eli tells me I can do it. I’m on all fours trying to make the last 30 meters or so. My bare hands scrape on the scree. My shoes are full of rocks. I’m on elbows and knees. I reach up but slide back. I’m making almost no progress. I put my head down and breathe heavily and then it’s over. My breathing calms. I sit down, back to the mountain, feet below me secured in the rocky ash. I tell Eli I’m done and it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s good. He says OK. He doesn’t push. It’s quiet. I’m not fighting. I look down. For the first time I see how high we are and where we’ve come from. The clouds are rushing out below me to reveal villages and fields and other mountains. I am way above them. Then the clouds envelop all that is below me and I am isolated. The wind whips but it’s quiet. I zip up my jacket and secure my hat. I smile at the sights. I have nothing to prove. I know my limit. I have more important things in my life. I’m 30 meters away but I’m right where I want to be. It is beautiful. I lay back and laugh a little.
Eli bounds down closer to me and pats my shoulder. “It’s fine,” I tell him. “Don’t worry about me. I’m done.” He drops his backpack next to mine, tells me he’s going to give it a shot, and he’ll be back. “Enjoy it,” I tell him. I’ll be here. And he’s off, bounding up the mountain behind me. I don’t even watch him go to see how he gets there. That’s his.
I pull out my phone. On the top of a 13,000 foot volcano, like just about everywhere else in Guatemala, I have phone service. Amazing. I return to what is more important. I pull up Luci’s number and Facetime her. My younger daughter. After one cut off connection, I reach her. I told her I would call from the top. There she is on my phone. I’m elated. “Well, here I am.” I flip the screen so she can see what I see. “Oh, my god!” I hear. “Well honey. I made it within a few meters of the top, but I just didn’t have it in me, so I’m sitting here on the side of the volcano enjoying this amazing view.” It’s a joy to see her face, and speak to her, and share the moment. She sounds as in awe as I am of the vista. I recount a bit of where I am and why and then ask mundane questions about her flight home later and her last two final exams. It seems out of place but perfectly placed. We say goodbye. I repeat the same with Ceci and Julian. I only care about sharing this moment with the three of them, to be as close as I can.
I sit. I’m not cold. I adjust to the height. I’m not going to fall. I wedge myself into the volcano, butt down, like digging into beach sand. I watch and I wait. I see no one. I’m alone. It’s perfect. I put on my gloves and relax.
Maybe 40 minutes pass before Eli reappears. Of course he made it to the top and had a miraculous view down at Volcan de Fuego and an eruption. I reassure him that It’s fine that I didn’t make it. In time, I stand and with Eli’s instruction, we bound down the volcano sideways while standing vertically, leaping and sliding, our shoes filling with more rocks. It’s work but gravity is on our side now. When we finally reach the saddle, we sit, take off our shoes, and free them of the scree. Once we are laced up, we begin the long descent.
We stop a few times on the way down, including at the tea stall, where Eli chats up the proprietors. Hikers falsely tell you that the long descent is the hardest part, holding back your weight with your thighs. The last pain is always the biggest.
It’s nearly 90 minutes before we reach the official entrance sign again, where we stop for a long pause. I read that sign and it’s warning about preparation – the part about the risk to life.
We are sitting and Eli tells me two stories.
“So these guys at the tea shop said we climbed the damned trail,” he utters.
“I know,” I say.
“No, the last part of trail we took up the volcano is called The Damned Trail. The one everyone else took to the left is the Blessed Trail.”
I lighten. Despite my satisfaction at calling it quits close to the summit, I’m given another out.
“Sh*t,” I reply.
He also tells me a story that is best saved for after a hike. There is now a shelter at the summit of Acatenango – a plastic hut with basic gear – sleeping bags and more. It was last January, 2017 when six Guatemalans died of Hypothermia on the summit. Arriving at night, they were unprepared for the chilling cold that blew in that night. Some tried to descend in the dark and got lost.
An hour later we are at the van. It’s 4pm – 9 hours later. I’m exhausted, totally spent, and unable to eat. I force myself to drink more to prevent dehydrating. I’m weak. We unlace our shoes, toss off our packs and sit.
Eli pops into the driver’s seat and he’s ready to go, unfazed by any sense of depletion.
It’s less than an hour to Antigua, where we’ll spend the last night before I return to Chicago, where I’ll soon learn I had picked up a parasite in Guatemala, the one which was eating me from the inside up Acatenango.
On the drive, I wonder about the climb. I have no regrets, but still I wonder what kept me from the top. Was it the tostada I ate the night before or maybe the refried black beans at 5:30am? Maybe it was just the altitude, my lack of strength or my 55 years. Perhaps I didn’t have the mental toughness or the drive of youth. Hadn’t I hiked enough or worn the right shoes? The weight of all that water I carried to prevent dehydration. The extra layers of fleece or Duofold I had thrown in my back, my old hiking boots. The Damned Trail. Next time it will be easier.
