The sky was a bright blue, and the air already felt crisp and cool in the small village of La Soledad, about 2800 feet higher than Antigua.
Acatenango loomed in front of me. For the next six hours, I would climb 5200 feet up the side of Guatemala’s third tallest volcano to reach its peak at 13,044 feet.
“The first hour is the hardest in my opinion,” said Pepian, one of our guides. “The path is steep and the ground is soft.”
“If you dig your toes into the side of the volcano, you are less likely to slip down as you climb up,” explained Sebastian, another guide.
I felt anxious about the hike.
My sleeping pad and sleeping bag were bigger than my 35 liter backpack, and as I struggled to fit it all in, a nice Canadian couple lent me a couple of straps. One crisis had been averted, but I was still frazzled. Perhaps a walk in the woods would settle my nerves.
I climbed through farmer’s fields, kicking up clouds of dust as I struggled through the soft, dry soil.
I climbed through a tropical cloud forest, passing by ancient trees covered in beautiful moss.
I climbed through a tropical dry forest, glimpsing the dead trees through thick fog.
I climbed slowly, one step at a time, stopping every so often to catch my breath. The altitude and the steep path surprised my lungs, and I stopped more often than I had anticipated. Yet, the long walk made me feel exhilarated and happy.
At about halfway up, our group of a dozen people stopped for lunch, prepared by our guides. I was happy to see fresh vegetables and plenty of guacamole.
A bunch of local men helped carry food and other supplies up the volcano. They didn’t have backpacks; instead, they put crates of food and supplies in a large net with a strap and carried the heavy loads dangling on their backs with the strap around their foreheads. Apparently, they can make our same trek in just two hours. No fancy hiking shoes either; they simply wore rain boots. Amazing.
Our campsite was located between the two peaks of Acatenango, where we had a fantastic view of the neighboring volcano Fuego. As the sun dipped below the horizon, more clouds rolled in. The wind picked up, an occasional drizzle fell, and the temperature dropped. It was miserable weather. The bright full moon was even shadowed by the mist, creating a dark and dreary night.
I huddled with our group next to the fire, trying to stay warm. I shoveled food into my mouth without tasting it in order to climb into my warm sleeping bag sooner.
Nothing protected our tent from the wind and the drizzle. The wind whipped through us, pressing the rain fly against the sides of the tent, incrementally soaking everything. It took me many hours to learn not to wake up with each violent gust of wind.
I awoke in the morning to our campsite still encased in a cloud. With the vistas in a cloud, our guides decided that we would not hike up to the summit of Acatenango. After two good meals, breakfast failed to deliver. I was cold, hungry, and disappointed about the weather as we began walking down.
The three-hour walk down Acatenango was the most difficult hike I have ever experienced.
My knees hurt. My quads hurt. The drizzle made the steep path slick. The nice Canadian couple offered me one of their trekking poles. I fell so far behind everyone it felt like I was walking down the mountain alone. I was miserable.
As tears dripped down my face, I remembered an article about meditation I had read recently. Specifically, I remembered:
A meditation “practice always involves seeing our edge and taking a small step beyond it into the unknown.”
I was at my edge. Now what?
I took a step. I took another step. With every step I observed myself. My legs were shaking, but they were still carrying me down the hill. I was feeling vulnerable, yet I reminded myself that admitting vulnerability requires a lot of strength and courage.
I saw a farmer playing with his dog in the field. I saw calla lilies lining my path. I smiled. I took a deep breath. I took another step.
When I finally made it back to the van, I wanted to burst into tears again. Not tears of frustration or sadness, but tears of joy, of accomplishment, of courage.
I may not have climbed to the summit of Acatenango, but I didn’t need to. I learned that I’m stronger than I give myself credit for. I learned that the expectations I have for myself are not realistic and make me miserable. I learned that everything I need in order to be happy is inside me.
I learned that I have no desire to climb another volcano.
Just 24 hours after my descent, Fuego erupted, covering Antigua, Guatemala City, and countless villages in a coat of volcanic ash that scratched my eyes and lungs. Several tour groups were hiking Acatenango when it happened. The descent for those tour groups must have been nearly impossible.
I climbed Acatenango because of the chance for a good view of Guatemala. I ended up getting a good view of myself instead.