The Hike up the Volcano Pacaya

Jan. 17: First, the bus I was originally going to take was full. Then the next bus was almost an hour late. Whatever, I´m patient. An older French couple, an even older British couple, a young American couple, and a thrirty-something S. African woman and I pack into the bus and leave. Little kids holding bundles of walking sticks greet us at the trail head to the top of the volcano. None of us buy one. Our mistake. The trail is initially pleasant, though steep, with pleasant views of Guatemala City and the volcanos Fuego and Agua far off. The topography of the mountain reminds me of parts of northern California wine country. After a couple miles we appear to depart from the main trail and clomp through denser forest. With our late departure in mind, I ask our guide, a youngish local, if the setting sun will be an issue for our descent. He smiles sheepishly and puts a finger to his lips. He was hoping no one would ask that.

"You have light?" he asks.

No, I sure don´t. The sheepish smile returns

With the sun touching the horizon, the trees finally open up to the base of the cone. It´s Mount fucking Doom. It´s all loose, black rock with some vague, very vage, suggestion of a trail. A vast majority of the people descending "trail" have sticks and utilize them liberally. Micro-landslides displace us and the sky darkens. It´s all so moody. As a group, we only as fast as the slowest person, and the British guy is struggling to the point that I´m both worried for him and annoyed at him. I want to reach the top it´s too dark to photograph the view. Alas, we´re too late and, even worse, the lava I wanted to photograph is all hardened.

Already exhausted with hands shredded from the volcanic rock, we descend. The older couples are audibly worried and frustrated, but I´m actually kind of excited for the trek back. Returning to the tree line, it begins to feel like we´re refugees escaping our repressive country through a secret mountain pass. Then I remember I´m in Guatemala and realize the locals might not share my naive appreciation for danger. And there´s also the fact we´re the last turist group to be leaving the park and there´s banditos to consider. The French couple get separated and lost for a short while, but we´re reunited and geet out safe and sound.

Back at The Black Cat, I eat a quick dinner, shower, then pass out.