The Acatenango (AcateNausea) Death March

Before I came back down to Antigua, Corinne, the volunteer coordinator for Nuestros Ahijados and one of the wonderful people I've become friends with down here, asked if I would be interested in hiking Acatenango with her. Not exactly familiar with the height and challenge posed by Acatenango, the third highest (of about 34) volcano in Guatemala, I readily agreed. A hiking adventure! What fun!

Well, it turns out that Acatenango is 13,041 feet high. For reference, consider: Mount Washington, the highest peak in the northeastern US, is 6,288 feet high. Mount Rainier, in the Cascades in Washington state, stands 14,417 feet high. Anyone who has driven their car up Mount Washington and purchased one of those "This car climbed Mt. Washington" bumper stickers can attest to the incredible force of the wind at 6,288 feet above sea level. I don't know anyone who has climbed Mount Rainier, but I can only imagine they'd attest to something similar.

After searching around for the most economical journey up the volcano, Corinne found an agency that offered a guide, tents, sleeping bags, and an overnight camping trip atop Acatenango for the mere price of $40- a far cry less than the $90 quoted by all of the other agencies. The hike was slated to take about 6-8 hours by all estimates, and would involve a whole lot of uphill climbing. Some water and snacks would be provided, but we would need to bring our meals and enough water for the full climb.

All week long, we joked about the preparations we should take. We envisioned ourselves filling our backpacks with books and jogging up and down the stairs of the offices at Nuestros Ahijados. We pondered sleeping outside to begin preparing for the cold night on the mountain. We contemplated sleeping, all six of us, in one tiny bed, to prepare for what would be a cozy night together in a tiny tent.

In the midst of all the joking, we forgot to do the thing we probably should have done all week long: actually prepare for our hike.

Friday night, Corinne and I sat side-by-side on our laptops, googling things like "Acatenango hike," "tips to avoid dehydration," and "altitude sickness." In our Google travels, we learned several things: 1) we would be very cold. 2) Gangs of roving bandits sometimes ambushed and robbed groups of hikers on  their way up Acatenango. Several groups, with armed guards, had been robbed, shot at, and one woman had been sexually assaulted. 3) It was going to be a VERY HARD HIKE. 4) We would pass through farmland, a cloud forest, an alpine forest, and finally, the volcanic sand that would let us know we were nearing the crater.

As we sat eating our pasta (carb load!), drinking our two-liter bottles of water, and discussing our anxieties, we decided that the fear that was setting in was probably far greater than the actual risks involved. After reading through the warnings and reports of robberies, we realized that if a gang of bandits wanted to attack us, having an armed guard wasn't going to stop them. It was just going to end with an armed guard being shot. We did not have an armed guard, and thus decided no one was likely to get shot. Charlie expressed a concern about the fact that we were hiking three blonde American girls up a mountain. We tried to be optimistic.

We went to bed excited, nervous, and very full. After a fitful night's sleep and the usual hustle and bustle expected on such a busy morning, we were in the van and on our way... so we thought. The van, filled with Corinne, Charlie, Luke, Ray, Megan, Andrea and myself, stopped at the travel agency and picked up three more hikers. To my delight, they were all male. We now had a ratio, including guides, of eight men to four women. Surely, that would deter any potential sexual assaulters!

As we drove into the hills surrounding Antigua, the countryside got a lot more real. With every passing minute, we were out of the hustle, bustle, and false colonial prosperity of downtown Antigua, and into the "real" Guatemala. The van bumped and jostled over the dusty roads, and trucks careened around corners, horns blaring, as we lurched off to the side. The Belgian guys who would be joining our hike seemed nice, and half of the van fell asleep enroute to the volcano. I was not one of them. True to form, I sat in the backseat, silently worrying myself into a tizzy. How on earth was I going to make it up a 13,041 foot volcano when I could barely climb a flight of stairs without getting winded? What had I gotten myself into? I was surely going to be the weakest link. What if I had to call it a day and ruin the group's hike? What if I collapsed? What if I cried?

We arrived at the base of Acatenango at 11:00am, and were hiking up the first phase, farmland, by 11:30. I reckon it was about 11:36 when I thought for the first time, "No way in hell am I going to make it to the top of this volcano." At about 11:40, I began to think in strings of expletives. By 11:45, I was wondering why on earth I had agreed to do something so difficult on what was more or less, in most people's eyes, a "vacation." By the time we reached the cloud forest at noon, I was resigned to the fact that this might just be the most miserable day of my life.

As the day wore on, I (and the rest of the group) began to adjust to the challenges ahead. We were in it and we weren't giving up, no matter how badly we may have wanted to in our own heads (ahem, my head). The cloud forest was a breathtakingly beautiful challenge. The "trails" we hiked up were barely trails; the guide went ahead of us and hacked branches out of the way and steps into the ground with his machete. The walking sticks Charlie had sharpened for us with his machete were crucial to this part of the hike (and the rest of it, actually). It seemed like every other step, the loose ground gave way underneath our feet. Every few minutes, someone could be heard slipping and sliding a few inches (or a few feet) down. When we paused for our periodic breaks and actually looked around, the scenery was incredible. We were surrounded by a lush forest filled with bamboo, tiny flowers, and leaves as big as the palm of my hand. After the two hours of uphill jungle struggle the guide had warned us about, we reached a clearing.

On to the alpine forest! We trudged up a sandy, dusty hill, looking out upon a wide expanse of trees, grass, and low-growing shrubs. The vegetation was more sparse and we were able to look around us and see how high we had come, despite the clouds that hovered around us for much of the day. The ground was flatter and the terrain a bit more steady, but the loose dirt and steady 40 degree incline posed its own challenge. The early afternoon sunlight hit us hard and we were thankful for the breeze that blew all afternoon. As we hiked higher and higher, the trees became thinner and thinner and the vegetation less plentiful. The air was drier, the breeze was cooler, and the effort to breathe became a bit more evident.

As we neared our last real "resting place" before base camp, I heard music being carried on the wind. After some confusion and a few questions to our (absolutely delightful) guide Miguel, we learned that sometimes people from the towns nearby will drive up the volcano, lug speakers even higher, and have parties at the base of the crater. Several things struck me about this: 1) How many Guatemalans must watch us gringos trudging up this impossibly high volcano, and think, "Crazy gringos. Do they even know you can drive up most of it?", and 2) We paid $40 and devoted an entire weekend to doing something that they do for a few hours of fun on a Saturday afternoon.

As we rested, we saw a pickup truck parked nearby. To our amusement, we saw a Guatemalan lugging a large table down the hill on his back. As we joked about the furniture store on the top of Acatenango (as Luke put it, "location, location, location!"), we then saw several Guatemalans lugging massive stereo speakers down the steep hill. It was unclear where they were coming from. They appeared at the top of a ridge, and moved slowly down the hill towards the truck. It reminded me (in a FAR more impressive way) of the parties Apponequet students used to throw at the cranberry bogs. I guess it's true the world over- where there are kids wanting to party and an open, empty, secluded place to do it, you can bet the two will come together in the name of fun.

The last push up the volcano was hell. We trudged up a steep hill of black, gravelly sand. It truly was two steps forward, sliiiiide one step back, two steps forward, sliiiiide one step back. The wind picked up. Our patience was wearing thin, but we were so close to the top! We finally reached base camp around 4:30. The ground leveled off into a plateau, covered in clumps of thick pale grass. The crater loomed ahead of us, but our guide determined that due to the strong winds and the cloud cover, it would be wisest to camp at the base for the night and head up to the crater for the sunrise in the morning.

Several of our group members decided to follow the other tour group that had gone up to the crater to watch the sun set. As clouds whipped by us, we began to scale the ridge that led to the crater. The ground was gravelly and sandy, the wind was powerful, and the space in which we could safely walk got narrower and narrower. The clouds prevented us from seeing how close we were to the crater, but not the incredible distance we would fall if we slid on the sand beneath our feet. To the left, a steep cliff of black sand; to the right, jagged volcanic rocks that would kill us long before we hit the ground below. I began to get scared. And by scared, I mean terrified. My breath was harder and harder to find, and the panic set in further. After a few dizzy, lightheaded moments, I decided to head back down the ridge with Ali (one of the Belgians, who was fed up with sliding around in his Converse high-top-like shoes) and wait until the morning to see the crater.

We settled in around the fire for a short night of crappy instant coffee and sing-alongs. Luke, always happy to provide musical entertainment, played a medley of classic songs including Oasis "Wonderwall," Third Eye Blind's "Jumper," Jack Johnson and the like. Singing along with Luke's accompaniment is no easy feat, as he seems to blend the notes of every song until they become one generic, somewhat identifiable acoustic ballad. Identifiable only by the lyrics that he gets right, rather than the tune. We enjoyed our music nonetheless.

Around 7:30, it seemed like a good time to turn in. Corinne, Charlie, Megan, Andrea and I crowded into our tent and left the rest of the boys to the campfire and their own tent. To say that it was cold up there would be an understatement. As the sun set, the warmth that was keeping me comfortable despite the wind disappeared and was replaced by a damp chill. With two pairs of socks, pants, gloves, and a number of shirts, I wasn't terribly cold, but I was beginning to feel sick. After a few hours sitting by the fire with my head over my knees, I felt well enough to lay back down. I was the only one that slept at all. Unfortunately, this wasn't enough to ward off whatever was brewing in me that night.

I awoke with a start at 4:30am to Andrea telling me it was time to get up. I got up, pulled on my shoes, and got ready to begin the hike up. I scrambled out of the tent and followed the first group of hikers up. After about fifty yards, the nausea got worse, the freezing wind whipped at my face, and the air got thinner. I scrambled back down to the group of Belgians still at the campfire. Much to my chagrin, they too were going up. I decided if everyone else was going, then damnit, I would too.

It was back up the scary, treacherous volcanic ridge. The sun began to rise to our left, and the lights of the cities down below came into view. Thank goodness the view was so incredible, or I might not have made the hike up. After fighting my way up the sandy ridge, I reached the top in time to watch the sun rise over Volcan Agua. As the wind battered and tore at me, I sat and watched Volcan Fuego, the active volcano overlooking Antigua and now directly in front of me, emit puffs of smoke. It was incredible. The hellish hike to the ridge had been worth it.

It was shortly after that that I began to lose it. The nausea hit harder. I began feeling my throat retch and my body ready itself to vomit. The air was thing and I couldn't catch me breath. My fingers and toes were numb and walking was more of a challenge. I began to get lightheaded. I began to panic about how the hell I was going to maneuver my way down the ridge with numb fingers and toes, near fainting, and sick. As I stood there, completely overwhelmed, one of the kind Belgians saw my distress and suggested I sit down. I sat. And suddenly I was done. I had had it. I was over it. My stomach was in a vice grip, my head was pounding and light, my fingers and toes didn't exist, and my mind was spinning out of control.

Thanks to Charlie's calm assurances, I made my way back down the ridge, spilling a few tears along the way. As I sat in front of the campfire and the blood began to return to my fingers they ached and burned with that terrible sensation that says, "you have come dangerously close to frostbite conditions." I put my head over my knees, tried desperately to warm my fingers, and watched the tears fall onto my pants. I wanted nothing more than to throw up and get whatever was brewing in my stomach OUT. I wanted to be back down at the bottom of the volcano, on my way back to Corinne and Charlie's, and near a warm bed where I could lay and rest in and a toilet I could throw up in.

Somehow, I made it back down the volcano, all the way to the base, without crying again. I kept the complaints to a minimum, if only because it hurt my stomach to talk. The hike down was a different kind of torture than the hike up. I wanted so badly to share in the excited relief and exhaustion that everyone else was buzzing with, but I just felt absolutely awful.

As we descended lower and lower, I began to feel better, and began to think that perhaps it had just been altitude sickness. The panic I had been feeling at the similarities to what I had been feeling and the way I had felt during my horrible bout of ambulance/ER necessitating gastroenteritis in November faded away, and I perked up a bit. After navigating (aka slipping, sliding, and careening) our way down through the alpine forest, the cloud forest, and the farmland, we were finally back at the bottom.

It wasn't until I woke up from my nap in the van and arrived in Manchen (the neighborhood in which Corinne and Charlie live) that I began to feel sick again. By the time Sunday night rolled around, I had vomited several times and already ascertained with Charlie that there was a 24-hour emergency hospital nearby should it come to that. After a few vomit-free hours, some Gatorade, and a cup of Ramen kindly prepared by Corinne, I was able to relax again. I was going to be okay.

As the nausea has worn off, I have rehydrated, and am now sitting at Luna de Miel eating crepes and drinking licuados, I can feel the pride and awe at my own accomplishment. I made it up a 13,041 foot high volcano. I hiked 8,000 feet in five hours. I stood at the tippity-top of a volcano, watched an active volcano puff smoke, and watched the sun rise over Guatemala.

It may not have been pretty. It may not have been graceful! But it happened. And I am proud.