Amy Allcock

I wrote the following tale back in 2001 after an adventurous climb up the active Volcano Pacaya in Guatemala. At the time I had hoped to get the story published but instead I filed it and forgot about it. Now that I have very my own publishing medium I thought that it was about time to share the story. This titillating tale is also a hint of things to come, as in a week from now I will be embarking on a much more demanding (but hopefully safer) trek to Machu Picchu in Peru. So, without further ado…

I’ve always wanted to climb a volcano and studying Spanish in the charming town of Antigua, Guatemala provided me with the perfect opportunity. A trip to the nearby active Volcano Pacaya seemed like a great way to pass the afternoon as well as a nice break from Spanish lessons. Before committing to hiking the volcano, I sought out two pieces of advice. The first came from a Travel Report published by the Canadian Government, which warned of both the dangers of getting there and back, as well as the hike itself. It spoke of unsafe vehicles often operated by irresponsible drivers, and criminals who may target tourist buses on route to the volcano. Once there, it warned of the possibility of robbery, violent assaults, and rape by bandits who prey on hikers making the ascent. The second piece of advice came from a classmate at my Spanish school who had hiked the volcano a few days before. His only piece of advice: “It will make a great story”.

Eager for a great story to tell, and perhaps a bit too eager to brush of the warnings from my home country, I made the decision to go for it. I set of with Michael, the only soul brave enough from my Spanish school to join me, to sign up for the hike. Antigua is full of tour operators, some more reputable than others, so we decided to go with the tour that our classmate had recommended. After paying a mere $15 US, we were told to return the next day at 1:00 p.m. to begin our adventure.

The adventure began by piling as many of us foreign adventure seekers as possible into a run-down Mazda van that had seen more years than myself. Packed in like sardines, with twice as many people as there were seatbelts, we began our ride together quietly, leaving Antigua and heading south towards Pacaya. About 20 minutes into the ride as we approached the crest of a hill, the van stalled. The driver tried repeatedly to start the van, only to cause a medley of weird sounds to come from the engine. After a several more false starts and a few inspections under the hood of the van, we were on our way again. A concerned hiker with an adequate grasp of Spanish asked the driver what the problem was, and the driver responded that on top of a tendency to stall, the brakes on the van were not exactly reliable. The driver also mentioned that because of the brakes, he would have to drive slower down the hills, and the trip would take twice as long.

After hearing all of this, I began to wonder if going on this trip was such a great idea and we hadn’t even reached the volcano yet. Visions of the breaks going and us rolling down the hill, van in flames, ran through my mind, as well as us being robbed by a group of bandits the next time we had to pull over. I began to wonder if I would be the subject of a newspaper article about a tragic accident involving a group of travelers. I looked at the people around me and wondered if they would be who I spent my last moments with. I thought of the travel report, and wondered why I didn’t listen. I could tell by the expression on other people’s faces that I wasn’t the only person having serious doubts.

After a bumpy ride up muddy roads, we finally made it to the base camp, where we were greeted with much rain and no sight of it passing. Looking around, nothing but gray clouds could be seen above us and below us, and even the peak that we were supposed to climb was shrouded by the clouds. We began our ascent in the pouring rain, and I knew I was in for a cold and wet hike.

The first half of the hike was through the forest. The path was covered in roots and volcanic rock, which seem to have made their way down from the peak. There wasn’t much time to look around at the lush forest surrounding us, as every moment was spent planning your next step between the roots and rocks. Asides from the trees and bushes that lined the path, there wasn’t much to see as clouds surrounded us. We hiked at a fair pace, a pace which was reasonable for an out of shape smoker such as myself.

After about an hour and a half, we emerged from the forest to a flat black plain of volcanic rock and sand. Soon, the plain began to elevate, and we found ourselves moving upwards again, leaving the green shrubs behind us and moving towards the great expanse of black sand and rock. Looking around, all that could be seen was the black sand which we stood, and gray clouds all around us. Looking down at the sides of our narrow path, all that could be seen was cloud, and I had no idea how far up we were or what was below us. As the slope increased, so did the difficulty of the hike. The volcanic sand, wet from the rain, moved easily from under our feet. Each step forward felt like two steps backwards. Every few minutes, the active volcano would burp a gust of sulfuric gas, sending us all into a hacking fit.

We paused about 3 minutes from the rim, as the guide pondering if we should go on due to the poor visibility and the increasing gusts of gas. Not only we’re we having trouble seeing and breathing, but with the increased altitude, the temperature had dropped, and felt even cooler as we were all soaked to the bone. The guide asked for a show of hands for those who wanted to go on to the rim. Cold, wet, and tired, I was absolutely miserable, and couldn’t wait to get back to the comforts that awaited me in Antigua. But, I wasn’t about to let a bit of discomfort get in the way of achieving my goal. A few of us raised our hands, while those who had been defeated by the conditions sat behind. We trekked on to the rim, enduring the slippery sand, rough rock, and bouts of gas.

The rim looked like a cliff, with smoke and gas spewing from it. The guide, who stood at the edge of the crater, pointed down towards the red lava that was bubbling below us. I went to join him and the other hikers to catch a glimpse of the depths of the volcano, when a huge gust of the gas was belched from the crater. We all began to cough madly, grasping for air only to inhale more sulfuric gas. The gust of gas continued, and it became increasing harder to breathe. As I coughed, gasping for air under my rain jacket, I feared for my life the second time that day. I looked around and realized that there was nowhere to go - a steep hill populated with sharp volcanic rock was between us and breathable air. We were at the mercy of the volcano. Fortunately for us, the bursts of gas stopped after several minutes, and we were free to breathe again.

We began to make our descent, which proved to be more difficult that one would expect. The sand which had struggled with on the way up, had been loosened by our efforts, and was impossible to grip on the way down. I slid down the side of the volcano with limited control of my speed or direction, up to my knees in the sand and sharp volcanic rock. Recalling my training as skier, I made my way down the slope in a giant S, in order to slow myself down and exert some control. On the way, I passed those who struggled, several who had been brought to tears by the difficulty and frustration of the task.

Upon reaching the plain, we had a chance to put on our dry clothes and relax. Unfortunately for me, the rain had soaked through my bag, so I was forced to spend the rest of the day in cold damp clothing. By this time, the clouds had cleared, and we had a chance to see the top of the volcano we had just conquered as well as the valley below. The descent gave us more time to look around, and we were treated to a view of the surrounding volcanoes highlighted by the setting sun. I spent the descent speaking with one of the guides, who pulled me aside to share one of the secrets of the volcano. He pointed behind us, at the peak of the volcano that was glowing red.

When we made it back to the van, I felt relieved and proud. The ride back was much less stressful that the ride to the volcano, perhaps because I was too exhausted to care. I was glad to make it back to Antigua and enjoy the comforts of a hot shower and a warm meal. Would I do it again? You bet. What advice would I give? It will make for a great story, provided you make it there and back.