View en route to the top Photo by Diana Reid

Are we trusting souls, or naive beyond a doubt?

This is the question we ask ourselves as we pile into the ferry (well, really it's just a small diesel-powered motorboat, designed to hold approximately 16 people but usually carrying at least 25) to return from San Pedro Laguna to our hotel on the other side of Lake Atitlan. We have just paid a local man 40 Quetzales as a deposit for his services as a guide to accompany us to the summit up the San Pedro Volcano (elevation 9875'), located on the southwest shore of Guatemala's Lago de Atitlan. As city-bred and skeptical Americans, we are dubious that Mario will actually meet us at the dock at 7:00am tomorrow as promised. While it's only around US $5 we stand to lose if he does not as we are eager to hike the strikingly green, majestic volcano we've been eyeing from afar for days.

Returning at dawn the next morning, after another tightly-packed "get to know your neighbors" boat ride across Atitlan's calm, sun-dappled blue waters, we find "Super Mario"-as he calls himself (this 20-year old is quite a character)-enjoying his breakfast in the cafe near the dock. "Buenos dias amigos!" he calls cheerfully. "No soy un bandito," (I am not a bandit) he chides with a mischievous glint in his eyes, after seeing us looking about for him, slightly worriedly, upon debarking the boat. With some mild relief, we join him for coffee and a pre-hike chat.

It may be helpful, at this point, to mention that my hiking partner and I are visiting Guatemala for six to eight weeks to study Spanish at one of the country's many immersive language schools. However, we have not yet commenced our studies, deciding instead to take the first few days of our trip to relax and enjoy the western highlands of Guatemala, and soak up some sun. (The fact that this is the rainy season in most of Central America seems an obvious blunder on our part, but that's another story altogether). Hence, we are relying on a few semesters of high school Spanish from years well past-and a lot of wild gesturing-to communicate. As such, conversations between us and Mario are quite humorous and often not altogether coherent. Despite the language barrier, it is immediately clear to us that this is going to be a adventure like no other we've experienced.

"...somehow it had not entirely sunk in that the importance of a hiking guide in Guatemala is more about physical protection than route assistance..."

"I think there will probably be no bandits on the mountain today, but you never know," says Mario, as he picks up a very large and very sharp machete and motions for us to follow him out of the cafe. We look at each other, wide-eyed, and quickly obey. We had been warned not to trek alone in the remote areas of Guatemala, and to hire a guide to accompany us on any hiking excursions, due to recent violent attacks against tourists and somewhat shaky levels of political stability. Still, somehow it had not entirely sunk in that the importance of a hiking guide in Guatemala is more about physical protection than route assistance-until this very moment.

We follow Mario through the crumbling cobblestone streets of San Pedro (4900'), crowded with locals buying and selling fruits, fish, vegetables and housewares at the morning market. As we pass by, Mario chats with several people in his native Mayan tongue, saying God knows what, as we smile dumbly-gringos for sure.

Leaving the small village we begin to trek upwards, along muddy dirt roads and narrow paths directly abutting small hillside homes. Smoke from morning cooking fires lingers over the crudely constructed wood and plaster houses tucked high above the lake, and freshly-washed laundry hangs to dry between the trees. It feels almost voyeuristic to be walking so closely to others' living space, but Mario seems to take no notice and the locals we pass wish us a hearty good morning and "Buen viaje!" (good voyage, or to travel well), and go on about their day.

Beyond the homes now, the trail changes from one of tremendous natural beauty to one of deep environmental despair. Amidst the patiently cared for groves of avocado trees and crops of coffee and corn lies a tremendous amount of absently-tossed trash. We pass the town garbage dump, fetid and black with flies, and appreciate how lucky we are to live in a country that staunchly protects and nurtures (and is economically able to) its many parks, mountains and national treasures.

Continuing upwards (and struggling to match Mario's native altitude-acclimatized pace) the path erratically alters its personality; first a gently meandering path traversing the hill then turning (just when you've relaxed and caught your breath) sharply and precipitously straight up the mountain. Walking in between rows of corn still wet with morning dew, we can't help but wonder how many Mayans have climbed this trail over the centuries, and are in awe of how high the crops are planted and tended. Still, somewhere around 8,000' the corn, coffee and avocados take their leave, wisely remaining at the oxygen-rich lower altitudes.

From that point on we are climbing through a thick, moist, nearly fluorescently green jungle; shaded from the sun, the trail slick with mud. We scramble over tree roots and vines, struggling to keep our balance, as the backdrop shifts from one of agricultural abundance to one straight out of Disney's "The Jungle Book." As if to affirm that notion, as we round the next bend we find Mario swinging from a vine out over the steep hillside, laughing with glee. My hiking partner jumps on and I document the scene with photos for posterity, if not hilarity.

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