View of Santiago from the summit Photo by Diana Reid

As we near the summit, the trail again increases in gradient, and our breathing becomes ever more labored. Having done most of my previous mountaineering well above or below the equator, it is a bit bizarre to find myself kick-stepping deep foot holes into mud, rather than ice or snow, to stabilize myself. The humidity has us soaked to the core. And again the trail toys with us, giving us a sloppy, mud-soaked purchase for a time, and then offering oh-so-civilized wooden steps (complete with rope railings) carefully laid into the hillside, as if a small reward for our persistence.

After three hours we reach the top, just as another group of hikers (gratefully, not banditos!) is beginning to make its way down. We exchange hellos and turn to revel in the sweeping views. From our perch high atop Volcan San Pedro we can see the small town of Panajachel where we've made our temporary home the past few days; the sleepy village of Santiago de Atitlan, one of the few remaining deeply Mayan pueblos in the region; and nearly across the entire length of this grand (7.5 x 11 miles), azure lake. The crater of the volcano (no longer active, though several in Guatemala are) is partially obstructed from view, and we crane our necks to look deep into the jungle-covered summit.

Our arrival time at the top is extremely fortuitous, as within minutes the characteristic daily cloud cover of the rainy season rolls in, completely obfuscating our view, and leaving us alone in a quiet mountaintop cocoon. We enjoy some lunch and the cool air, and then begin our decent.

"I spend a great deal of time sliding downhill on my backside at frightening speeds, cursing..."

Somehow the return journey is both more and less pleasant than our ascent. While our lungs gratefully take in the oxygen-infused air, the slippery hillside we kicked into to climb up is now a muddy version of an Olympic luge course. Accordingly, I spend a great deal of time sliding downhill on my backside at frightening speeds, cursing, while Mario laughs and calls out, "Baila, baila, baila!" (Dance, dance, dance!), as I scramble to pick myself up again. He is a charming and knowledgeable companion; attentive and helpful-albeit prone to gently mocking us gringos quite often.

Continuing on, we note several disturbing occurrences. The first being a group of hikers on their way up, three of whom are dressed in full cycling garb and carrying mountain bikes. We had felt pretty accomplished having summited the volcano in only three hours (our guidebook predicted four to seven hours), but now feel downright slothful. Mario promptly dubs the cyclists muy loco, or very crazy, but damn, what a phenomenal downhill! The second eye-opening sight is several armed (with AK-47 rifles) policemen, escorting groups of hikers up the mountain. In our fun with Mario, we'd nearly forgotten the grave hazards ever-present on Volcan San Pedro. We hike in silence, a bit nervous again, and grateful for our safety thus far.

Returning to San Pedro, Mario winds his way through a maze of streets, while we dutifully follow, suddenly unsure of our location or destination. After several minutes we stop outside a house and Mario introduces us to his grandmother. We say hello in Spanish and continue on. Next, Mario invites us into a house, his home, where we meet his mother and sisters who are busily making tortillas for the family's evening meal. They immediately ask us to make ourselves comfortable, and offer us freshly baked tortillas with salt, fruit straight off the vine, and coffee direct from the mountain; beans roasted over their kitchen fires. We sit, stunned by the overwhelming graciousness of their hospitality and slightly embarrassed by our own dirty and ragged appearance. It is evident that Mario and his family are proud to host us and we are not merely just a day's few dollars.

After finishing our unexpected and delicious repast, meeting Oscar the family dog, and chatting with Mama, Mario walks us back to the ferry where we say our goodbyes. We are tired, elated, and staggered by the entire experience. We had expected a simple climb, and instead received something much more powerful and stirring than we could have possibly anticipated.

Folding ourselves exhaustedly into the boat, a single thought comes to mind... Naive? Never.

By Diana L. Reid