Meeting the Mountain

My best friend and I met each other’s gaze, tears gathering in our eyes as our bodies shook beneath our drenched clothes, both of us quietly reckoning with the choices that had led us to this exact moment on the mountain.

We were in the midst of climbing Volcán de Fuego in Guatemala.

Months earlier, we had been dreaming of our first backpacking trip abroad, falling down the rabbit hole of Central America travel content and increasingly seeing hype around this wild, punishing hike up Mount Acatenango to watch Fuego erupt. You know how it goes—one Google search, one offhand mention on a phone call, and suddenly your entire feed becomes a shrine to packing lists, itineraries, and reels of very convincing travel influencers sharing “what you should know before going.” The algorithm worked its magic on us, and we were easily sold.

Neither of us had much experience traveling like this, though I’d been flirting with the idea of digital nomad life for years. This trip felt like a small bite of that dream. We planned very little beyond plane tickets, hostel bookings, and—most importantly—the looming hike. We floated through the itinerary with only a loose sense of what each little village offered. As a recovering Type A, this felt like quite the achievement.

Calm Before the Storm (Literally)

My introduction to the country was chaotic from the start. I landed a little before midnight, and the first thing I did after landing was go to the bathroom. Just as I began my hover, I blinked and was in total darkness. I waited for a scream, an alarm, even a gasp, but everyone carried on as if nothing had happened. No flinch. No reaction. We were in an airport—wasn’t this… an issue?

The power never did resurrect, but we eventually caught a shuttle to Tropicana Hostel in Antigua, where we almost instantly went to bed—only after a giddy conversation about what was to come in the week ahead. The next morning, we found the hostel to be a cushy spot with rooftop views, multiple bars, a miniature pool, daily activities, and a very whitewashed but delicious café that served a mean yogurt and fruit bowl. 

We spent a full day acclimating to the altitude and exploring Antigua’s colors: the Santa Catalina Arch, panoramic views at Cerro de la Cruz, the bright façade of Iglesia de La Merced, and the markets overflowing with fresh fruits and fake Gucci. We finished our night with empanadas from a tiny, one-man-band hole-in-the-wall restaurant.

After fueling ourselves with possibly the most nutritious pre-expedition dinner, we trudged back to the hostel and made a valiant attempt at packing our daypacks with some semblance of strategy. We fussed with layers, snacks, and whatever else seemed important, fully oblivious to the fact that tomorrow’s climb up Mount Acatenango would be far more intense than our Instagram reels had advertised.

Go Time

A buzz of anticipation filled the air the morning of the hike. Hikers were shuffled to the rooftop for pancakes, eggs, and fruit, then scrambled downstairs to rent any remaining forgotten gear. We hopped into a shuttle stuffed with European dudes, each one a character. One college guy, most definitely the child of the boy band, begged everyone in sight for a spare SD card as if his life depended on it. Thankfully, he was silenced when we made a special stop at a store just for him.

After an hour’s drive exchanging stories with strangers equally as unprepared, we arrived at the bottom of Acatenango. We rented poles and headlamps from a small shack. I almost skipped the poles, firmly convinced they were reserved for retirees on gentle nature walks, but herd mentality saved me from my own stubbornness.

We were on our way shortly after, walking past sun-baked farmland where locals bent over their crops under the relentless heat, then entering a quiet forest where horses and cows lounged lazily underneath gnarled trees. The trail gave way to dusty, sun-bleached terrain, leading us toward our first break point.

The stop came much quicker and much more stocked than I’d expected—snack shacks, smoothies, pay-to-use bathrooms, the works. Many people in our group were already “dying,” which I took as a small win. I hadn’t deliberately trained for this like others had; I’d just stuck to my usual combination of lifting, pilates, and yoga, which was seeming to pay off.

As we continued, the trail narrowed, flanked by barbed wire fencing us out of cropland. The earth turned to dry, loose gravel with ashy layers on each side of us. Then suddenly: jungle. The heat softened, humidity wrapped around us, and the climb steepened.

Lunch arrived like salvation. Our hostel had provided chicken wraps, homemade chocolate muffins, granola bars, and apples. Not my ideal choice for 11 a.m., but I happily devoured that muffin while ravenous dogs begged for the crumbs falling from my hands.

Then came the bathroom: a traumatizing experience. The “shack” was more of a loosely held-together Jenga tower of rotting boards with gaping holes between planks. The toilet was unusable, covered in human feces, surrounded by more on the ground. I hiked uphill to squat behind it, only to find the forest floor equally littered with used toilet paper, trash, and—you guessed it—more poop. I pinched my nose, tiptoed through the biohazard, and questioned every decision that led me there.

Continuing the Climb

Higher up the mountain, everything changed. Mist snaked through the scrub, wrapping itself around the trail’s bends. The air sharpened against our skin, and the landscape stretched out in strange, jagged forms that were quite unexplainable, though none of us had the breath left to comment anyways.

After about six hours of uphill struggle, we began to pass the basecamps of other tour companies, many with roomy cabins that had huge windows on the front for indoor viewing of the mountains. When our guide finally yelled that we’d arrived at ours, we were shown a much different reality. The cabin we were to call home for the night was a wooden shack that slept roughly fifteen on a long wooden bunk bed with a thin layer of padding. The makeshift structure took up the entire interior, leaving a sliver of standing room between it and the door—just enough space to question every life choice that had led us there. 

Hadley and I dove into a corner spot hoping it’d give us a sliver of privacy when sleeping later, then we stepped outside to the fire pit overlooking the horizon. Clouds stretched soft and warm in orange and pink beneath us, while Fuego rose above them, jagged and commanding. It erupted like clockwork sending pillows of dark smoke into the sky.

The moment of appreciation for our hard work was cut short because it was decision time: stay at camp and enjoy the view, or hike another three hours up Fuego to (maybe) see lava explode into the night.

Of course, we chose the latter.

Chasing Lava in the Lightning

It started drizzling as we geared up, did some quick stretching, and followed one of the German boys blasting 2016 hits from a speaker clipped to his pack. Spirits were high; the rain, bearable. We danced and practically skipped along flat stretches—rare gems after hours of trudging up.

But by the time we reached the bottom of the valley between the two volcanoes, thunder cracked overhead. We huddled under trees before pushing uphill and passing the halfway point.

Then the rain became a downpour. Mud slid beneath us. Lightning crept closer—very concerning considering we were all holding literal metal poles. Hikers coming down warned us their guides had turned them back, saying it was too dangerous. Everyone in our group exchanged looks but continued. Extremely reassuring information to receive, especially as I consistently counted the lightning to be just two miles away.

A few moments later I decided I had had enough. I began asking more returning hikers about their experience. Again, many warned that it was risky and that they saw nothing but storm from the top. Hadley and I locked eyes. Pure terror in hers. Deep contemplation in mine. We turned back.

Only eight of us chose retreat. Our guide hurried ahead with the others, leaving us—Hadley, a new friend, and me—to fend for ourselves.

We bouldered uphill in darkness. My headlamp batteries were dead—after two years of loyal service, this was the moment they decided to give up. Luckily, the girl we were with had an extra that belonged to her now-lost friend.

The rain pelted us sideways while mud swallowed our shoes. A rock tumbled and hit Hadley’s foot, and this was the moment she finally let her tears loose. I wanted to cry too, but the survival part of my brain was in full gear. I carried the pack we’d decided to share, leading most of the way, and refusing to stop. My only thought was simple: just put one foot in front of the other and somehow you’ll make it.

We had other hikers from different tour groups to follow, but their trail could only take us so far before we had to branch off toward our own basecamp. As we neared scattered cabins and clusters of people, I shouted, “Are you with Tropicana?” Most replies were flat “no’s,” and the rest was just silence. The rumbling sky was doing a better job of projecting its voice.

Eventually, we recognized the disgusting outhouse and knew we’d made it. Relief didn’t hit—only numb focus. We practically ran up to the flames and pushed for a spot around the firepit. Hot chocolate helped draw my attention toward something other than my relentless shaking body. We were handed dinner of chicken, potatoes, and steamed vegetables, but most of us were too frozen to eat. By the time our brains functioned enough to tell us that we were starving, the food was also frozen.

A glance up from the pit revealed Fuego’s eruptions sending rivers of glowing lava cascading down its slopes, painting the night with molten orange streaks. I couldn’t process what I was seeing—I was still trapped in fight or flight, unable to appreciate the beautiful phenomenon that I had done all of this for. I snapped a shaky photo and decided to call it a night.

Inside the cabin, soaked through all five layers, I stripped down with zero dignity left and changed into a pair of damp bike shorts and moist socks—my only somewhat dry options. I found two unused hand warmers and shoved them between my toes. I was hoping for warmth but found practically none when I cocooned myself in my sleeping bag. 

As I shut my eyes, I questioned if this was all actually happening. My frozen fingers and toes reminded me that indeed this was real life, forcing me awake every hour to shake, wiggle, and plead for feeling to return. 

I slept a few fractured hours on the hard wood, body curled tightly around a small blanket stuffed into my bag for insulation. The guides woke everyone at 4:15 a.m. with a shout to get ready for the sunrise hike. I attempted to put on my stiff, cold pants… and absolutely refused. I nested back into my bag until breakfast.

A Slice Redemption and a Slice Banana Bread

When I finally stepped outside, I was greeted by a wash of pastels rising behind the black silhouette of the volcano. Light gray smoke curled into the sky, drifting shyly from its top.

This may sound dramatic, but for the first time in hours, maybe longer, I felt human again. I sat with the feeling as I ate rice porridge and banana bread by the fire. We were finally soaking in the reward our suffering had earned us.

Moments later, we were quickly reminded of reality as we packed our wet clothes into wet bags, squeezed into wet shoes, and began the wet multi-hour descent. I expected ease on the way down; instead, it was agony. My calves screamed with every step and my quads uncontrollably shook at every pause. At this point, we had all made it through the most miserable night of our lives, so we couldn’t do anything but smile through the hardships of the new day.

Eventually, we made it to the bottom, returned our gear, and collapsed into a bus draped in pink beaded curtains. Most people slept. I stared out the window with a strange cocktail of relief, pride, and exhaustion.

Beyond Bragging Rights

Most of me was entirely at ease, relieved that it was all over, that I didn’t have to make it to another checkpoint. The smallest sliver of my mind that wasn’t completely focused on the newfound security my body was sinking into felt proud of myself for doing it. Yet, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was all worth it. I knew that would be the first question everyone back home would ask. I didn’t have an answer then, and, to be honest, I still don’t have a confident one.

As I chase wilder travels, I’ve started caring less about how “cool” it would be to say I did something, to show people pictures, or to check the invisible box on some life list. Truthfully, very few will ever ask about it, and even fewer will remember. When will hiking a volcano casually come up in conversation? Was it worth enduring all the pain and the treachery for those fleeting moments of bragging rights? I’m starting to think not.

There’s something special about testing your limits and ultimately listening to your body’s needs and your mind’s desires. Exercising that muscle has given me more confidence in myself and my capabilities than any story of danger ever could. 

It was beautifully challenging, both mentally and physically. I survived, and I’m grateful I got to do it with my best friend. I don’t need to do it—or anything that hard—ever again.

The funny thing is, even as I type that, I hesitate. I know my adrenaline-junkied, indecisive brain will always be drawn to crazy adventures. But for the next few months, I’ll give my body a break. 

As for the rest of our trip in Guatemala, it was gorgeous: the turquoise blues of Lake Atitlán, colorful meals, peaceful meditation and flows at Eagle’s Nest Retreat, and boat rides. Well, at least that was my perspective when I wasn’t trapped in a foul bathroom with traveler’s diarrhea, heaving into hostel waste bins, curled up in a fetal position on random benches, or dealing with a fresh hole in my eardrum. But that’s a tale for another time.