Elevation: 6215 feet

We arrived in the small hamlet of San Francisco de Sales in our second week on the road as the hot noon sun beat down on the roof of the old Blue Bird. Our old bus crawled into town, belching large clouds of black smoke at young children with bored and sullen faces sitting on the side of the road. In absurdly stark contrast to San Francisco, California, this San Francisco was an extremely poor dirt floor town at the base of Volcan de Pacaya where the most common accessories were guns and machetes.

A single vending stand with a bright orange CRUSH sign above it provided a lonely splash of color in a brown and grey town made entirely of concrete and corrugated metal. Perhaps this was their Golden Gate. Freeing myself from the short seats of the hot bus I B-lined it straight for this stand in the hopes of getting some ice cold aqua pura. My choices? Orange Crush Soda or Tecate beer. Crush it was. The sodas in Central America are made with sugar instead of corn syrup and are on an entirely different plane of deliciousness. One sip of the sugar-sweetened soda and I was hooked.

San Franciscan Rooftops

I was halfway through my second bottle when our guides called me over to gather with our group. Strapping on their appropriate complement of weapons and leading us past the armed men gathering at the Parque entrance to the trailhead, they explained how assaults and robberies have been a problem on the trails here since tourists started climbing the volcano in the 70’s. There were twelve of us including the guides. Some Europeans, a Japanese kid, a few Americans and us. A little local boy followed behind us on a small horse. Everyone separated quickly, as tends to happen, the youngest pushing ahead through the forest, the older and heftier falling behind. After close to an hour of trudging through the woods we came to a clearing where the cone of the volcano could be seen spitting smoke into the sky.

Elevation: 6850 feet

It was just the encouragement people needed. The guides were doing a good job keeping an eye on the group now spread out over a quarter mile. As we rested at the clearing and waited for the trailing group I noticed the boy had replaced himself with one of the older American ladies on the horse and was leading them up the path. This was as far as the horse (and likely its rider) could go. The landscape would change drastically over the next half mile and the weight of the horse was too great. We continued our gradual ascent as the trees disappeared behind us and we found ourselves climbing an increasingly odd lunar landscape, the smoking cone of the great volcano looming ominously above us. The gradual incline of the wooded trail became a steeper rocky ascent and we eventually found ourselves perched on the ridge of the old Cerro Chino crater.

Picturesque Foreshadowing

Elevation: 7430 feet

This was where most people would stay. One of the guides would stay with them. The views from this point were spectacular and it would be another hour or so of scrambling up black volcanic sand to reach the active vent. Not a task for the out of shape or squeamish. With every step in the loose sand you slid back half a step and we found ourselves often using our hands as much as our feet to climb. The sun beat down from above as the hot black sand heated us from below. As we reached the summit the sand thankfully changed to sharp steaming rock and I noticed the sun was an hour or less from setting. Clamoring through the rocky crags and avoiding scorching steam vents, we made our way closer and closer to the towering smoke column ahead.

Towards the Top of the World

Elevation: 8450 feet

One of our guides called out to us from an edge of the ridge above us, his bandana wrapped around his lower face. He pointed to what I gathered was the “easy” way to get up and following his lead we climbed the ridge. What we saw next will stay with me the rest of my life. As we reached the plateu a billowing sulphuric cloud of yellow smoke gushed from a giant crack in the rock below. The guide pulled me over closer to it and I pulled my sweat soaked shirt up over my mouth to try and filter some breathable air into my lungs. As I inched closer and closer to the edge of the great trench the heat became extraordinary. Then, as I leaned over the edge facing head on into the billowing smoke, my eyes tearing, I caught a quick glimpse of it. Then another. And another. The wind began to blow up on the peak and for a full couple of seconds, pushed the smoke aside and gave me a clear view of what I was looking at. About six inches forward and a hundred feet below flowed a massive river of glowing lava. The swirling red sea bellow illuminated the chamber and it’s depth and enormity caused me to step back a step from the edge. In an instant the smoke was back choking me and I was forced away to find my breath. Well, that was worth it.

The sun was setting as we began down the cone, our guide keeping us together in the waning light. Oddly enough as we neared the bottom of the sandy cone, a European family struggled to ascend. They had no guide, no flashlights and two unhappy small children of maybe five and ten. I advised them as best I could to turn around and descend with us but they had just climbed the first several hours to this point and were determined to reach the top. As we made our way across the ridge of the Cerro Chino crater I looked back and could barley see there white Polo’s and kacky shorts in the darkness. They were less than a quarter of the way to the top. Finding our way to the vent up top without killing ourselves was quite a task in the daylight so I can only imagine the problems they may have encountered.

As we made our way down in the dark with only a few flashlights for the group of us, I kept seeing people moving in the dark off the trail and I kept thinking about the stupid family still alone on the volcano. Making our way through the dark town with our armed escort and back onto the old bus I kept thinking about the poor family still alone up on the volcano. Making our way down the windy dirt road I began to fall asleep on my bench thinking about all I had seen, but mostly about the children of the family still out there on the volcano.

A Triumphant Descent