The author pauses during a hike on Mexico's third tallest volcano. The fog obscured the view of Popocatepetl, an active volcano near Mexico City that is currently erupting. Photo via @LatAmLENS archive.
On Thursday July 4, Mexico?s Popocatepetl volcano belched a mixture of red, molten lava, steam and ash towards the heavens, causing several airlines, including Delta, Alaska, United, US Airways and American Airlines to cancel and delay planned flights to Mexico City. As a precautionary measure, Mexican authorities established a seven mile no-go zone around the volcano, which sits about 40 miles south of Mexico City?s airport. Matt Miller, a spokesman for American Airlines said, ?We are closely monitoring the situation in Mexico City as volcanic ash continues to be emitted from Popocatepetl.? The volcanic activity has left hundreds of passengers stranded. Authorities have not, however, issued an evacuation warning. A year ago, I set out towards Popcatepetl under similar conditions.
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Shivering inside a bunkroom at the base camp at Iztacc?huatl, North America?s 8th highest peak, a dormant volcano two hours outside of Mexico City, I tugged my sleeping bag shut to fight off the cold.? Hurricane Ernesto was retreating from the area, leaving a heavy blanket of fog, and violently etched scars of water-run-outs in the deep black soil of the steep hill-faces around the site.? The thick fog shrouded the view of Mexico City, the traffic, the beeping cars, and the 21 million people who live clustered around the country?s capital. ?The parking lot on Izta, however, was not a refuge from the crowds.? Outside the base camp, TV cameramen huddled inside white vans, waiting to film the next eruption of Popocatepetl, Izta?s neighboring peak.
Popo, an active volcano, slightly taller than Izta, a mountain that locals call ?the sleeping lady? because the profile of the mountain?s ridge-line looks like a sleeping woman, had been periodically belching out smoke and rocks for the previous three months.? In April, 2012, a few hikers were injured by flying debris.? According to the local legends, the gods created Popo out of the body of a warrior who returned from battle to find his lover dead. Popo still simmers with rage. Throughout the spring of 2012 and again in 2013, the magma inside the volcano?s opening glowed red, and Mexico?s army has contemplated a mass evacuation.? Popo, after all, can be unpredictable.? In 1996, five hikers were killed in a sudden eruption.? Their bodies were smashed by falling rocks.? Throughout the weekend I spent next to Popo, worshippers in white Aztec clothing gathered in the parking lot to pay tribute to their ancestors and pray for the temperamental volcano.? Inside the base camp, we were only hoping for a few hours of clear sky and a chance to reach Izta?s summit.
Our plan was to leave at 2 am, and make our way towards a cabin that is tucked away at 16,000 feet, just below the first peak on Izta?s ridgeline, the knee of the sleeping lady. Reuben, my guide, and Matt, a friend from graduate school, stirred hot water into plastic cups.? We dozed off, and Rueben checked the weather hourly, waiting to see if the sky would clear.? The fog never lifted.? The drizzle never ceased.? Reuben explained some of the mountain?s hazards.? ?Izta has crevices- ten, twelve meters deep,? he said.? ?It?s easy to see them, but if there?s fog, it?s better to turn around,? he added.? The crevices are narrow.? People fall in and slide down until they become jammed between the tight walls.? ?You fall, you get stuck,? Reuben explained.? ?I prefer to wait until [the sky] opens up a bit.? It?s a route that has rocks, drop-offs,? he added.? The mountain is famous for its fog.? In 1968 eleven seminary students were killed when they lost their way in the thick haze near Izta?s peak.? The young men attempted to retreat from the peak as snow fell and a heavy fog set in.? ?There are cliffs,? Reuben said.? ?If you don?t know the route it?s easy to fall.?
In 1968 some of the boys fell off cliffs.? Others froze to death.? A priest made his way towards them with a lantern.? The priest ?was right there, 100 meters away with a lantern,? Reuben said.? The fog was thick.? He couldn?t see them or save them. At 9 am we packed up our headlamps, crampons, ice-axes, and sleeping bags, and started walking away from the base camp under an overcast sky and a heavy fog.? Fifty feet away from the camp, I turned and looked back.? The radio towers were almost entirely obscured by the haze. ?Our boots stamped deep footprints into the soft, black, silty, volcanic soil.? Half an hour into the hike, we stopped and looked up a steep, muddy incline that was encrusted with grey rocks.? ?The flat part ended, [what?s] coming is steep,? Reuben said.? We worked our way up the slope, looking out over the tufts of tall, tough grass, and the silhouette of a jagged, pine-tree topped ridgeline in the distance.? We crossed through a narrow path that cut through a field of purple flowers.? I didn?t stop to look.? I hauled myself up a small overhang, pulling my body up onto the bright red clay soil on the top of the exposed ridge.? Below, clumps of greyish, green grass disappeared into the fog between walls of rock.? I flipped my hood up and zipped up my jacket.? Wind whipped rain against my body, covering the outside of my water-proof gear in a cold film.? ?Ok boys, we?ve got a long way to go,? Reuben said.?
Matt and I pressed forward, digging our feet into the dark, untracked dirt, leaving muddy footprints in the patches of snow we encountered.? As we rose higher on the mountain, the clumps of grass thinned and then disappeared.? We saw the debris from rocks that had fallen from higher up the mountain and smashed below.? We struggled to find traction on the loose fragments of stone. ?Patches of the trail had been covered with two inches of wet, crunchy snow.? Underneath the overhang of a cliff, we encountered a group of four hikers.? ?We?re about halfway there,? Reuben said.? ?Is there a long way to go?? one of the hikers asked.? One of the man?s companions wore jeans and thin wool gloves.? Rueben shook his head, yes. We set out, passing the other hikers.? A thick fog settled over the mountain.? We gripped for handholds on the sharp rocks, our boots slipped on the muddy surface of the stone.? Along the thin edge of a spine, the mountain disappeared on both sides into a white expanse of mist.? We could make out frightening outlines of wind-blasted rock formations that looked like black mushroom clouds.? The wind whipped the rain onto our faces.? The trail behind us was entirely obscured.? ?We are very close,? Reuben said. ??
We climbed upwards through a maze of sharp brown boulders, making our way along a narrow trail of snow, kicking our feet in and grabbing hold of the rock with our hands.? Along the exposed ridge, the wind was stronger.? Our clothes were soaking wet from mist, rain, and sweat. Fifty feet away, we could see the round outline of what Reuben called the ?refugio,? the refuge.? In English, we?d call it a cabin, a lean-to, or maybe a rest-stop.? Refuge, the Spanish word, seemed at that moment to be more fitting.? Reuben pulled open the building?s heavy door.? Some of the silver metal panels on the building?s exterior were broken and revealed the greying wood slats of the structure?s original outer layer.? Inside, the domed structure had three bunks and jungle gym of thick support beams.? Reuben and Matt unpacked their bags.? I stepped outside to vomit near one of the boulders that serve as anchors for the precariously perched cabin.? ?The only thing you can do is sleep, you?ll probably be worse in the morning,? Rueben said.
I unrolled my damp sleeping bag.? A thick fog covered the ridgeline. I zipped the thick, down bag up around my neck and tucked my wool hat under my head as a pillow.? I thought about what Rueben told me the night before.? ?I like being in places separate, away from the noise and the people,? he told me.? ?I like the cold in my face and also the solitude,? he said.? He said that sometimes on the mountain his late-ex wife visits him in his dreams.? ?I used to climb with her here a lot,? he explained.? There is something special about the peak.? Even the Aztecs climbed it, leaving behind offerings for their gods.? The wind buffeted the cabin, hammering its walls.? The beams creaked.? I dozed off to sleep, unable to shake a slight headache.? Rueben checked the weather.? The mist never cleared.
A thick fog obscured the hikers' view. Photo by N. Parish Flannery @LatAmLENS.
In the morning, a thick cloud settled over the entire mountain.? We couldn?t see the first peak, the white lady?s knees, or the second peak, her head, the range?s 17,160 foot summit.? The next section was steep.? The pointed, loose rocks on the slope had been covered with a few inches of light snow.? There wasn?t enough snow to allow us to use our crampons.? Reuben was worried about the loose rocks and the near complete lack of visibility.? ?It?s dangerous,? he said.
Thirty feet away, the rocks and mountains disappeared into the mist.? The fog almost completely obscured our view of the trail.? ?The only thing we can do is go back down,? Reuben said.? ?It?s going to be a problem to find the return route,? he added. With my un-used crampons stuffed into the bottom of my backpack and my ice ax tucked uselessly between my pack and my sleeping bag, I followed Reuben and Matt down away from the cabin.? In our limited range of sight, we could see only a fog-covered expanse of jagged rocks and unblemished white snow.? We started walking.? Finally, we saw a small rock pile, a trail marker.
I walked slowly, lethargically, unable to shake a feeling of remorse that we didn?t at least try to make it to the summit.? I felt defeated, digging my heels into the muddy snow, wallowing towards the base camp instead of kicking my crampons into the ice, fighting my way towards the summit. I thought about my late father and grandfather, both of whom were ski-mountaineers.? My grandfather, who left Manhattan to attend boarding school in New Hampshire, used to call the mountains his ?church.?? My father used to regale me with stories, recounting his favorite memories from skiing and hiking trips. ?The Mexican tourists clustering at the base of Ixta were not the only people on the mountain who were intent on following in the path of their ancestors.? I slowed my pace.? I kicked my heel into the snow, fighting for a foothold.? Breathing hard, I imagined my father as a young man, hiking into the mountains, with skis and sleeping bag strapped to his backpack.
This mist covered all of the plants on the mountain with small drops of water. Photo by N. Parish Flannery @LatAmLENS
Reuben and Matt disappeared from view.? I stopped to look at a cluster of purple flowers.? On the way in I had charged past them, eager to reach the summit.? Now I stopped to look at one plant, the first in a sea of violet colored buds and green grass that disappeared into the fog.? The entire world seemed to exist only in that sixty foot circle of visibility.? I focused on the plant.? Rivulets of water gathered on the delicate petals of the flowers, magnifying the change in color from chalky, light violet to deep royal purple.? Beads of water, about the size of the spicy candy pebbles taco restaurants in Mexico often serve along with the check, gathered and held along the thin leaves of the plants.? I pushed my face close, looking out through my foggy glasses, marveling at the complexity of the colors and patterns.
I scrutinized the yellow bands that separated the black stalks of the plant from the thin stems of the flowers.? I looked at the dark purple veins that ran alongside each thin flower cup. I sat and looked out at the silhouettes of the distant ridges, the clumps of grass and tall flowers, and the clouds of mist that were blowing across the landscape.? I could hear the sound of the steady flow of a nearby waterfall.? I listened to the muffled tweet of a lone bird somewhere out in the fog.? I saw how erosion had knocked away a clump of black dirt on the side of the trail, leaving one plant?s roots exposed.? I looked out at the deep zig-zagging cuts the water runoff from the previous days of stormy weather had cut into the dark soil of the trail.? Matt backtracked through the mist to find me.? I saw his yellow jacket through the fog.? ?Everything good?? he asked.? ?Everything good,? I said.
We hiked the mountain in the worst week of the worst season of the year.? The rain never stopped.? We did not see the summit, but we did see the mountain in a time of damp, mystical, peacefulness that few people ever get to experience.? ?You can?t show up and say ?ah ha, I?m going to climb,? you have to wait until the mountain lets you go up.? Reuben said.? ?In November when the sky is clear you can see Pico de Orizaba [Mexico?s tallest mountain] and Cuernavaca [a nearby city],? Reuben explained.? Izta is a special mountain.? ?It?s a long hike, but for me as a Mexican, I go and feel the cold and think about how it must have been for the Aztecs to do it,? Reuben said.
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