I sat at my campsite on the side of Acatenango, the third highest volcano in Central America, watching Fuego, the nearby and very active volcano, erupt. The blast spewed ash clouds into the sky and despite the air quivering with each boom, I found it underwhelming. After living through several big earthquakes, I was honestly a little disappointed. Our hiking guide Miguel said we had the option of hiking another four hours round trip to get to Fuego’s summit.

I debated it. We had already been hiking for five hours to reach our basecamp and I was exhausted. My legs felt like jello and the thought of hiking even a mile more was absurd. But as the hour ticked down to when the hike to Fuego would start, my heart started to race with nerves and excitement. I knew I wanted to go. But I was so tired. I chugged electrolytes mixed with water and packed a smaller hiking bag just in case I changed my mind. Fuego kept up its steady blasts and my fatigue started to ebb away as newfound adrenaline started to creep in. I wanted to get closer. Scary close. So close I want to feel the earth shake with each blast.

Two hours later, I got what I wanted. I was sitting on a very narrow ridge at Fuego’s summit as it erupted ash and eventually, the volcano rewarded us when it delivered lava while the sunset. The furious orange color of the lava matched that of the disappearing sun. I felt the ground quiver as I watched rocks tumble down the sides and disappear from view. The brutally cold wind screamed in my ears, a constant reminder that the elevation was over 12,000 feet. As the eruptions became more frequent and violent some hikers cheered while others gasped and took photos. I tried to steady my breathing. The ground was just slippery volcanic gravel and it was getting dark. I’d have to hike down this erupting volcano in the dark and honestly – I was scared shitless. This was Guatemala.

When I first started planning my trip to Guatemala, my biggest concern was my abuelita. She emigrated from Guatemala City to the U.S. in her thirties. I went to visit family when I was five and loved every minute of it but my grandma never let me go back. She said my Spanish had an American accent and I’d get kidnapped, mugged, or ripped off (maybe all three) if I went alone. After decades of asking, I booked the trip myself thinking I was going to be struck down by lightning for disobeying an elder but nothing happened when I clicked “confirm” to purchase the airline ticket. I was determined to have the most incredible time and prove to my grandma that a woman could travel alone in Guatemala. I had faith in my paisanos.

On the first day, I flew into Guatemala City on Delta which had first-class tickets for cheap. Then I transferred to a flight on TAG airlines that had round trip tickets to Flores for under $100. When I landed, I took a shuttle to my hotel, Jungle Lodge, located within the Tikal National Park. I spent three days climbing Mayan temples and watching the sun rise and set over the ancient ruins. That’s where passionate guides pointed out the wildlife hidden in plain sight and I heard the calls of howler monkeys at all hours of the day and night.

I went on to explore the island town of Flores filled with waterfront restaurants and bars and bright red tuk-tuks to shuttle tourists around. The lake was brilliant blue and birds sang non-stop as the sun beat down.

On day four, I traveled back to Guatemala City and caught a shuttle to Antigua, a colonial city that used to be the country’s capital. I checked into a hostel called Selina. It resembled paradise in a sprawling compound. Lush greenery filled the courtyard. Hammocks hung from every arch in the building. A pool glistened under the midday sun, its cool waters a respite from the heat. The bar served cocktails and a full menu at modest prices. Most importantly, the Wi-Fi was outstanding. At least half of its guests were long-term visitors, working remotely for U.S. companies. Internet speeds were of utmost importance there. That’s where I randomly started talking to two fellow travelers who invited me on a hike to El Mirador; a beautiful lookout spot frequented by locals and dogs.

 

 

Every morning I woke early to tour the city’s ruins, museums, and artisanal marketplaces. Every evening I made new friends and joined them for dinner, met them for drinks at bars, or joined them at dance clubs. There was an 11 p.m. curfew, but friends knew of an after-hours club. Police showed up and joined us in dancing. Our group walked home laughing and tipsy past one in the morning.

On days seven and eight, I hiked up a volcano. The one that scared me shitless. I booked it through OX Expeditions. They had sent me emails weeks earlier about what to expect, what to pack, and what conditions were like. I was fit, I had hiked before, I was confident. That immediately changed after the first twenty minutes of hiking when my feet slogged through volcanic gravel. The terrain was difficult and slippery. My calves were screaming less than an hour into it. I was also carrying a forty-pound backpack filled with gear and communal food items. I could pay to have a porter carry my backpack for me. I refused. I had to do it on my own.

We were advised to bring four layers of clothing for the cold. I peeled everything off and only wore a t-shirt that was drenched with sweat. I had to finish, I thought. I was not giving up. By the time we made it to our campsite, I was completely spent, but then I ended up on another hike that left me on a volcano spewing lava in the dark.

I wasn’t frightened by the lava, the eruptions, or the dark. I was scared of the little lights thousands of feet below. A reminder of how I could very easily slip and fall. My group lined up in a single file to walk back down the ridge. I followed but my legs wouldn’t stop shaking and my hands could barely grip my trekking poles. My vision started to shrink and blur. I felt like I was going to faint. I sank to my knees and started to hyperventilate and cry. I was having a panic attack on top of a fucking volcano and I could see my group getting further and further away.

 

 

Seconds later one of the guides, Milton, grabbed me by my shoulders and pulled me up. His rough and calloused hand firmly gripped my shaking one. He started hauling me along. My eyes were streaming tears as I tried to steady my breathing. He told me to look at the spotlight my headlamp emitted. He’d get me off the ridge he said and he did. Once I got to the bottom of Fuego, we still had to hike back up to our campsite on the other volcano, Acatenango. “How much longer?” I would ask our guides, they always said ten more minutes. At one point I stopped and didn’t move for a bit and I felt someone behind me. It was Milton. “Ya mero,” he told me. Three more minutes he promised. I willed my lead-filled legs to move and three minutes later I was back at my tent. I sat and didn’t move as our guides Miguel, Milton, and Benjamin, who just shepherded us through what now amounted to ten hours of hiking, rushed around us, preparing dinner and handing us plates of food and cups filled with wine. This was after they had set up our tents for us. I was so exhausted I wanted to cry but had no energy.

I crawled into my sleeping bag just before 9 p.m. that evening. We would be woken up at 4 a.m. to summit Acatenango. Another two-hour round trip hike. When Miguel shook my tent pre-dawn, I said no. I’d sleep in. The entire night the eruptions of Fuego kept me up. I hadn’t slept for longer than an hour at a time. No more hiking, no more scary volcano ridges. When I finally got up, half of my group was still at the campsite. They’d skipped the final climb as well for their own personal reasons: altitude sickness, fatigue, upset stomach, lack of sleep. Plus we still had to pack up and hike down the volcano. We came down in less than half the time, slipping and sliding on the terrain, our international group swearing in our respective languages every time we fell. I saw Miguel waiting for us at the start of the trail pointing us toward our awaiting shuttle. For the last 100 yards, my legs began to buckle and I struggled to walk straight, but I made it.

After getting back from the hike, I went straight to Guatemala City where I had prebooked a five-star hotel for my last night. I walked into the pristine lobby covered in soot and volcanic ash. After shaking out my clothes, backpack, and shoes, I had a solid mound of black dirt on my hotel room floor. I had to shower three times. My plan was to lounge poolside, but instead, I napped for a very long time until I got a call that my family had come to the capital to see me.

I went to the lobby to look for family members I hadn’t seen since I was five. There, I spotted my great aunt, her daughter, and her grandchildren. We hugged and laughed and hugged and took selfies and then hugged more as we texted those selfies to my grandmother. They showed me the national cathedral and the presidential palace and we grabbed food. They asked about my trip and other trips I had taken. While inquiring about work and my life, my teenage cousin asked out of everywhere I had traveled what country was my favorite? “Guatemala, por supuesto!” I said. Guatemala, of course. The locals made this trip absolutely memorable. They all saw an adventurous woman and said, let me show you something.

Guatemala is a place for thrillseekers who are open to learning about and loving the country as much as their citizens. I hiked volcanoes, explored jungles, climbed Mayan temples, and met incredible people that gave me an adventure I’d never forget. I’m grateful that they allowed me to forget my worries and enjoy the ethereal beauty of each place I dare to venture.