Volcan Pacaya
(Revisited)

Ever notice how Mother Nature is never satisfied with her looks?  You’d think after all these billions of years, she’d settle on something pleasing and leave it alone.  Like beaches, for example.  In one tempestuous fit, she can take a perfectly beautiful stretch of walk- able sand and strip it away to nothing.  I don’t know whether she’s highly vain or just in need of a little Ritalin, but there are times when you wish she’d just leave well enough alone.

In our experience, this proclivity toward makeovers was most vivid in our two hikes up to Volcan Pacaya in Guatemala.  The first time we made the climb was in May of 2006 (See Post Your Story archives, poem entitled “Pacaya”).  We had just completed a week of Spanish school in Antigua when our older daughter, MK, and cousin, Taz Tally, flew in for their introductory visit to our newly adopted country.  The school arranged our hike with a wonderful guide named Rolando.

Located in a national park, Pacaya is one of several active volcanoes that still manipulate the Guatemalan landscape.   It took about a two-hour van ride from Antigua to get to the park entrance, with the final few miles winding upward in a snakelike pattern of gravel switchbacks through a village of small houses.  An inauspicious welcome center marked the base of the trail where a mixture of locals, tourists, dogs, chickens and horses casually milled around.  As we struck out on the climb, we learned that the horses were actually available for hire in case someone had difficulty with the exertion required in the high altitude.  Men would call out “Taxi! Taxi!” as we made our way.

The upward trek was pretty strenuous, but Rolando prepared well, managing strategic stops along the way for us to catch our breath and eat a little fruit or gorp for snacks.  For two hours, we trudged up the steep slope, passing fenced-in pastures and farmland where natives were taking advantage of the mineral rich soil deposited by Pacaya’s constant output. 

The final stage of our climb propelled us up an incline of finely crushed black volcanic rock scattered with sparse outcroppings of newly rooted grass and small shrubs. After shinnying under a crude barbed-wire fence, we achieved the precipice where we witnessed the spectacular sight of Pacaya’s effervescent cone spiraling upwards against a crystal blue, cloudless sky.  Rather than spewing from the top, her molten lava descended from the side with a steady flow into a wide valley some 100 feet below us.  The bright red river funneled under and through the mounds of rock already deposited, cooled and hardened by no more than a day.  It continually maneuvered the lava bed to an accompaniment of sound that mixed the hiss of steam with the popping of popcorn. 

We could walk down into the valley along the steaming coals.  Some in our party actually ventured out onto the crusty pile of lava rock itself, feeling the intense undercurrent of heat from below.   A few brave souls skirted the upper end of the bed and hiked part way up the cone. 

It was, to say the least, a stunning scene filled with natural contrasts – the gray cone against the blue sky; the fiery red flow cutting through the black lava; the green vegetation emerging from the dark soil.  The distant panorama added context as well.  Long dormant volcanoes pronounced what Pacaya would become thousands of years into the future.

As we sat eating our picnic lunch, we observed an obelisk-like marker placed at the top of the hill overlooking the valley.  What it proclaimed remained anonymous without any inscription, but its position on the hill was very pronounced and prominent.  It served as good backdrop for photographs.

Our experience that day was quite remarkable.  At the end, we were duly tired from the physical exertion, but totally impressed and exhilarated by the adventure.  So, it should come as no surprise that when we had the opportunity almost a year later to take both MK and her husband, Grayson, and our younger daughter, Lyn, up Pacaya, we jumped at the chance.    

We hired Old Town Outfitters in Antigua to guide us on this second trip.  The owner, Matt Hartell, hails from North Carolina and graduated from the University of South Carolina.  My excitement about going back to Pacaya was fueled by the anticipation of sharing what we had seen before with Lyn and Grayson. 

The day proved to be a little dreary.  An overnight rain had washed out one of the roads on our way forcing us to backtrack and detour through the countryside.  After a couple of hours, we found ourselves at the familiar turn-off leading up to the park entrance.  Other than the overcast skies and dampness in the air, the scene at the welcome center was identical to before with a flurry of activity among people, dogs and chickens. The “taxi” horses waited patiently for business.     

We struck out exuberantly up the path.  Within the first few hundred yards, our pace slowed significantly as we adjusted to the incline of the hill and the altitude.  The first three quarters of the hike were exactly as I remembered them.  I pointed things out to Lyn and Grayson and made remarks like “I can’t wait for you to see this or that.”   But, when we arrived at the point where we had made the final ascent a year earlier - up to the precipice where we could look down into the valley of lava flow – we were met with a mountain of gray rock so steep we had to climb with hands grabbing above our heads to its top.  Once we negotiated this slope, we came to a point where we could see the cone of Pacaya with the red molten stream still flowing from her side.  But the valley we had walked along the year before was gone.  It was now filled with lava rock.  What had once been a 100-foot drop down into the valley was now a 100-foot climb upwards towards the cone.  The grassy knoll where we had picnicked was no longer there, the stone obelisk completely buried under some 50 feet of lava. 

It was a totally different Pacaya.  Some in our group followed our guide across the mountain of lava to a ridge overlooking the flow.  I didn’t go.  It was too tricky a climb having to balance on the rough, uneven edges of the lava to get there. 

As I watched them making their way, I reflected on Mother Nature’s propensity for change.  My anticipation that we would see once again the breathtaking scene we witnessed the year before had not taken into account that she was churning out lava 24/7/365.  I don’t know what I thought was going to happen to it.  It surely wasn’t going to evaporate or soak into the ground like water.  I sat there on that lava bed and mused about how she just keeps on changing things and we are powerless to stop it. 

Maybe it’s a good thing, though.  They always say if you ever get satisfied with yourself, it’s a sure sign you’ve stopped growing and the end is near.  I’d hate for Mother Nature to wake up one morning, look in her mirror and say “Okay, that’s it.  I’m done.”  That wouldn’t be good for any of us.