It was four in the morning when we started up the 85 switchback hill.
The faint light projected by my headlamp helped me concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other as I small-stepped it up the mountain.
Before long, we left the dark town of
Xexocom behind, swallowed in the valley below.
Overhead occasional stars peaked out from the blanket of grey-black clouds above.
I glanced only occasionally up at the weaning night as I focused full attention on my foot placement.
My Asolo boots helped me climb ever higher towards a plateau high in the
Cuchumatanes Mountains.
It seemed like we were climbing to the roof of the world.
Two hours later the group huddled in a switchback to watch the sun dawn over the valley below. It was cold. I shivered as I pulled my sleeping bag around me and huddled so that only my face protruded from its lining. In the warm cocoon I dozed into the dreamless space of pre-dawn light only to be roused awake by Alex muttering about the clouds. My eyelids eased open and I looked at the gray light and heavy clouds accumulating above. It was going to rain. It hadn’t rained for months in Guatemala, but it was going to rain today.
The group began to wolf down their morning mosh, or oatmeal, and watch the clouds grow ever thicker and ever closer to our huge mountain. Before long fat drops of rain began to fall; a misting at first, then harder and faster. I hurried to pack away my sleeping bag, pull on my raincoat, and cover my pack in my rain cover. My whole body shivered, reminding me of how much the days of cold dampness affect my body temperature. I thought, can’t we get the rest of the hike started?
Finally, we began to move. It was still two and a half hours to the top of the 85 switchback hill. We had miles to hike before we would reach our destination of Canton Primero. Hours to go in the mist. I plodded upward, feeling increasingly like an obedient mule as I conveyor-belted myself up the steep slope. Each step cried my mantra: small step rev-o-lu-tion, small step rev-o-lu-tion, small step rev-o-lu-tion.
We emerged from the thick pine forest of the hill and onto a broad, glacial rock strewn plateau. The rocks seemed to embody the mist that hung thick and damp around us. We continued on, watching small, road-less communities herd sheep and goats along the alpine plateau. It was still cold and wet. I wrapped myself in every article of clothing I had brought on the hike but only the physical effort of walking kept me warm. When we stopped, the deep shivering started again in my body.
Although the cold and wet enveloped us, it awoke me to the wild mystery of this alpine environment. Where only fog lay in front of us, huge pine trees would emerge from the mist. Old Man’s Beard and other mosses popped out at my eyes, their bright spring greens contrasting the gray of the day. Indigenous people walking along a ridge would appear at first glance to be moving stones until a turn of a head, a shout, or an identification of color turned them from stone to human. Piles of firewood and adobe huts reminded me that while we were in the middle of no where, Cuchumatanes Mountains, Guatemala, we were in someone’s home, middle of no where, Cuchumatanes Mountains, Guatemala. It made me wonder how people came to live on the top of the 85 switchback hill.
Hours later of walking through this misty world we began a steep decent into the Pericon Valley. Evidence of a higher population density arose as we noted hillsides covered in wheat and cornfields. We slid down a muddy path strewn with garbage, manure, and broken grasses to a collection of houses on the steep hillside. Children’s faces, full of eager, yet wary curiosity stared at us from behind slopes, doorways, and shrubs. We had reached Canton Primero.
Our guide led us through a narrow space by the school and we were home. We had hiked 11 miles in record time, arriving 4 hours earlier than expected at our abandoned school/doghouse but actual shack in Canton Primero. Exhausted, we lay on the cement behind the real school and waited for the rain to stop. The sun toyed with us, coming out for brief moments before hiding behind sheets of rain and clouds. We spread our sleeping bags on a ladder under the roof, hoping the occasional sun would dry take away their dampness. We joked, laughed, and told stories as the hours whittled away and the sun began to sink behind the Cuchumatanes.
As if on key, as if to bless us and give us hope for a coming day, the lengthening sun broke from the clouds and bathed the valley in a brilliant sunset. It beckoned us to behold its beauty, a final gift after the misty, mysterious day. I fell asleep listening to the wind and occasional rain blow at the shack’s tin roof. Curled in my warm, dry sleeping bag, I said a blessing for the mysterious day and a prayer that tomorrow would wake up to the sun’s full glory.
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Although the cold and wet enveloped us, it awoke me to the wild mystery of this alpine environment. Where only fog lay in front of us, huge pine trees would emerge from the mist. Old Man’s Beard and other mosses popped out at my eyes, their bright spring greens contrasting the gray of the day. Indigenous people walking along a ridge would appear at first glance to be moving stones until a turn of a head, a shout, or an identification of color turned them from stone to human. Piles of firewood and adobe huts reminded me that while we were in the middle of no where, 
Our guide led us through a narrow space by the school and we were home. We had hiked 11 miles in record time, arriving 4 hours earlier than expected at our abandoned school/doghouse but actual shack in Canton Primero. Exhausted, we lay on the cement behind the real school and waited for the rain to stop. The sun toyed with us, coming out for brief moments before hiding behind sheets of rain and clouds. We spread our sleeping bags on a ladder under the roof, hoping the occasional sun would dry take away their dampness. We joked, laughed, and told stories as the hours whittled away and the sun began to sink behind the Cuchumatanes.
