On Fuego

I squinted through the hair whipping my face and the dust blowing in my eyes and watched my companions as they disappeared from view in a swirl of high-elevation debris. This was the last, steep, barren stretch of the path to the peak of the active volcano Volcan Fuego in Southern Guatemala, and I couldn't go any further.

As I sat clutching the sand and loose gravel so as not to lose my balance on the incline, I took a moment to view my expansive peripheral. I looked up at Fuego, often puffing small clouds of volcanic smoke, and down at the path I had traveled to get there. I tried to see where we had come from when the three of us--Bruce, Will and I-- got off the chicken bus at 7:30 the night before, and hiked through the night with headlamps and backpacks. I looked East and West and everywhere in between, scanning with my eyes the mountains and distant cities below that had twinkled brightly like broken glow sticks the night before.

I thought about the 10 hours of hiking we had already done, through rough sandy banks and slippery mud, the hiking stick I relied on to lift my body, and the branches and roots I gratefully grasped to keep my worn-down sneakers from sliding me backwards. I thought about the deep emotional journey of such a demanding trek, and whether my body would hold up during the rest of it, despite the physical strain and lack of rest.

I thought about the last leg of trip to the main destination point where we cooked tostadas on a found machete on a camp fire while we watched the sunrise. I thought about the exhaustion that had accompanied this last slope, and how I would collapse after five steps, get up, and do it all over again. I thought about how much I wanted to just get there, and to sleep, and then realize that the only person who could carry me to the top was myself.

And still, I sat on that windy, isolated gravel mountainside, already having completed "the hike" to Fuego, and felt weak for not being able to make it to the absolute highest point possible. Why can't I take just a few more steps, and a few more after that? Why can't I just muster up a little more energy, and prove I am as strong as the men I am traveling with? Why can't I...?

I took a deep breath and tried to remember what my college yoga professor had taught me. I tried to feel grounded. And then I had a thought:

This mentality-- that in which the Earth is an object to be conquered, that mountains can be bought and sold, that nature can and should be enslaved to make WE the humans more powerful-- is the one that my ancestors used to justify their treatment of the environment, and which humans today continue to believe.
It isn't my job to conquer this mountain, to prove my own strength, to prove anything. It is my job to appreciate, protect and nurture that which is dear to me.

I breathed again and felt my tiny body on this magnificent natural wonder, and smiled.
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It would still be another 5 hours of solid hiking, many rest breaks and swigs of water, and a couple of near-breakdowns before we re-entered the "civilized" world.
But for the time-being, I could let go of my worries.

The Earth is my home; feeling grounded is just a mindful moment away.

Peace.