YOLO Really Means Camping on a Volcano in a Lightning Storm

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When we ask someone if it was fun and they respond with, “It was cold,” a answer is positively no.

“Type 2 fun?” We ask.
“Type 2 fun,” they respond. “But it was unequivocally cold.”
Their faces don’t seem weathered. They don’t seem shaken. But they do seem scarcely glad. My theory is it’s not since they consider we’re cute.

“City boys,” we muse. “Amateurs,” we think. False confidence, we comprehend now. 
The 3 jaunty and most taller twenty-somethings bucket into a lorry we’re withdrawal behind. 
“Adios.” They close a door.

From a bottom and a small to a left, a 3 of us are looking up; zero though blue sky. The stand never seems so high when there’s intent on my impertinence and my container is still on a ground. 40 grade incline? No sweat. Altitude? Been there, finished that. Julia took on Patagonia. The Khumbu danced with me. Only 4 hours to a top? Acatenengo, you’re mine.

Forward march, we walk adult by black volcanic silt. Every step, we remove 3 inches, like group in cold H2O scaling a straight beach. we stop jolt stones from my shoes.

Our reliable beam tells us he hasn’t slept. That he’s hung over. That he drank a lot of whiskey. That he’d rest good by a night.

We pierce past sunflower fields, or is it corn? I’ll never know; Alonso is out of sight.

I’ll pardon him during lunch when he produces Pollo Campero — God sent boiled duck sandwiches with additional mayo — though I’ll remember again when his sleeping bag creates noises all night.

One hour in. Kristina with her low blood sugar. She needs a Snickers Bar. It can get genuine bad, genuine fast; nearby comatose, fainting spells, revulsion and a lax volcano route — an unlawful combination. No possibility for help. Thank God for Snickers Bars, and Mars Bars too. One sugarine rush and we’re on a approach again.

The sediment turns to towering side and we locate a clever pace. There’s weed so prolonged it has separate ends, so prolonged we could plat it, give it pig tails. “Do hobbits live here?” No one answers. Do we hear a delayed applause from somewhere adult ahead?

Clouds hang around a hulk ambiguous triangle of spark pricking a blue sky in a distance. A hoary guest during an abounding banquet, that’s Agua Volcano and a Guatemalan nation side. Char in a open meadow, she sucks in all a tone around her.

We’re during a rest stop with dual hulk craters. We look in. No lava. Here lies a uninformed cemetery of dejected plastic. Water bottles, snickers bars, Pollo Campero. Human waste. We tuck a wrappers in a pockets. What’s a small additional weight?

Not distant from a top, a turf has altered again. This is a place where clouds lie, though not where they rest. The sleet starts delayed and afterwards pours, while a unequivocally conscious stairs quarrel to anchor in a unequivocally lax volcanic silt. 1000 small land slides tumble behind each step. The breeze picks up. we tie my hood.

Finally, a crater. We’re told, “it’s only over there.” But we can’t see a darned thing. When it starts pouring and a atmosphere gets unequivocally skinny and a knees are jolt like a polaroid picture, we can representation a tent in lightning speed. (Yes, that’s foreshadowing.)

A 4 chairman tent for 4 people, who would have thought? Cozy is as friendly does until a tent starts leaking.

At 8:00, we stop revelation stories. Our delight ebbs divided and Alonso starts snoring. The noises from his sleeping bag begin. A H2O bottle as neck support and my container as a pillow, we start flapping divided too. The sleet picks adult a pace. To soothe a weight off my bones, we change onto my back, smiling during a roof in a dark.

When a initial moment shakes us, it’s followed by a piece of light. The sleet is entrance down in wallops and a air’s electric. If we was during home in bed, I’d suffer this. Even notwithstanding a cold, we do.

But afterwards we consider about it.

We are on a crater’s corner of a volcano; a top point. We are in a steel framed tent; rubber soled boots in a fly. We are on an open plane; a top object.

We forgot a acquire sign.

The lightning strikes again. My friends are defunct or have not satisfied we’re fibbing in an egg bombard with a coronet receiver on stilts.

“I need to tell we something,” we explain.
“Well, we are where we are,” Kristina says. Julia agrees. The trail will have prolonged flooded out. Going down is some-more dangerous than staying still. Alonso is asleep.

Lightning skips opposite a roof of a tent. We watch in silence, though for a rain.

Am we still awake? Or did we drift? What would a newspapers say? Remains of 3 unclear women found. What were they thinking? Camping on a volcano in stormy season. Why didn’t they come down?

I consider about how they’d find us. Tomorrow’s hikers strech a void to find a hoary tent with a singular plume of fume entrance from an unprotected pole. Inside a melted tarp, 4 charred bodies, spooning with their hoods still on. A H2O bottle for a pillow. Shoes during a door.

I spin to my side, afterwards my back, afterwards my side. Stretch out my legs, afterwards twist them behind in, toes soaked. Julia turns too. we hear Kristina shuffle. The wind; it will blow us off a lip, if a lightning doesn’t get us first. 10,000 Hail Marys and I’m not religious. There are worse times to start to pray.

Endless nights do end.

When light breaks, a sleet stops though not a wind. Moving slow, we step by a fly and into a painting. The morning object yawns opposite a landscape. Guatemala fades to pastel. All my prayers perceptible into 10,000 shades of blue. Volcanos dress a horizon. Sleepy fields for days. It’s comfortable down there, somewhere.

When in nature, inlet still calls and there’s no approach to go with a wind.”Pass a baby wipes.” Wet ankles for a win. “No questions, please.”

My shawl flies off a ridge. we yield behind adult a ridge. Is it a perspective or a breeze bringing tears to my eyes? Cameras snap in involuntary mode. we grin in a selfie. Our giggles tumble into a hollow below. Then we stop. Together, we take it in.

“The lightning,” we contend to Alonso while we idle a tent. “I was a bit scared.”

“Me too,” he says, arms to a sky, chest puffed out with a delighted widen as a breeze whacks him on both sides. “Me too.”

Four hours up, dual down. Acatenengo had her approach with us. Bowing down, we go. The trail is infiltrated by debris. Trees that stood high yesterday are split. Alonso is out of sight. Oh, a things we do for a view.

At a bottom, we lay out my socks. we shake out my boots and watch a dog snooze underneath a pick-up truck. It’s a spin to widen out in a sun.

Our float rounds a hook and stops in front of us. Barefoot and exhausted, we get in. Bright eyed and fuzzy tailed, Alonso hops adult front. Just before we tumble asleep, a motorist asks if we had fun. we respond, “It was cold.”

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