2 miles, they said. 2 miles up and 2 miles back. 2 hours up and 1 hour back.
Bring water.
Bring snacks.
Prepare to get muddy.
I'm never ready for a hike, actually. I'm always apprehensive about up.
Up is not my forte. Up is my grief. Up is my kryptonite.
But push on, I do. Push on, I always do.
And so we began.
We started by signing the book. The book that you sign when you leave and when you return. The book that they check at the end of the day to make sure no one's still up there. The book with emergency contact information.
And then there was the safety talk. The route description. The reminders. The warnings about snakes. The constant repetition: "Go at your own pace."
The info guide faced us in the right direction and we headed out and up.
The first bit was dirt road. Slight incline. Shaded. We ambled upward. We took pictures of the view. At the first Vista Point, we stopped for a drink and took panoramas.
We continued and met the first group we would ultimately pass and be passed by multiple times during the morning. Two girls from Quebec. Stopping for a drink break. A friendly hello and a wave as we started up the steep incline.
The grade began to increase. And the terrain deteriorated. The worn mud roads had eroded from the rainy season, deep ruts cutting through the dense mud. Carving like a canyon.
"Small steps" became my mantra. Small steps and little breaks.
Step step step. Stop. Breathe.
Step step step.
Stop.
Breathe.
The sun was out in full force. We were passed by a red-haired freckle-faced girl from Germany. She hiked with determination. Large forceful steps. Sure-footed gait.
At a little past the halfway point there was a tree. (Oh, sweet respite!) We all ended up gathered there for a snack break. The Canadians chomped apples. The German, a protein bar. Josh and I noshed on dry dry cereal bars. We inhaled. We spoke of our separate journeys - what brought us here, where we'd been before. We shaded ourselves from the heat. We exhaled.
And then, we trudged on.
Step step step. Stop. Breathe.
Here began the jungle. Shielding us from the sun, the canopy enveloped us in its lush greenery. Trapping us in the humidity.
The path became stairs. Stairs carved in mud. Stairs formed from roots. Stairs unevenly spaced. Little stairs for munchkins. "Giant stairs for giant people!" I'd exclaim from time to time. And we took them one by one. Alternating dominant legs. Using arms as simple machines. Distributing weight. Spreading out the work on what would ultimately be sore muscles the next morning.
Slip sliding in the mud. Josh extending a hand from time to time. Giving me a boost on the occasional mammoth stairs for mammoth people. Near the top, we finally started seeing people on their way down.
"You're almost there," is one of the most patronizing things you can say to a hiker going up.
"Just twenty more minutes," is both devastating in how long that seems. Is cruel in the fact that, in truth, it's gonna be way more than that.
But we made it. And at the top, we were treated with a picturesque view of the volcano, peaking shyly out behind a screen of gentle clouds. We ate it in. We drank in our surroundings as we simultaneously gulped the air-temperature water our bodies craved.
But were we done? No, no. For there was the lagoon to reach. The lagoon nestled in the crater of Cerro Chato. And from the looks of the folks returning from that direction, it was gonna get muddy.
We began the climb down an almost vertical grade. It was slick with mud. The trees we used as handholds wet as if rain was pouring that very moment. We slipped. We slid. We clambered down and under branches, roots, and rocks.
But we made it again. This time to the tiny shores of the lagoon. Surrounded on all sides by deep green rainforest. Steep sides framed the aquamarine lake. Josh jumped in the crisp chilly water and I waded. Taking it in. Savoring in the serenity.
When we finally had our share -- rested up, filled our bellies, quenched our thirst -- we commenced the journey back. Up and up the lagoon's sheltering walls. Then down, down, down the same erratic stairs was had trudged up.
"You're almost there," we tried to encourage the few we met almost at the top. The irony didn't even phase me.
Our knees ached at the downward trek. But it was faster. And we were pulled by gravity toward the bottom. Back toward our temporary home.
When we finally reached the cool tile of the tiki bar, I shed my wet shoes and walked barefoot to the room. With a quick rinse, I re-donned my swimsuit and we both jumped joyfully into the pool. Where we waded. Floated. And rested.
We had made it.
