Descent
Some say the descent crushes your soul, and I’ve been on some that have. But not this one.
The descent was the final piece I didn’t know I needed to complete the jigsaw of climbing a 18,000 foot volcano.
Base camp, Iztaccihuatl Volcano, Mexico
Normally when I’m climbing something long and steep on a trail run, I look forward to the downhill. But the relief doesn’t last long because once past the top, I rush to get back to the things I “should” be doing instead.
But after ascending Pico de Orizaba for six-ish hours in the dark, walking down in the light replaced the thoughts of just getting back to camp. I had a lilting chat with the group and a reason to look around; so far, my eyes had only seen this path within the confining circle of a headlamp.
Hill above basecamp, Izta-Popo National Park, Mexico
There’s discomfort and danger on the trail, so trying to get back faster certainly makes logical sense But walking down that volcano, it slowly filtered into me that I had done something difficult, succeeded, and still had enough juice to feel okay.
Sun on my shoulders, cheeks reddening despite multiple coats of sunscreen. Toes starting to bruise from my feet shoving forward in my boots on the sharp angles of the downward slope.
San Miguel Zoapan, Mexico
From Pico de Orizaba’s base camp, we took a truck back to the mountain guide lodge in a nearby town to eat and recollect. The Suburban was the same make and model as my family’s car in middle school, but instead of six-lane urban highways, this time I rode it down a dusty, rutted alpine forest road. Then we loaded a van and headed towards Mexico City. At 7 AM we stood on a patch of summit at18,000 feet and at 7 PM we were dodging traffic a tangle of city streets.
Town of Tlachichuca, Mexico
The descent took place on foot, down slow uncomfortable roads, and down Mexico’s equivalent of interstates. It started with eight people atop a mountain and ended with our baggage in a shiny cart in a busy city’s hotel lobby. From alone with thoughts in the alpine air to alone with thoughts in the cube of an urban hotel room; there could be no more opposite circumstances in which to breathe fifteen to nineteen times per minute.
Crater at the summit of Pico de Orizaba, Mexico
The descent embedded what I learned in the wet cement of the foundation formed by that day’s experience.
The descent made real what had only been ethereal, unknowable and uncertain on the way up. It illuminated all the rough ground I had navigated in the deep of the night.
The descent took me down to a place where I could turn over the sphere of this experience in my hands as many times as I wanted.
Summit of Pico de Orizaba, Mexico