Hiking Acatenango: What I Learned About Myself

I woke up in the ancient city of Antigua, a place where history and cobblestone streets whispered stories of colonial grandeur. Nestled in the heart of Guatemala, surrounded by towering volcanoes, Antigua is a city frozen in time—a UNESCO World Heritage site like Lamu in Kenya, where every crumbling structure and sunlit plaza held echoes of a past civilization.

But my mind wasn’t on the city’s beauty. It was on the beast looming in the distance. Acatenango.

At 3,975 meters above sea level, Acatenango is a notorious, brutal climb that tests even the strongest hikers. It is not just about reaching the top—it is about surviving the relentless ascent, the bone-chilling winds, the volcanic ash that swallows every step like quicksand. And at the summit, we’d get a front-row seat to the most spectacular show of them all—the sunrise over Guatemala, painting the sky in colors no camera could ever do justice.

I had read the warnings. Toughest hike in Guatemala. Freezing temperatures. Altitude sickness. But how bad could it be?

The alarm shattered the silence at 5 a.m. I rolled out of bed, groggy, staring at my backpack—thirty, maybe forty pounds of gear. Water, food, warm clothes for the icy night ahead. I chuga scorching cup of coffee, threw on my pack, and instantly regretted everything. The weight sent me stumbling. Not a great sign.

The group gathered at the meeting point—a collection of strangers about to suffer together. Benson and I, the only Kenyans. The rest? A chaotic mix. Germans with hiking boots that looked engineered for Mars, Dutch guys in neon jackets, a British guy named Nigel already missing his tea, a Frenchman lighting a cigarette at dawn, and two Canadians who kept apologizing for no reason. Then there was Becker, an Austrian woman built like she had wrestled bears, and a group of four Mexican brothers who already looked like they were on vacation.

The hike began on a deceptively gentle path, winding through farmland where locals worked the fields, their faces indifferent to the foolish tourists marching toward misery. The first hour was manageable. Conversations flowed. Laughter filled the air. Lars from the Netherlands handed me a snack. Nigel grumbled about the mud. Jen and Mike, the Canadians, asked if I had ever seen a moose.

Then the trail turned.

The incline hit like a gut punch. The soft earth crumbled beneath our feet, every step sinking into loose volcanic ash. My backpack, once just heavy, now felt like a lead coffin strapped to my shoulders. My lungs clawed for air.

I wasn’t alone in my suffering. A girl named Sofia, from Spain, suddenly stopped in the middle of the trail, her face pale. Her breathing was shallow, her hands shaking.

Altitude sickness.

We gathered around her. Sergio, one of our guides, checked her pulse. “You have to rest,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Drink water. Breathe slow.”

Sofia nodded, but she looked terrified. It wasn’t just exhaustion. The altitude was winning.

“We leave no one behind,” Becker said, her voice steady.

So we waited. Sergio, ever the storyteller, decided this was the perfect moment to tell us one of the wildest tales about these mountains.

“A long time ago,” he began, eyes twinkling, “pastors—real men of God—decided that Fuego was possessed. The volcano was erupting like crazy, and they thought, ‘You know what will stop this? A cross.’”

I raised an eyebrow. “A cross?”

Sergio nodded solemnly. “A big one. They hiked all the way up, carrying a massive wooden cross, thinking they were about to exorcise a volcano.”

Someone snorted.

“They planted the cross at the top, said their prayers, and left. Guess what?”

We leaned in.

“A few weeks later, Fuego erupted again.”

Laughter rippled through the group.

“But the cross?” Sergio continued, grinning. “Nowhere to be found. Vanished.”

“Wait, what?” someone asked.

Sergio raised a finger, dramatic. “Months later… that same cross was found inside a church down in the valley. No one knows how it got there.”

Silence. Then an explosion of laughter.

“So… God rejected the return policy?” Nigel said.

Sergio shrugged. “Even He was like, ‘That’s not my problem.’”

Sofia was still weak, but she smiled. And just like that, we kept moving.

The trail only got worse. The incline grew sharper, the air thinner. The fast hikers disappeared into the distance. Benson, cruising like he was on a casual morning jog, was long gone. I, on the other hand, had entered survival mode.

Then, a scream.

Not a scream of pain. Not fear. Something stranger.

I turned to see a girl from Brazil—Carla—jumping and thrashing, arms flailing.

“Dios mío! Dios mío!” she shrieked.

Everyone froze. Was it a snake? A scorpion? A jaguar descending from the trees?

No.

It was a spider.

A tiny, harmless spider crawling up her sleeve.

Nigel sighed. “I thought she was being murdered.”

Carla, still shaking, glared at him. “It was on me.”

Sergio chuckled. “You’re lucky. In some parts of Guatemala, the spiders are much bigger.”

Carla didn’t find that funny.

We pushed on, the altitude clawing at us. My legs ached. My breath came in gasps. Every step felt like dragging a dead body uphill—except I was the dead body.

Then came the worst moment yet.

A sharp cry of pain.

A guy named Erik from Sweden had misstepped, his leg wedged between two rocks. He grimaced, trying to yank it free, but it was stuck.

We scrambled to help. Becker and Lars pushed at one rock while Sergio braced Erik’s shoulders. With a final heave, we pulled him free. He winced but gave a thumbs-up.

No broken bones. Just bruises. And maybe a little lost dignity.

By the time we reached base camp, I collapsed onto the ground. The sky was turning purple, the air icy.

We gathered around the fire, exhausted, starving. And then, the moment of betrayal.

A slow, ominous sound rumbled through the silence.

Someone had farted.

It was deadly. It crept through the air, invading every nostril, smothering every breath of fresh oxygen.

“Whoever did that,” Lars wheezed, “I hope you don’t make it to the summit.”

Laughter erupted, mixed with choking.

I could only mutter to self “ndore íimbagio ní gítí…”

As the night deepened, something else settled in.

The cold.

I put on every single layer I had. Long underwear, jacket, gloves, hat. Still, the cold gnawed at me, burrowing into my bones. I tried recalling every motivational speech I had ever heard—David Goggins, Les Brown, even that Kenyan preacher who yells at his congregation like they owe him money.

None of it worked.

Only one thing kept me going.

“Isitoshe.”

It was all I could think.

One more step. Then another.

Later that evening, as the fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across the tired but triumphant faces around it, Benson-my Kenyan friend, leaned back, stretching his legs, and began to talk about Machu Picchu.

“The Inca Trail,” he started, his voice carrying through the cold night air, “is a four-day trek through the Andes. You go through jungle, high-altitude passes, and these insane stone steps carved centuries ago by the Incas. There’s one section called Dead Woman’s Pass.”

“Why’s it called that?” someone asked.

Benson grinned. “Because it’s brutal. 4,200 meters up, oxygen disappears, and your legs just stop working. I saw grown men cry.”

Nigel, warming his hands over the fire, scoffed. “This is supposed to be motivational?”

Benson laughed. “Not at all. The thing is, by the time you reach the Sun Gate and see Machu Picchu spread out below you, none of the pain matters anymore. You just stand there, knowing you earned it.”

I sat in silence, staring into the flames. His words hit harder than he knew. Because today had been my own Dead Woman’s Pass. My legs had refused. My lungs had burned. I had wanted to quit.

And yet—I didn’t. I wasn’t done.

By the time everyone shuffled off to their tents, exhaustion weighed heavier than our backpacks. The fire crackled one last time, glowing embers fighting against the freezing night.

I crawled into my tent, the cold slicing through the thin fabric like a blade. Without hesitation, I threw on every single layer I had—thermal underwear, two shirts, a sweater, my jacket, gloves, hat, socks over socks over socks. Still, it wasn’t enough.

At some point, exhaustion dragged me under. But it wasn’t sleep—it was a temporary escape from the freezing nightmare.

Then suddenly—

“Thump thump thump!”

Sergio’s voice pierced the darkness. ”¡Arriba! Time to move!”

It was 4 a.m.

The final stretch to the summit had begun.

I groggily unzipped the tent, and immediately, the cold sucker-punched me in the face. The stars blazed above, impossibly bright, scattered across the ink-black sky. Headlamps flickered to life as sleepy, half-frozen hikers crawled from their tents, shuffling like zombies.

I tried flexing my fingers. Couldn’t feel them. Not a great start.

Someone groaned, “This is a bad idea.”

No one disagreed.

We tightened our laces, gripped our trekking poles, and began the death march.

The trail was pure volcanic ash. Steep. Loose. Brutal. Every step forward felt like sliding two steps back. The wind was merciless, slicing through our layers, howling like an angry spirit.

I couldn’t see much beyond the glow of my headlamp, just the boots of the person ahead of me, kicking up dust. Silence filled the group, except for the sound of heavy breathing and the occasional curse word.

Then, out of nowhere—

“Thud!”

Someone face-planted into the ash.

Groans. Some laughter.

“I’m fine,” a muffled voice said.

A second later—“Thud!”

Another one down.

The ash was a traitor, shifting unpredictably beneath our feet, turning every step into a gamble.

Nigel, trudging beside me, muttered, “I didn’t sign up for this. I was promised views.”

“You have a great view,” I wheezed, motioning to the back of someone’s muddy boots.

Laughter. Weak, but laughter nonetheless.

Then came the wheezing.

A few hikers had slowed dramatically, gasping for breath. The altitude was relentless.

One guy, a tall American, suddenly staggered to the side, hands on his knees.

Sergio rushed over. “Breathe slow. Small sips of air.”

The guy nodded, but he looked rough. We all stood still, watching him battle his own body. A few moments passed, then finally—he straightened up.

“I’m good,” he rasped.

One step at a time.

We kept moving.

Then, just as I was getting into a rhythm—the sound.

A deep, guttural growl.

The group froze.

Becker whispered, “Did anyone else hear that?”

My heart slammed against my ribs. The wind? An animal?

Sergio chuckled. “Relax. It’s just the wind passing through the crater.”

Everyone exhaled.

Nigel muttered, “Not funny, mate.”

But a few steps later, another eerie, low moaning noise drifted through the air.

Becker turned to me, eyes wide. “Okay, but that was definitely a ghost.”

No one argued.

Ghost or not, we kept climbing.

One step. Then another.

The minutes stretched. The cold intensified. My legs burned. I wanted to quit.

But then—

The First Glow on the Horizon

It started faint—just a sliver of gold slicing through the darkness. The sky softened from black to deep indigo. Then to purple. Then to fiery orange.

We were close.

My lungs screamed. My muscles threatened to mutiny.

Isitoshe. Just a little more.

The ground grew steeper. One final push. My boots dug into the loose ash.

And then—

I stepped over the final ridge.

The Summit – Where the World Begins

I made it.

The peak stretched out before me, vast and endless. The world below lay blanketed in clouds, swirling like an ocean, glowing under the golden sunrise.

The colors were unreal. The sky burned in shades of crimson, pink, and gold, the sun rising like a god over Guatemala.

I turned to look at the others. No one spoke. No one needed to.

We just stood there, taking it in.

There was no eruption. No Fuego shooting lava into the sky. But there didn’t need to be.

This was enough.

I sank onto a rock, exhausted, shivering, and overwhelmed.

And in that moment, I had a conversation with myself.

I could have quit. I had every excuse to. But every single step taken—however slow, however painful—had pushed me closer to the goal.

No one carried me. No one climbed for me. I fought my own race, on my own terms.

May the day break!