…then the knee-splitting descent back to terra firma.
I had hiking boots in my backpack that were gathering cobwebs. Apart from the odd outing around some ruins and archeological sites, they hadn’t really been put to work on my trip, and I was already 4 months in.
I digitally flicked through my Lonely Planet guide and found a solution. I would go to the Island of Ometepe (Isla de Ometepe), in Nicaragua, and climb a volcano.
During my stay in Granada, I spoke to a couple of travellers that had done it, and some that had shied away from the challenge. “Oh I just hung around the island, it was pretty.” I knew I wouldn’t personally be satisfied with this, this ‘hanging around’, not when a place oozed a presence of so much adventure. So I started gathering info.
There were two volcanoes to choose from. One, Volcán Maderas, boasting a luscious green hike through jungle to its 1394m peak. The other, Volcán Concepción, promised a gruelling hike through forest, fields, and scrabbling up lava scree, to its 1610m peak, upon which, people have fallen to their deaths. Naturally I chose the active challenge that was Concepción. Because that’s nature. We are drawn to the dangerous. Well I am anyway. Sorry Mum. And Dad.
View of Volcán Concepción (left) and Volcán Maderas (right), from the boat, on an unusually clear day.
I stayed in Hospedaje Central, for three nights. I spent the first two days asking the hostel if anyone had shown interest in tackling the volcano, but the response was always negative. I was recommended an agency in Moyogalpa, but for some reason, every time I went to enquire, they were closed.
Enjoying the delights of the fresh seafood on the island.
On the second night, after a day of whizzing around the island on the back of a moped, I was in luck. Six other people had shown interest in the trip for the following day. I instantly put my name down and ordered the food parcel with three litres of water for the trek ahead.
The sunset at the Punta Jesús María peninsula.
I say six, and four people were definitely up for it, but the two British lads needed a bit of convincing. A few beers and some Dutch courage sealed the deal. Their names were down and the fee was paid. As there were seven of us altogether, we got the whole day’s trek, with a guide, for $15 each. Bargain. If I had caved and booked the trip solo, it would have cost double, maybe more.
So I dusted off my hiking shoes, packed my cameras and extra snacks, and let my head hit the pillow early. My hideous alarm rang in my ear at 4:30am. A quick change into my hiking gear and I was totally ready for an egg breakfast sandwich. I still dream about that sandwich. The yolk seeping through the fresh tomato, soaking into the crusty fresh bread. The crunch of the juicy lettuce.
Sorry. I digress.
There was a bit of a mix-up with our guide and transport, so we left the hostel an hour late, but it was okay, as we were at the trailhead around 6:00am and made good time. We were a reasonably fit bunch of backpackers, considering that two of our troop, with their original intentions of an ‘early night’, were sporting unplanned hangovers. Spirits were high, though, as we trekked for twenty minutes across soft sand to the base of the volcano.
View of Volcán Concepción from a mirador (lookout) on the other side of the island.
There was a little rest-stop shop that offered the use of walking canes and the last opportunity to purchase extra supplies. I was already weighed down by more water than I would actually drink, so I simply opted for the free use of the wooden cane, topped with a carved lion’s head. Our worse-for-wear British companions decided to buy a couple of cans of Toña (Nicaraguan’s lager) to celebrate at the peak of Concepción.
And so we began.
I enjoyed the initial chit-chat of ‘where do you live?’, ‘how long are you travelling for?’, ‘what did you study?’, etc, when suddenly we were all breathing hard and the conversations dwindled. We clambered over tree roots, hoisted ourselves up steep muddy ridges and ducked to avoid hanging branches.
Relieved, we stopped for a quick break. Hanging off our canes and swigging water, we regained composure. Sweat was beginning to show on all our pale foreheads, glistening with flecks of mud and grit.
“Is the pace okay?” Asked the guide.
“Yeah, fine, good.” We all replied.
“So how many metres have we climbed?” Someone asked.
“About one hundred. One thousand, five hundred to go.”
Pause.
“Yeah, great, awesome, let’s keep going.” We mumbled.
Crap. We thought.
For the first six hundred metres, we continued to climb through unruly jungle, hauling ourselves through the undergrowth, occasionally panting up a set of wooden steps that had been installed to ‘aid’ with the ascent. We stopped every couple of hundred metres, just to regain control over our breathing and replenish the litres of water we were losing with each sweaty step.
An hour and a half into the hike, and we finally emerged from the oppressive dark cave of trees and bushes, into an expanse of what I can only describe as, a vast, open, green field. I looked back to see the thicket of forest we had trudged through, and above it was our first view of Ometepe’s valley.
View of Ometepe as we emerged from the forest.
We were lucky that the heavy morning clouds had already started to lift, teasing us with a glimpse of the blocks of fields below. Neat hedges separated each plot of land. It reminded me of where I live, in the South-West of England, where sheep and farms drench the landscape. The view would be short-lived, though, as the ascent would take us back into a canopy of thick relentless cloud.
We stopped for a much needed rest, where the guide explained the next four hundred metres of our route. We were to follow the gradual incline of the grasslands, enjoying the welcoming breeze and open space, until we reached the final part of our ascent.
Although none of the hike was easy, the middle section did seem to take less of a toll on my already aching legs. After an hour of this ‘leisurely stroll’ we eventually came to the crux of our journey. The part we’d all heard so much about.
“A couple of tourists died on this part last month.” Our guide helpfully informed us. “They tried to do it alone, with no tour.”
Well at least we had that going for us.
I stared at the forty-five degree angle of the cliff-face in front of me. I knew of a traveller, staying at our hostel, who had almost reached the summit the previous day, one hundred metres or so away. She told me that her fear was embedded in the descent. She truly felt that she would fall, and so she panicked, and turned around.
The guide warned us that the next six hundred metres would be tough and to be extremely careful. One wrong move and we could be shooting down a slide of gravel and lava scree. But we weren’t to worry too much, because a seventy-two year old woman had completed this hike in the past.
Gathered around the guide to receive important information.
I heard a hiss and turned around to see that a can of Toña had accidentally split, and our British friend was desperately trying to drink the liquid from the side. We all had a giggle at the premature celebration, and with renewed energy and determination, we pushed forward, leaving the safety of the spongy grass and entering the black zone of those pesky rocks and boulders.
Volcanic rocky terrain of Volcán Concepción
It wasn’t long before we had all split-up, each of us going at our own pace, being careful where to place each foot. Time was slow and I seemed to be making minimal progress. But naturally, as the clock ticks, no matter how small the step, you are progressing, edging further forward, moving with time.
In short, none of us turned back. We all slogged on, one by one, we made it to the top of the cloud covered peak. Sweat and the moisture clung to our hair. We’d made it in about four hours. I was proud of us. We took a group photo, a permanent imprint of the bond we had created while hiking up that unforgiving volcano. We ate, and laughed and conversed, all for a glorious twenty minutes. It was brief, but we relished the relief and respite.
Our wonder-group at the summit. Proud moment.
And then it got cold. Sweat started drying on our backs and the layers we had whipped off throughout the morning, were slowly re-blanketing our bodies.
Proving that I conquered the summit. Accompanied by Morgan Bear. Once again, he gets a free ride.
One final look at the crater that none of us would ever see again, (unless some crazy soul felt a burning desire to re-hike the volcano, which I highly doubt), and we began the same journey in reverse; slowly.
Very slowly.
Going down is not my forte. I have terrible issues with my knees, so if I don’t descend at pace, there’s risk that they’ll just give up. This was a problem. Because pace was not an option. Not unless I wanted to plummet to my doom. Which I didn’t.
With an hour of slipping and sliding down the scree and losing my footing among the hidden loose boulders, my poor knees weren’t doing so good. Shaking and wobbly, I started to lag behind. I couldn’t even see my group anymore, which to be honest, wasn’t difficult because the cloud was still too thick to see much in front of my own face.
But I walked up the volcano, so I had to get myself down. I knew the way, and I wasn’t nervous anymore, I just focused on the repetitive task of walking sideways for stability and leaning heavily on my life saving wooden cane.
Re-emerging from the cloud during the descent.
I won’t bore you with anymore details of the descent, because the scenery was all the same. We managed to get back to the rest-stop, as a group, in another four hours. With all the breaks throughout the day, we managed to complete the hike in nine hours. Not bad considering the danger and difficulty of the hike.
Upon our return to the hostel, we headed straight for the showers, embracing the welcoming cold, clean water (as is a norm in Nicaragua; good luck finding hot showers when travelling on a budget).
It was a bit early for bedtime, even though we all wanted it, so to keep us from taking naps that would probably last until 3am the following morning, we hung out in the hammocks, drank a couple of mojitos and dozed in the quiet of the hostel garden.
A quick meal with the new ‘family’, a cheeky piña colada, and I was done. We all were. Pyjamas on and lights out.
Life is good. And it only gets better.
This post was written to the tranquil sounds of birdsong in the garden area of ‘The Lion’s Bear’ restaurant in Vilcabamba, Ecuador. I had homemade fish fingers on a bed of homemade tartar sauce, with honey glazed baby carrots and wilted greens.
Kinaesthesia 