A friend of mine, we’ll call him Edward, called me up one Saturday morning and invited my boys and I over to his place to climb the mountain that adjoins his property.  I had been to his place before, near San Lucas, and knew that his property was ringed with high peaks and thought it sounded like a great opportunity for the boys to burn off some energy and me to burn off some calories.

On the way out the door, the Wife asked if I was going to be okay.  “What do you mean?”, I said.  “Well”, she replied, “We were out awfully late last night with Juan and Jane Doe (two friends of ours who wish to remain very anonymous), and I know you had a few drinks….I don’t think I would want to climb any mountains today.”

I assured her I would be fine, blew her a kiss and we were on our way.  We arrived at Edward’s, who was waiting for us and was anxious to get started up the hill.  It was only 2pm, and his pace should have been the first warning signal.  It doesn’t get dark for hours….why is he in such a hurry?

Well, Edward was setting a pretty aggressive pace (especially for an old guy), and of course the kids were having no trouble keeping up (one was actually hopping back and forth across the trail, like a ball in a pinball machine, despite the 60 degree incline), but by the first stop 15 minutes into the climb, I was breathing hard.

Edward took 60 seconds to show us the spring where he gets his ‘mountain fresh water…a lot cleaner than that crap you city people drink’ and we were back on the trail.  After about 10 minutes Edward mentioned that I should indicate if I needed a break since he “wouldn’t be stopping otherwise”.  “Now would be a good time for a break”, I wheezed quietly.

After 60 seconds Edward was reminding us that we didn’t want to wait too long, and before I could ask what the big hurry was, he and the boys were off.  The forest was pretty dense, and we had zig-zagged back and forth around the side of the mountain enough that I wasn’t sure of my bearings, so I didn’t want to fall too far behind.  Additionally, we were in the shade of the other peaks and so it was occasionally difficult to find the sun.  To make matters worse, the pace was such, combined with the poor footing, that I had no chance to look around to develop any perspective; it was eyes on the path and keep moving.

The first break had come after 15 minutes of climbing, the second after 10 minutes, but the third and fourth breaks came at 5 minute and 2 minute intervals.  We got a few minutes of respite when we came to a ridge that was only about a 30% incline, but by this point my heart was beating so fast the 60 second breaks weren’t doing much.  I remembered the last time I felt like this; I was 17 and trying out for admission to the Pararescue program in San Antonio and was supposed to swim about 30 laps in an Olympic size pool and then tread water for an hour.

That was before I started drinking or smoking cigars or had lived through any pregnancies, and I still didn’t make the cut (Only one guy out of 30 did).  I’m pretty sure that later that afternoon I was fine, but I was starting to contemplate what they would do with my body if I died up here where the corn doesn’t grow.  My boys wouldn’t be able to carry me down, Edward-an agnostic and cynic-would just roll my body down the back side of the hill, and worse, GuateLiving would come to an unexpected end.

After contemplating all this, I asked Edward, “How much further is it?”  He stopped, agitated, and said, “We’re almost half way.  Let’s keep moving.”  I walked another 100 meters or so and declared, “It is finished”.

I told the group that I wasn’t going any further, that I would wait for them here and see them on the return trip.  I took a bottle of water from the backpack and watched them climb another 100 meters or so before they disappeared.

After a few minutes leaning against a tree, I realized that I wasn’t going to die.  My heart rate was now closer to 100 than 200, and I didn’t feel any longer like I might lose control of all my bodily functions all at once.  I looked at my watch and calculated how long it would take for the group to return if we were truly only half way to the top.  The 90 minutes of leaning against a tree, with a non-functioning Blackberry as my only entertainment, was more than I could bear, so I decided to head back down the mountain where I could probably scale Edward’s concertina wire fence and at least sit in the Mercedes and listen to Democracy: The God that Failed on the iPod.

I was enjoying the trip down the mountain much more than the initial trek when I began to get the feeling that I was somehow on a different path than I had been earlier.  There was no evidence that a small herd had come through recently, no broken branches or a stampede of small tennis shoes, and the rare glimpses I was getting of the sun and the occasional distorted salsa music that carried on the wind seemed to indicate I was headed towards Chimaltenango.

I contemplated turning around and backtracking in an attempt to find out which non-path we had come up on that I had missed, but the view from where I was standing compelled me to simply push on in any direction that was downhill.  I was only mildly irritated, knowing that I had plenty of sunlight, that I could get to the bottom of the hill well before dark, and that as long as I walked in a generally straight direction I could navigate to the highway that runs from the capital to Chimaltenango, and that in the worst case I could get a chicken bus back to Edward’s house.  Even if I ended up on the mountain for the night, it doesn’t get that cold in Guatemala…and even in my weakened condition I felt I could survive until breakfast.  That’s why I keep a little of my hibernation layer on-between the seasons-just in case.

Well, the sun was dropping pretty quickly and in the shade it was getting cold on the back side of the mountain.  Actually, all sides were in the shade now as I was low enough between the hills that there was no sunlight coming through.  Then my path disappeared and I ended up in some sort of a natural cutout that looked like it had been worn through by a river.  It was about six feed wide and 10 feet tall and would’ve been really cool to play in as a kid.

When you’re an expert navigator and survivalist, you know that water flows downhill and so I stayed in this interesting geological formation for some time as it wound down the hill.  It offered some shield from the wind and a smooth walking surface almost to the bottom of the mountain.

When I exited from this little creekbed, I found another path and came upon two tiny little Mayan men and one over-burdened mule.  I thought to myself, “Man, I never treat my mules like that”, and approached them.  “Buenos tardes senor”, I said to the closer and more ancient of the two men.  He just stared at me, chewing something very slowly.

The other one, maybe 30 years younger but still about 85 years old, moved slowly in my direction, as if he perceived me as a threat.  I greeted them again, “Buenos tardes…mucho gusto…mi llamo Marco”, but still there was no response.  One of the had his hand on his machete.  Given their antiquity, my best defense would be to run, but my thighs were still shaking a little from the climb, and so I imagined myself whipping off my belt, and trying to hold these two 100 year-old assailants and their machetes at bay with the 40″ leather belt I paid too much for in Saltillo, MX.

They looked at each other as if I were from Mars, and then slowly made their way up the hill, encouraging their mule all the way.

Now, granted that my Spanish is somewhat deficient, and I was only half an hour removed from a near-death experience, but I’ve never had someone not recognize ‘buenos tardes’.  I yelled after them, “Que direction esta la carretera para la capital”, thinking that as long as I could find the highway, I’d be fine.

One guy pointed left, the other guy pointed right, and off they went up the hill.  Muchas gracias.

Eventually I did find the highway.  To my great dismay, I couldn’t figure out which direction was Chimaltenango and which was towards San Lucas and the capital.  The highway, a very nice two lanes in each direction, winds around the hills so much that I was actually in the bottom of a horse shoe type shape and so both directions led away from me.

Utilizing all my intelligence, I decided that I merely need to watch a few buses go by and the signs on the top would tell me.  Of course, it only took two buses to go by before I realized that buses running a certain route would have both names, or even just one name, but they must make the round trip and so this wouldn’t help me at all.  That was my first hint (if we ignore missing the trail, failing to communicate with the two Mayan centenarians and daydreaming about fighting two machetes off with a belt) that perhaps my mental acuity was not what it normally is.

So I decided on a fool-proof strategy; hop on the next chicken bus, ride until I recognized something, and if necessary, get off, cross the highway, and catch the next chicken bus in the opposite direct.  It’s like flipping a coin, basically, and I applauded myself for having several 1Q coins in my pocket.

Well, 20 minutes and five Chicken Buses later, I was still on the highway.  None of the buses would stop for me.  In this situation, you’re supposed to make the best decision you can guided by intellect, experience and, most reliably, male intuition, so I started walking in one direction.

It only took about 30 minutes to realize that I was indeed walking in the right direction.  That was because I came across a sign which both confirmed where I was and also explained the curious little encounter in the forest with the elders from the local tribe.  The sign welcomed me to San Bartolome and said, “Idioma:  Espanol y Kakatichktel”, or something similar.  I guess I need to learn how to ask for directions in local dialects before I plan on climbing any more mountains.

I made it back to Edward’s, which unfortunately involved another climb up what he calls a driveway to his lot, and managed after only 10 minutes to get his Guardian’s attention so I didn’t have to tear my shirt up to create gloves to scale the razor wire.  The Guardian asked lots of questions about where the others were and why I was back so early.  I explained that, “Yo soy un atleta muy cualificados y que quería tomar su tiempo con el ascenso”, and smiled.  He replied, “Sí, lo entiendo … eres muy gordo.”

When I got to the car I noticed that I had a tiny cut above my eye and that blood had run down the side of my face and dried.  I must have hit a branch on the way down and not noticed.  There was also mud on the other side of my face, probably from steadying myself and then putting my hand to my face.  I’m pretty certain I would remember actually rolling down the hill…

Anyway, perhaps it was that vision, combined with my poor Spanish that kept the Mayan men mute, and maybe even why none of the Chicken Buses would stop for me.  I cleaned myself up with water from the dog bowl, turned on the iPod, opened the sun roof and took a little nap.  The boys returned shortly thereafter, still bouncing around as if they hadn’t just scaled Guatemala’s Mount Everest, and asking permission to chase the rabbits around Edward’s property.  (The aforementioned ‘pin ball’ kid caught one.)

When we got home, I shared some of my story with the Wife and suggested to her that I could really use a hot bath, a full body massage and a litany of various other comforts, and her response was to let me know she’d had a long day with the kids, I was welcome to warm up beef stew from Thursday’s dinner, and she went upstairs to bed.

Fortunately there was some Early Times on the shelf and one remaining cigar so the story ends well.

Moral of the story: If you’re going to climb a mountain, don’t do it the day after you stayed out until 2am partying with Guatemalans, and if you’re still intent on climbing a mountain, take your iPod with you and a phone that actually works so you can call either a) a medivac helicopter or b) two Mayan men with a mule so they can come pick you up.