Mexico City, June 27th , 1982
Dear Mom and Dad,
This weekend, a group of 10 students, all Americans
(from the Big Ten mid-western universities attending summer school at
Universidad Ibero, Mexico City, Mexico), organized a trip to the Popocatepetl
volcano natural forest, located about 40 miles southeast of Mexico City. Popo,-as it is known- meaning “smoking
mountain” (17,887 feet) is one of two twin volcanoes, the other being
Iztaccihuatl(17,343 feet). Popo is the second highest peak in Mexico behind
Pico de Orizaba (18,405). It has “volcanic” status, major eruptions were in
1702, and the 1920's; other eruptions occurred in 1947, 1994 and 2000.
The first recorded date of ascent of the mountain was
in 1289, by the Tecuanipas tribe. The first Spanish ascent was an expedition
led by Diego de Ordaz in 1519. Emperor
Moctezuma sent ten warriors to climb the mountain and only two survived the
climb.
This was not a university trip, so we had to figure
out how to get there and not get ripped off by the Mexican bus and cab drivers.
So I paid 125 pesos (48 pesos to the dollar) to get to the Tapo bus station
from where we live on Cerso Chiquihuite and then 49 pesos for the bus to
Amecameca, and another 50 pesos from Amecameca to the hostel at the base of
Popo, (14,000 feet).
Amecameca is your classic small village with a great
old Spanish church on the square. There were burros in the street, horses,
cows, sheep, little kids staring at you from two feet away. Maybe we were the first gringos they ever
saw.
The ride up the volcano was fantastic, through
forests, cornfields and more small villages; a magnificent view from a very
good road. The hostel was gratifying
beyond expectation; very modern, with great hot showers, a restaurant and
windows all facing the snow capped crown of either Popo or Izta. We had bunks with blankets and sheets, and
played guitars with the Mexicans. We
arrived about 5 p.m. and went to sleep pretty early.
Everybody except me decided to wake at 2:30 in the
morning and go watch the sun rise from a place half way to the top of
Popo. As it turned out, they had a
pretty bad time of it, returned at 7:30 a.m. and went to sleep at which time I
got up, determined to make an assault on Popo by myself.
At 14,000 feet every step is an exertion and I was
forced to take baby steps. The final
climb, from 14,000 to 18,000 feet (17,887') is pretty much all on black
volcanic sand and walking is not very easy.
I made it up half way to a hut called Las Cruces (the
Crosses) where there are a bunch of graves of people who didn’t make it. There I met two Mexicans who gave me a ham
sandwich and some water. We decided to
go for it together, up to the crater but they quit pretty quickly and after
awhile they became little specks on the black sand behind me.
Now let me tell you, this was the hardest thing I have
ever done. From Las Cruces to the summit
is a steep incline through sticking sand and snow and remains of mud slides,
and the air thins out fast, making it impossible to go more that 5 yards at a
time without sitting down and resting. It was incredibly exhausting. I was dizzy and had a throbbing headache. My
muscles ached but I felt since I had made it that far, I could never forgive
myself for not going all the way. I will say that I was a bit scared, but I was
determined that no Popo was going to do me in!
Page
2
At
the top, the last 300 yards was total agony; it was the steepest part of the
climb and I was more tired
than
ever but I finally made it to the rim of the crater. It was a big crater and I
didn’t expect there to be any action inside, but down in the crater were bubbling
pools of lava and sulfur gas clouds were stinking up the whole place. It was truly awesome, like hell in a
hole. I expected just a dead crater and
was definitely freaked out to see all those pools of yellow muck and gas clouds
and plumes coming out of the sides and the bottom of the crater.
Not
ever having been to 18,000 feet on solid earth, I found the views spectacular
and the vistas endless. I was above all the clouds, like in an airplane. I
could see the top of Ixta rising out of the cloud The whole scene had a kind of dreamlike quality. In time, I began to wonder how I could find
the energy to get back down, not wanting to be caught in an evening snowstorm
that seemed to be brewing. I walked all
around the crater, taking everything in, conscious of the primeval forces of
the earth. Finally I got to a place that
looked good for a rapid descent through the sand. I drank in the view, gazed for one last time
into the crater and started down. This
was really fun. Four thousand feet of downhill frolic in the sand! The same steep slopes I had just struggled
up, I was now with little or no effort gliding down and down, jumping like a
kangaroo or zigzagging back and forth, sliding, falling onto my butt in a big
skid, and kind of whimsically thinking about Tarzan outrunning the lava flow
with Jane in his arms or more realistically how fast I could run if the boiling
volcano decided to throw up.
When
I got down to about 16,000 feet, I met the Mexicans again, sitting in the
sand. With my relatively primitive
Spanish, I told them all about the crater and the view; they seemed to be
inspired and decided to go for it again.
I hope they made it, because it snowed really hard that night and they
just had one sleeping bag.
It
took me about two hours to get down from the top and six hours to go up. It was a total of twelve miles altogether and
when I finally got back to the hostel, I must have looked like I had been to
hell and back. I could hardly walk, had
a throbbing headache but I took a long hot shower and popped a few extra
strength Tylenols afterwards and ate a burger and fries at the restaurant. It
felt really good, having conquered the volcano and experiencing a few firsts: climbed
to 18,000 feet, saw a live volcano churning away and pushed myself near the
limits of my endurance, and came through with even more confidence in my
mountain climbing.
My
face was burned to a crisp and I learned that the sun’s rays are stronger at
higher altitudes. I just didn’t realize
how cooked I was getting, it wasn’t really hot, and it wasn’t particularly
cold, but my face was oozing and cracked like a fried pig skin and it really
hurt. But soon it would peel and be back
to normal.
On
the bus back down to Amecameca, we saw a car that had skidded off the road and
was way down in the bushes (everybody was OK) and farther down, a dead man
lying beside the road. All along the
road were Indian women with lean-tos, selling tortillas and soda pop. There was a big sign down at the bottom, near
Amecameca, that said La Fuerza de La Razon (the Force of Reason) and there were
about 30 Indian kids throwing rocks at it.
The national elections are July 4th and this sign was for
Miguel de La Madrid, who was hand picked by Lopez-Portillo (then the
President), and will most certainly win.
There are other parties, but they are financed by the major party, which
always wins.
Sunday
is market day in Amecameca and we checked it all out. There was an incredible amount of food: all
kinds of fruit, meat (pig heads), fish, fowl, fried pig skins, beans, bread, you
name it... clothing, doo-dads, blankets and live parrots.
Page
3
On
the trolley bus on the way back, an old man got on and started to play the
violin and there was a little
kid
playing the guitar, afterwards they collected their pesos; there are people
everywhere doing anything they can to make money, swallowing fire at street
corners, selling this or that and begging.
Love,
Fred
(Frederick
C. Allebach)
No comments:
Post a Comment