Ocotber 24
This weekend was the Popocatépetl weekend. It started out as a surprise and only grew more surprising as the weekend went on. When we arrived at Damaso's house, we were faced with three more passengers than expected. We crammed ten people (eight adults, two children) into the van, along with all the food and gear required to support everyone. As we lumbered en route to Mexico City we somehow wound up driving through Atlacomulco rather than the normal route around it. Bill inadvertently made a turn down a one-way street (unmarked as usual) and quickly corrected the error by making a U-turn. A motorcycle cop had followed us and hung a U-turn when we did. He got off his motorcycle and walked over to Bill's window, stretching out his hand to greet Bill and to underscore his intent: "Hi, I'm about to make things hard for you and you're about to pay a bribe to get rid of me..." Bill went on the offensive, blurting, "Hi! We're a little lost. Which way is it to Toluca?" The cop thought about this for a second and slowly waved to his left. Bill confirmed the direction, thanked him vigorously, and rolled through the intersection, leaving the cop standing in the middle of the road.

Before we could escape town, a police car pulled us over, perhaps urged on by the motorcycle cop who had failed to reel us in. The cop asked Bill for his license. Bill not only gave him his license, he showered him with every official document he could find. "Here's my license. And here's my passport. And my tourist visa. And here's my auto insurance. And here's my title on the van. And (animatedly punching at the vehicle sticker on the windshield) here's my approval sticker for the van." Without invitation, Bill continued on with who we were and where we were going. "We're going with our Mexican friends to Popocatépetl. We're alpinists. We're going to hike. We have all our gear with us. We're from Morelia. We're just going for the weekend." The cop handed Bill back his mound of paperwork and sent us on our way.

The camp at Popocatépetl is at 14,000 feet (the volcano tops out at around 18,000 feet). We arrived in the late afternoon and set up the tents. The plan was to get up at 3:00 a.m., have a little coffee, and then start the hike. Because the winds on the peak kicked up in the hours past noon, we wanted to be coming off the peak by then. Sergio wanted to get up at 2:00 a.m. to better the odds of a sunny summit. After lengthy discussion and a vote, we agreed on 3:00 as Bill had been driving for seven hours and the more rest he (and his wife) got, the better.

At 2:00 a.m. in the morning we heard voices, then a rap on the window. From beneath his sleeping bag, Bill snarled at the implications: Sergio had wanted to get up at 2:00 so he got up at 2:00. With the transparent excuse of "Gee, I just couldn't sleep anymore," Sergio forced everybody else to get up. Bill confronted Sergio on his dismissal of the popular vote. Sergio had set up a democratic storefront perfectly indicative of the two-faced Mexican politics as a whole; say you'll go along with the little people and then pull out your own agenda. Bill stated, "We agreed on 3:00. Maybe it's a cultural thing. Maybe when Mexicans agree on something it remains open for interpretation. I'm beginning to learn this." Mela, Damaso's outspoken wife, joined in. "Yeah, you guys are always doing this kind of stuff!" As Sergio was getting a much-deserved lecture, somebody went to rouse Pancho from the dorm (he was the only one who opted to sleep inside), but because the dorms were controlled environments in which people could not freely pass in and out, nobody could get in to give Pancho the surprise wake-up call. Not until 3:00, not until the original wake-up time, did Pancho come out. Sergio had stolen our hour of sleep for no better reason than to prove that the world continued to revolve majestically around him.

Although still well entrenched in night, the lack of light was not much of a problem. The first part of the hike was basically mixed stretches of dirt, sand or rocks. I was tired, unenthusiastic, and despite the low temperature, burning up from overlayering. I trudged slowly along, still unaccustomed to the altitude and still working the antihistamine, which I had taken in the evening to help me breath, out of my system. After a while I took off my jacket and gloves, only to hit an open stretch of path in which the wind blew hard and cooled my sweat so I felt like I was wearing ice cube trays. Back went on the jacket and once out of the wind zone, back came the sweating. As my body contended with the changing temperatures, the effects of altitude began to compound my fatigue.

At the break of dawn we arrived at the base camp where several tents had been pitched the night before. Bill snapped some photos and then we moved on. By the time we hit the snowline, I was moving like a car-crash victim. I put on my crampons and headed up the snow with Bill and René.

Several hundred feet up I was crawling. Because the mountainside was about 40 degrees, all I had to do was put my hand out to lean on the snow and then bring one leg up, another leg up. Bill had been watching this mess and came down to retrieve my pack. When I reached a small pile of rocks, Bill suggested that I abandon my attempt for the very top. I didn't even have to consider this suggestion for a second. Racked with dizziness, nausea, and a headache of unbearable proportions, I laid down on the rock and promptly passed out while Bill and René continued on.

I woke up a little while later, when weather began blowing in. An achingly bright day had rapidly turned opaque and cold. I pulled on my third pair of tights and sat up, contemplating what to do. Too ill to move, I fell asleep sitting up. After a while the clouds passed and the sun shone again. A group of about seven had just reached my rock. Doubled over as if their spines were melting, they collapsed all around me. This was my call to action. I wanted to throw up but was too ashamed to do it with so many viewers nearby. I had to move quickly both to take advantage of the momentary clear weather, and to find a more private place to vomit.

Part way down the slope I heard someone call my name. I looked across the snow to see Pancho approaching me. Together we worked our way out of the snow. Back on volcanic sand we removed our crampons and waited for the others. Pancho pulled out something to eat while I laid in a fetal position, making loud sucking noises every time Pancho dramatically instructed me to "breeeaaaath."

After waiting nearly an hour the weather worsened. Visibility was several feet and small pellets of ice began pelting us. We threw back on our sacks and started down the hill. Half way back to our camp, Damaso went running by us, giving us some meager salutation without even looking back. "Asshole," I thought to myself. Here I was, sick, feeling as if my brain had come narrowly close to exploding, and he wasn't even polite enough to stop his manly exhibition of virility to ask me how I was. This was classic Damaso. This was the guy who for some reason always had to prove himself to be the fastest hiker, and therefore the manliest. He had lied to us during our preparatory meeting for Popo. He said we would do the hike tranquilly, taking it step by step. Instead, he shot out like a bullet and never called back to see how the neophytes, these sea-level creatures who were given seven hours to acclimatize and five hours to sleep, were doing. We were fortunate René was with us. Although we probably wouldn't have gotten lost, it was comforting to have a veteran with us as we trekked through the dark. René was nice enough to ask me every now and then if my head had shifted from its original starting point. Most of the time I was too tired to tell.

We made it back to the van only to find we had a flat tire. Fortunately we had a spare and fortunately I wasn't called upon to help with the repair. I sat propped up against a tree, happy enough that the dormant volcano shook only just a little, and happy that it didn't mess with me any more than it already did.