Acatenango — How Not to Climb a Volcano
The first rays of sunlight began to sweep across the cobblestones as the colorful facades of low buildings came to life under the clear Guatemalan sky. This is how Antigua wakes — guarded from above by the mighty Volcano de Agua. No matter where you are in the city, you get the sense of being watched over by a mystical force, the kind ancient people often linked to volcanoes. The growing number of scooters and women dressed in vivid traditional outfits clearly signals the start of another day in Guatemala. The land of volcanoes offers a rare chance to be surrounded by magma-born mountains, each seemingly waiting for its turn to remind the earth of its sleeping power.
Eager to feel the skin of one of these giants beneath our own feet, we set out to meet Acatenango — a volcano standing nearly 4,000 meters tall, not far from Antigua. It’s famous for offering a jaw-dropping view of its volatile neighbor, Fuego, which frequently spews fiery bursts of lava to the delight and horror of onlookers. After arranging with our host to leave behind the things we didn’t need for the climb, we packed up our gear and prepared for the challenge. As with many things in life, human emotion got the better of rational planning — but more on that in a moment…
Armed with the most reliable tourist map known to humankind — Google (yes, I know...) — we decided to walk all the way from Antigua instead of taking a bus to the official trailhead like everyone else. According to our calculations, it was about 21 km and should take six hours total — including the summit. Spoiler alert: we were far more excited than realistically prepared. That would become clear soon enough.
The first few kilometers, under glorious sunshine and filled with conversation, brought pure joy. Our bodies fell into a steady rhythm that made physical effort seem almost irrelevant. The view of Acatenango on the horizon helped our minds align with the mission and gave us a strong sense of purpose — a blend of energy, gear, and the long-awaited reality of a trip we had once planned months ago in Poland, when it was all just a chaotic jumble of ideas.
A few hours in, we reached one of the last villages where we could stock up on food for the day and the following morning. Our main goal was to camp near the crater and greet the sunrise at the very top. Sounds great, right? We left town with what we believed was an excellent volcano-ready meal: a bunch of bananas, a handful of radishes, a few potatoes, one pepper, and a pack of fried plantains. The plan was simple — get to base camp, build a fire, roast some potatoes, and enjoy the rest as garnish. I still want to believe in that dream, even as I write these words.
A few kilos heavier, we pushed onward toward the start of the real trek.
Eventually, we found ourselves in hillier terrain, zigzagging up dirt roads and still feeling good about life. Hours passed, and our pace started to betray our initial optimism. Credit where it’s due — a kind driver picked us up for our first Guatemalan pickup truck ride, treating us to an hour-long journey through wild, forested land. As we said goodbye, he let us know we still had several kilometers to go before reaching the base of the volcano.
With exhaustion creeping in and delays piling up, we managed to catch another ride — this time to the place where the actual climb began. We were already six hours into the journey when we finally hit the trail — far later, and with much less energy, than originally planned. Now came the hardest part: reaching 3,500 meters above sea level where we’d camp for the night. Every kilometer became a battle, every hour a test of willpower. The terrain grew harsher, sapping our strength with every step. After a few bananas, it was time for the plantain chips — a much-needed energy boost.
Daylight began to fade, giving way to twilight colors across the mountains. On the way, some descending hikers let us know we had another five hours of climbing ahead of us… What an uplifting piece of news!
As we gained altitude, the dense forest gave way to open terrain. The last rays of sunlight painted the sky, while gusting winds whipped everything around us — including us. After more exhausting hours, my legs refused to cooperate. I switched into survival mode, dragging myself across the width of the trail while the summit remained frustratingly out of reach. Relief came when we entered the area of one of the final campgrounds. Fires flickered, meals were cooking, and hikers huddled together to block the wind. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find a decent place to pitch our tent, so we pushed on to the last marked camping spot before the summit.
This was the polar opposite of our cheerful morning. We were starving, depleted, and no longer smiling — slogging through volcanic ash that felt more like quicksand than trail. A freezing wind erased visibility beyond the reach of our headlamps. After an hour and a half of battling up a slippery slope, we spotted a small cluster of tents sheltered by a few rocks — voices muffled by the wind. The map’s little camping icon, it turned out, had little to do with comfort. The only fire burning here was the one inside us. Total darkness, biting wind, and zero visibility left us with one choice: pitch the tent in near-freezing temperatures, in the middle of swirling volcanic dust.
Setting up the tent by flashlight, hands numb and faces stung by wind, was a final trial. A rock wall helped protect one side, and we anchored the cords with stones. Done — though not ready to sleep, or even rest, in the true sense. We crawled inside our sleeping bags, wrapped in emergency foil blankets, too hungry and tired to do anything but lie still. It wasn’t recovery — just survival.
Around 4 a.m., the voices of other climbers heading for the summit woke us. Time for the final push. The weather had worsened. Wind made it hard to stand, and packing up our wet, dusty gear was a taste of what awaited us above. We followed the faint glow of headlamps cutting through the mist. Loose ash, biting cold, elevation, no warm food or drink — it all took a toll. Gonia hit a wall, losing faith in herself and tearfully begged me to leave her behind and come back for her later. That was never an option. Standing still in those conditions was a recipe for disaster. A quick regroup, some mental support, and... tossing the potatoes out of her backpack — were enough to get her moving.
This final stretch was brutal. From 3,500 to 4,000 meters — steep, relentless. We had no energy left to enjoy the scenery. But slowly, the mountains began to reveal themselves. Volcanoes stood tall in the distance, and the sun slowly illuminated their proud silhouettes.
An hour later — there it was. Our goal, our promise to ourselves, and our reward all in one: the ancient crater of Acatenango, a vast hollow in the volcanic massif. We made it. A few lonesome tents inside the crater flapped helplessly in the wind, unaware that here, the mountain always wins.
The path to the summit was far more complicated than expected — but there we were, fully aware of the effort we had signed up for. We soaked in the grandeur, feeling both tiny and immense at once — a divine mix of emotions that defines being human. We were there because we chose to be, because we tested ourselves — and were rewarded with the kind of internal fire that only such challenges can ignite.
Our eyes turned toward a familiar neighbor… Fuego — puffing smoke casually into the sky, playing with the wind. We had become a living part of a timeless spectacle, touching eternity in a world shaped by impermanence.
In that moment, you begin to question the boundaries you live by. Sometimes, the impossible is just a wall built by thought — and strong will fueled by resolve can open the gate to everything.
Our final bananas, the radishes, and the lonely pepper fueled our descent and helped mask the exhaustion. As we made our way down, I kept wondering where our planning had gone wrong. The answer came to me — overconfidence. Pure, euphoric overconfidence. We had burned through too much time and energy before even starting the real climb. We had underestimated the volcano, and instead of packing lightweight, energy-rich food, we brought heavy, low-calorie groceries. Those choices came back to haunt us once we had no way to turn around or resupply. You know the rest.
I wouldn’t repeat the climb the same way — but I learned something vital. Humans are capable of much more than their minds allow them to believe. And this trip was one more proof of that.
The following days were spent at a campground in Antigua, where we had a perfect view of the volcanoes we now knew so well. At night, Fuego put on a show — hurling fiery orange magma into the darkness, letting us know it’s not done yet.
