On my recent trip to Mexico I experienced many worlds, many eras. This was not a vacation to the Americanized seaside resorts. No, this was a journey into the heart and soul of "Old Mexico."

My friends, Dave Donahue, John Bevans and I undertook this unique trip with some scrutiny from our friends. Some might call us crazy to visit Mexico without the intention of lounging by the ocean to soak up some rays, but we never said we were typical travelers. We consider ourselves adventure travelers, with an uncommon interest in an abnormal sport…mountaineering.

We planned to climb Mexico's highest mountain, Orizaba (in Spanish: el pico de Orizaba, in Aztec: Citlaltepetl or "The Star Mountain.") This volcanic mountain reaches into the jet stream at 18,800 feet above sea level. At this elevation, Orizaba lays claim to being North America's third highest mountain (behind only Mount Logan in Canada and Mount McKinley in Alaska.)

So after months of training on the stair-stepper and stationary bicycle, and weekend hikes of Colorado's 14ers, I was fit to climb into the stratosphere. What I wasn't prepared for was the world that lay below the peak.

I. The Journey Begins
On Saturday November 22nd we land in Mexico City, the world's largest city (20 million people) and the most polluted. A brown haze rests upon the megalopolis like a dirty old sombrero.

I recall travel books stating that breathing in Mexico City can be dangerous. A friend once joked to me that it is easier to breathe in Mexico City if you constantly smoke cigarettes…the air is cleaner that way. After inhaling the smog outside the airport, I realize he wasn't kidding. Needless to say, we scramble amongst the throngs of people, to board a bus that will take us two hours to the east, where the air is less visible.

Puebla, which is Spanish for "town", is an old quaint city with a European flavor. We arrive at night and already feel like we have entered another world. Traffic roars in all directions, indicative of a town of a million people. One thing is for sure, these Mexican people are not shy with their car horns. Beep. Honk. Squeak. Ah, the sound of the city. Not exactly what I imagined when I thought of hiking Mexico's backcountry.

"Puebla, which is Spanish for "town", is an old quaint city with a European flavor. We arrive at night and already feel like we have entered another world...."

Thousands of foreign-modeled cars and scads of Volkswagen Bugs dominate traffic! It is like stepping back in time…what time, I'm not sure. When our taxi driver non-chalantly speeds through a stop sign and then flies past a police car (which also happens to be a VW Bug,) I know we are no longer in the United States. We now are the foreigners.

We check into our hotel. Dave and I work together to converse with the desk clerk. Our "Spanglish" and constant gesticulating are enough to get us by. For the rest of the trip I spend a lot of time looking up words in my hand-held dictionary. "Yes Dave, 'alto' means 'stop'…yes Dave, I realize the cab driver just went through another one of those signs…. No, I'm pretty sure 'alto' doesn't mean 'yield.'"

During one of our dictionary sessions we repeatedly enunciate the word "pelicula" for practice. "No, it's not the Mexican version of peculiar…it's pelicula. Pelicula means movie…pelicula, pelicula, pelicula." The natives must think us completely silly, but one must remember, these are the same people who named their town, "Town."

Puebla is known as the city of churches. Within three city blocks I count four Catholic churches…and these are elaborate and beautiful. A feeling of peace (with the scent of incense) floats through the air. No longer am I preoccupied with the pollutant content in the air. I feel at ease. For the first time I can collect my thoughts and connect with the Mexican people. There is a deep commonality we share.

II. Tlachichuca Calls
The following morning is sunny, maybe 70 degrees. I attend mass at Puebla's Cathedral. I understand very little, but the mass follows the same line as our masses in America. The cathedral is enormous. The beauty of the gilded interior is almost as distracting as the crowds of sightseers who walk along the aisles, rudely flashing photographs. I say many prayers. I pray especially to St. Bernard, patron saint of hikers.

After mass we depart for Tlachichuca (pronounced: "Ta-la-cha-chooka") two more hours east of Puebla. This will be our launching pad for the mountain. As we board the rickety old bus, I feel a bead of sweat roll down my cheek. Perhaps, it is from lugging my 50-pound pack and another 20-pound duffel bag all over the place. Perhaps, it is the fact that everything is an effort. For instance, we cannot just drink water. We have to make a conscious choice to drink "agua purificada"…that is, purified or bottled water. You know the saying when in Mexico. "Don't Drink the Water!" (or brush your teeth with it, etc…showering on the other hand is a whole different story entirely!)

Everything is an effort. Even communicating. Every conversation, no matter how simple, takes concerted effort. I dig deep into my memory to call upon my reserves of half-learned Spanish. My junior and senior high school Spanish teachers, Ms. Reilly and Ms. O'Leary, would be proud-- if not astonished by my retention of the basics of Spanish. (I think most Mexican people would be astonished that I spoke any Spanish at all, knowing I was taught by teachers named Reilly and O'Leary!)

The ride to Tlachichuca is harrowing. Cars with no mufflers roar by us. Trucks weave within inches of my window. There are no rules to the road. Chaos reigns. A man peddles some sort of nut product in the front of the bus. He jabbers loudly like a street visionary who preaches that the end of the world is near. He blathers on about the positive effects of his wares, but he finds no takers. This only makes him talk louder. I am thankful to be sitting at the back of the bus and my inability to understand Spanish is a blessing. It is easy for me to phase him out…reminding me of my old high school tactics during Ms. O'Leary's Spanish class on a late Friday afternoon.

"This is Mexico, a country of contrasts. Literally and figuratively, we are in God's country..."

Out the window I see concrete blocks stacked in hurdy-gurdy fashion. These are peoples' homes! A curtain for a windowpane, a blanket for a door. Dirt swirls around the streets while wild dogs sleep by a tree. I see kids playing soccer with a milk carton. Older people work in the fields. I am disheartened to the point of disgust until I see…smiles on their faces. Amidst the squalor I see smiles. They are happy…as though they live beyond the material world. It's not that they know no better, but rather they understand what God's plan is for them. Are they are privy to some divine secret? This is Mexico, a country of contrasts. Literally and figuratively, we are in "God's country".

We arrive in Tlachichuca, a small farming community of 9,000 people, only 30 miles from the mountain. Dave has set up lodging through a man he met over the Internet on a mountaineering web-site. This man knows a family in Tlachichuca who houses, feeds, and drives hikers to the mountain. The night before our departure everything comes together. Our ability to fly by the seat of our pants is working out better than I ever could have expected. So far our trip runs smoothly. No problems, save the fact that John just paid 20 pesos for a bottle of Coke. An old lady swindles him. We find out later that a bottle of Coke should cost no more than 2 pesos (8 pesos equals one U.S. dollar.) With the price of a soda being only about 25 cents, Dave jokes, "We should smuggle Coke across the border to sell in America! Cokes, that is."

Before each purchase, I make sure to ask, "Cuanto cuesta?" (How much does it cost?) even though I can hardly understand the vendor's response. The high numbers are always the hardest to decipher. It is fun to figure it all out…especially when I can hardly figure out our own monetary system! After each transaction I say with a look of determination, "Mi cambio por favor" (My change please,) but more often than not, I have not given the vendor enough money in the first place. In my experience, Mexicans are more than honest in their dealings.

Things are so much cheaper in Mexico. For meals at restaurants, we order two or three entrees apiece. Apparently Mexicans eat many small meals. Well, they haven't seen the likes of these "Three American Amigos," who have the appetites and (all of a sudden) a lot more cash than they've ever had! "Bring todos…otras enchiladas…mas por favor…" We are the typical American tourists throwing our money around, but we know no better. Besides, we have a tremendous mountain to climb and we deserve a little excess.

We wind our way through the narrow dirty streets of Tlachichuca. It is market day and more confusion confronts us: donkeys run through the streets and chickens squabble in their cages, fruit vendors holler out prices and racks of clothing blow in the breeze. These small town Mexican people smile their toothless smiles at us, then get back to bartering for their weekly groceries. Their brown skin and short stature are noticeable, a mestizo heritage (Mexican and an indigenous native mix.) John remarks, "They probably think we are NBA players," commenting on the fact that so far we tower over everyone in Mexico. I can only laugh. Dave and John are 5'7" and I am 5' 10" on tiptoes.

Surprisingly, we find our host family, the Cancholas. Smooth sailing. I think St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers has his eye out for us. I am already thinking like the natives. Their deep faith and religiosity are more than apparent (and easily embraced.) Our bus driver on the way here had a little shrine to the Virgin Mary above his rearview mirror. Somehow I think she had her part in keeping that old jalopy on the road or at least kept it from falling apart.

"Unlike the restaurants, they know the hunger of American hikers. They bring us dish after dish of tortillas, beans, chicken, etc..."

Maribel Canchola, the daughter, greets us with open arms at the green gate to her father's home. "Are you Donahue? From Colorado?" "Yes, " we reply emphatically. She smiles and says in her broken English, "Welcome. We expect you today or manana. Welcome." We enter their little private yard. The house is spartan, but agreeable. The heart-felt welcome comforts us after so much travel, on planes, taxis, and buses.

Maribel and her mother make us an amazing dinner. Unlike the restaurants, they know the hunger of American hikers. They bring us dish after dish of tortillas, beans, chicken, etc. We say "gracias" to every little action they undertake. Always with a smile they reply, "De nada." After a while it becomes habit to say gracias for any reason or no reason at all. We use whatever Spanish we know, even if it isn't in the appropriate situation. Maribel shows us a scrapbook of clippings of the mountain. We glance through the "Hiker's Log," a register of all the people who have been brought to the mountain by the Cancholas.

We are anxious and excited. Our dream is becoming a reality. Above the rooftops, to the east, we catch our first glimpse of the mountain. Orizaba's snow-capped peak pierces the sky; its midsection swaddled with clouds. This is a massive uprising of earth! The fading sun illuminates the glacier with a rosy hue as we stand in near darkness, in a town 10,000 feet below. Looking high into the sky I feel a sense of awe stir within me, a type of reverence, almost religious. It is only fitting in this country. My heart races at the thought of climbing so high. Then a rush of adrenaline. I want to float there atop that mountain. Then my body makes itself known, as the mariposas (butterflies) in my stomach start their own flight at the thought of the huge undertaking awaiting me.

Maribel's father, Joaquin (pronounced: "Wah-keen") arrives. He is a jovial man in his early 50s. He has returned with a couple of Mexican fellows who summited Orizaba earlier today. Both men speak fluent English. What a relief. It is getting late and I am tired of talking in one-word sentences with my arms flapping like some sort of deranged bird. The two men are training for Aconcagua in Argentina, the highest mountain outside of Asia. They tell us what to expect on Orizaba. Unknowingly, they calm our nerves and give us an added confidence.

Joaquin speaks a little English. Actually, his English skills are no worse than our Spanish. He jokes and tells us some stories. We feel relaxed now. It is good to let our guard down. We are to sleep on some mattresses on the floor and depart for the mountain by 9 AM the next morning. In his thick Spanish dialect Joaquin bids us good night. "It's good to have you here… Jose, Juan, y Dah-beeed.(David.)"

III. To The Land Of The Clouds
I awake from a restless sleep with a mattress spring prodding me in the back. The sun begins to rise above the rooftops in Tlachichuca. We eat a well-prepared breakfast and organize our packs for the big hike. Joaquin readies the 1984 Ford 4x4 pickup truck that will take us to the mountain. I want to ask him if he needs help. I frantically look up the words in my dictionary. By the time I utter, "Necisita, por nosotros ayudamos?" (Do you need us to help you?) Joaquin is heading for the bathroom. He turns around and smiles. I can only laugh to John and Dave, "I don't think he needs our help in there!"

"If the ride from Tlachichuca to the mountain could be constructed into a Disney World ride, it would be the scariest ever..."

If the ride from Tlachichuca to the mountain could be constructed into a Disney World ride, it would be the scariest ever. Words from one hiker's submission into the Hiker's Log echo in my mind, "Space Mountain has nothing on the ride to the mountain!" I concur. Joaquin's truck winds around muddy corners, spins above bumps, ruts and roots, slides across ravines, and sputters up hills angled 60 degrees. He keeps us laughing the whole way with his funny little stories. He enjoys his job…he has been driving hikers to the mountain for over 20 years.

We arrive at our destination, the Piedra Grande Hut (a shelter for hikers that can sleep about 30 people) at the start of the hiking trail. The elevation is 13,970'. It is foggy. Actually, what I consider fog are really clouds. We drink agua purificada constantly. At this spot we are almost at the highest elevation we have ever been. I have hiked many of Colorado's high mountains and been atop Mount Rainier in Washington, but those peaks top-off at a little over 14,000'. Orizaba dwarfs them! This is my version of "Joe Versus the Volcano" (unfortunately, without Meg Ryan this time.)

Today, our plan is to hike and make camp at or above 15,000'. Seeing that we are well-fit Coloradans, we feel a somewhat accelerated acclimatizing period will be suitable. Most people spend a night or two at 14,000' while hiking up near 16,000' during the day. Then after acclimatizing, set out for the 18,800' summit. Their motto is: hike high, sleep low.

At the hut, two men are keeled over. One has altitude sickness, the other has "the tourista" (also known as traveler's diarrhea.) The latter must have forgot to request agua purificada. During my trip so far, I have avoided vegetables washed in the water, soups, coffee, tea, etc. Hell, I even got inoculations for Hepatitis A, cholera, tetanus, and typhoid before I left for Mexico. I wondered whether I was going on vacation or to war. I don't remember having to get shots for my trip to Ireland!

Paco, a Red Cross rescue person is also at the hut. He has spent the last 10 days there, just hiking and helping any ill or injured hikers. When we tell Paco that we plan on hiking up to camp at 15,000' today and then attempt a summit bid tomorrow, he smiles and says in feeble English, "My kind of people." We all grin, feeling macho. Later, I wonder whether he meant that we are "his kind of people" because we are trying a quick, fearless assent of the mountain or because we are the kind of people he rescues.

IV. Into Thinner Air
We waste no time in getting our hike underway. We won't reach snow until at least 15,500', so I elect to wear a pair of light hiking boots until that point. I put my plastic mountaineering boots in my pack. I figure, what's a few more pounds…my pack weighs over 50 lbs. anyhow. Besides, recently on Pikes Peak back in Colorado (my "training mountain,") I hiked for over twenty miles in one day wearing my plastic mountaineering boots. By mile # 17 I could hardly walk. The back of the boots were digging into my calves so badly I had to grit my teeth to get through the pain. This has me really scared right up until our hike here in Mexico. Also, my left knee has been giving me a bit of a scare too. I feel like I have a minor case of tendinitis….but Advil and some "deep heat-activated sports gel" help to ease the pain. Dave and John are starting to call me "pill popper."

We stop after a little while of steep hiking. We gather around each other. We have now reached the highest elevation we have ever hiked. Dave and I find this an ample time to say a little prayer for our safety and a healthy journey. I silently ask that my boots and knees will hold out.

"We have not broken through the clouds. A mist chills us..."

We reach a flat area (relatively speaking…there aren't many flat areas on this mountain) that will serve as our campsite. Our new home at 15,500' will be set up in no time. The mountain's rocky northern flank will be transformed into a little base camp. We have not broken through the clouds. A mist chills us. We cook some dinner. Later, we melt some snow and purify it for drinking water. Dave and John give me a hard time about drinking so much water. I swear by it. My nickname is changed to "Aqua Man."

We all feel the effects of the elevation. I have a little headache, Dave feels nauseous, and John has the combination of the two. We hit the sack at 6 PM. Dave and I share my two-man tent and John sleeps alone in his bivy sack (a very small one-man contraption… basically a weather-proof shell for a sleeping bag.)

I awake feeling well rested. Unfortunately, it is still light out…and is only 6:40 PM. I toss and turn for the next two hours. Every hour or so after that I get up to go to the bathroom outside of the tent. I have a rapping in my skull. Finally night falls…and so too, the snow. The snow pelts the tent sideways. My heart pounds in my head in rhythmic sync with the wind on the tent's flapping fabric.

V. To Climb A Mountain
Our wake-up time of 1:30 AM could not have arrived any sooner! I am more than willing to get clothed and start climbing. My headache is gone. I scarf down some cold (supposed to be hot) oatmeal, don my plastic mountaineering boots, Gore-Tex pants and jacket, gloves, winter hat, and headlight. It's about 20 degrees. The snow subsides and gives way to crystalline skies filled with galaxies upon galaxies. The moon rests in the heavens like milk would in a glass chalice…a phase like I have never seen.

In no time we reach the snowy glacier (Glaciar de Jampa.) We put on our crampons and rope up. I lead the team, Dave is second, and John brings up the end. We remember being told that there are no crevasse problems this time of year (Mexico's dry season,) but we want to take precautions. Besides, what kind of dry season dumps snow all night long?

John starts to lag behind. My less than accelerated pace (a slow and go pace) is even too much for him. We gather together to see what's up. John complains that his feet are cold. His leather boots are not as warm as plastic ones. This is kind of a sin amongst mountain climbers…the old Boy Scout motto is "Be Prepared!" John missed the boat on that one. We spend close to an hour dilly-dallying, waiting for John to put on two pairs of dry socks and then his boots and then his crampons again. By this time we are behind schedule and I fear my feet will be cold soon. I say nothing, because I am more than happy that my feet are unblistered, my boots and knees are problem-free and I don't want to jinx that.

A climbing group is only as fast as its slowest member.

A thick cloud envelops us. We can hardly see 2 feet in any direction. I know we have to get to the top of this ridge ahead of us. All the delays have cost us precious time. Clouds and stormy weather move in quickly at this elevation. Our goal to be at the summit before 9 AM doesn't look possible. We make the ridgeline and luckily the weather clears. We reach 16,500', but it has taken us over 3 ½ hours.

"The sun's about to come up, I'll be warm soon," John mutters. I don't have the heart to tell him that it's always coldest right at dawn..."

John is really dragging. I sense it is not the cold feet, but bigger things. I am right. He admits to us that he feels very nauseous. He probably has a case of acute mountain sickness (due to elevation.) A minor case, but a case just the same. He needs to rest, drink more water, and keep warm. "The sun's about to come up, I'll be warm soon," John mutters. I don't have the heart to tell him that it's always coldest right at dawn, a lesson I've learned on many hiking trips. I wrap him in my down jacket.

VI. Shaking Hands With The Sun
We feel bad for John, but we've wasted enough time. It is now 6 AM. Dave and I agree to go on. The pre-dawn light illuminates the huge, steep glacier we soon must escalate. We can see the summit. It seems so close, but as we find out, looks can be deceiving. "We have to go light and fast," I say to Dave. We decide not to use any rope and we leave all our excess weight with John . In the half-light of daybreak we feel more confident. The lack of crevasses will make our journey simpler, too. I feel great and so does Dave. We move pretty fast and keep warm. It is about 25 degrees and clear. Occasionally we stop to snap photos of each other. For some reason we feel we are almost there. But after leaving John, unknowingly we still have 3 ½ more hours of climbing ahead of us.

In the time we left John, I have tried to defrost my CamelBak (an insulated sack/reservoir for water) to no avail. I end up keeping a bottle of water inside my jacket to keep it from freezing. Dave and I trudge up the mountainside, sometimes traversing 70 degree- angled slopes. Wands partially buried in the snow mark the way. We are the first to climb this morning…and I am the trailblazer! The steep climb is tiring, especially when my feet occasionally sink in knee-deep snow. We have reached 17,000' and the sun is riding the western edge of the mountain into the sky. Am I chasing the sun?

Dave starts to fall behind me, but I know we are a climbing duo made in heaven. Even on past trips whenever I feel ok, he's ok, whenever I feel bad, he feels bad. I am climbing at a good clip. I take 40 steps at a time…and I'm counting them aloud. Basically, I'm taking as many steps as I can until my head starts to pound. Then I lean over my ice axe and wait for the rush in my brain to subside. I can keep my pulse by counting the rapping in my head. Minutes later I'm taking 20 steps at a lick. Shortly after, it's down to 12, then 8. Then I start to vary the counting techniques…instead of counting one for each step, I count only one for both feet. It's all psychological.

"We are above the clouds...a sight most people only see while sipping ginger ale and nibbling on peanuts when riding in the pressurized cabin of a plane..."

I look down the steep slope to the valley below. We are above the clouds...a sight most people only see while sipping ginger ale and nibbling on peanuts when riding in the pressurized cabin of a plane. I turn around and face the mountain, dig my ice axe securely in front of me and stand to rest. I close my eyes and drift into a zone…the sensation one gets just before nodding off. But as soon as it hits I spring to consciousness, as if I almost fell asleep at the wheel of a car. That could be dangerous. Don't do that again.

Behind Dave I see another hiker. I pay him little mind. Dave is sitting, hiking, sitting. I begin to slow my pace. I am out in front of Dave by at least 15 minutes. At certain points I carve myself a little seat in the side of the steep mountain. I also dig deep within myself. It's all will. No giving up…no letting go… "not fade away!"

I begin to feel the heat of the sun reflecting off the glacier. I take two steps and rest. Two more and rest. I feel a little nauseous, so I want to take it easy. Now, I also want to avoid the head-pounding completely and at all costs…so two steps is the limit at this point. A Snickers bar and some Mentos cure my queasy ills. Far off to the east I see Popocatepetl, a 17,000' active volcano, spewing smoke and clouds into the air. I am glad to be climbing its friendly, dormant cousin, eventhough it's kicking my ass.

"As we get to the crater rim I can smell the sulfur vapors from the volcano..."

I wait for Dave near 18,000'. We have no gauging device, so I'm not sure of the elevation. Although, I think my head can serve as some sort of altimeter at this point…100 feet of elevation per thump. Dave finally catches up with me. We clasp hands briefly in exultation. As we get to the crater rim I can smell the sulfur vapors from the volcano. I look down into the deep core of the volcano, but cannot see the bottom. The sheer cliffs drop off below our feet. I see a protrusion above us, so we haven't reached the true summit.

I drag on toward the summit and call back to Dave, "This ain't it!" Apparently my grammar suffers at this high elevation. Three hundred feet ahead, I see the true summit. "This mountain does have a top!" Dave and I teeter across a thin ridge to the summit at 18,800'. It is marked by a bunch of metal and wooden crosses. Only fitting in this country which we now stand atop. Only fitting after such a trying climb. I thank God and all those guardian angels who had their eye on us. At this height I feel like I can hand-deliver my prayers to them. I dedicate this successful climb to my father who will be undergoing surgery soon. Thoughts of my family and friends take flight on the high winds.

About 30 minutes later, a lone figure limps up the mountain. I say to Dave, "Hey look, here comes that other climber. Maybe he can take our photograph up here. Wait a minute…I think, holy cow, it is…that's John!!!" He must have pulled himself up by his bootstraps. He looks very bad, but he made it. We all made it…tired, sunburned, but triumphant! This day, we are the only people to summit el pico de Orizaba.

VII. Final Thoughts…I Have Some Laundry To Do!
A friend once described the world as being naturally chaotic. It is we who harness the chaos and lend order to it. Put in simpler terms, it's like doing the laundry. When the clothes come out of the dryer they are of no use to us until we sort and fold them.

Mountaineering is much the same. The cluster of pain, exhaustion, isolation, exhilaration, and triumph mean nothing apart from the whole experience one takes away from the mountain. Sometimes, not until you clean out the "lint bin," do you finally realize what you've accomplished.

Mexico is a microcosm of the world in its rawest form…it is outwardly chaotic and overflowing with disparity. Mexico hides its soul behind a rough facade. It fends off the unobservant and challenges the adventurous. All in all, I think of the Mexican experience in terms of folding clothes that just have a little static cling.

— Joe Healey, Mountain Zone Pubster