We met Cory and her family while traveling in Guatemala and planning a new trip for Root Adventures. Hiking at high altitudes brings a slew of mental and physical challenges, and we love how Cory embraced the experience as a growth opportunity. This article is adapted from Cory’s original blog post.
Glamping is not usually our thing. What’s the challenge in camping if you don’t set up your own tent at night or tackle the task of an epicurean meal with one can of propane and two small burners? But here we were, signing up for a trip with canvas tents, cushy air mattresses, gourmet meals, someone to lug our gear from one campsite to the next, and yes, even a toilet.
I blame the New York Times. It was just one short article last December. The headline, “With Mobile Camping, Remote Places and Light Footprints,” was enough to catch my husband’s eye. We were tossing around the idea of a vacation with our girls to celebrate our oldest daughter’s graduation from college. The girls wanted a beach in Costa Rica; my husband and I wanted something a little more active. Among other out-of-the-way places to camp, the article mentioned trekking in Guatemala. Flagging the idea as a good compromise, we shelved the idea and the paper in a basket of magazines in the central hall. Four months later we dug out the paper and in mid-May, we were on a plane to Guatemala, destined for the “best family vacation ever.”
The weeks leading up to our departure were frenzied: work for us, final exams for the girls, a graduation celebration with family, culling “things” collected in college and moving the rest back home. In between, we squeezed in what exercise we could in preparation for the trip. We live in the lowlands of coastal Alabama at an altitude 112 feet, so training for the Guatemalan highlands was out of the question. Our trek would begin at an altitude of 7500 feet, with the route’s highest point topping 9000 feet. In between camps, the trail would rise and dip with the mountains, leading us through tiny Mayan communities and across acres of fertile farmland.
Once we arrived in Guatemala, we quickly made friends with our trekking family, which expanded beyond the four of us to include the trek designer, a native Guatemalan guide, and two members of the Root Adventures team. On days two through four, local guides hired from communities along the trail would also accompany us.
The first day’s terrain was gentle, and our group was in high spirits as we walked along a wide, flat road, passing through a mist from incoming clouds. Every twist and turn was a photo opportunity–wild roses decorating the roadside, lush forests shrouded in cloud cover, and farmers carrying bundles of leafy foliage gathered to feed hungry bovine. Our first uphill ascent was challenging but not impossible, offering a chance to acclimate with fewer miles to traverse. I dug in my trekking poles and accepted helpful tips on breathing in a sort of hiker’s pranayama, sending oxygen to my blood at the high altitude.
Day two was another matter. Early on in our trip, our youngest daughter, who has a second college major in Spanish, schooled us in the difference between lo siento meaning “I am deeply sorry” and perdóname, an informal apology. The former, she said, is often used incorrectly. But day two of our trek would find those words slipping off my tongue like a native speaker.
On the map, our route looked like a rollercoaster. First uphill, then a long downhill descent to a hanging bridge, followed by the steep uphill stretch to Fuego Camp. Still in great spirits, but not yet acclimated, I seriously questioned my ability to keep pace on the first uphill leg of the day’s journey. I lagged behind, offering apologies to my trekking family.
As we snaked up the long hill single file, I silently counted my footsteps, thinking it would at least help me mark the progress. My breath sounded ridiculously loud in my ears until at some point, my yoga practice kicked in. In yoga, you use breath to move toward the pose, moving to your body’s limits, acknowledging—but not apologizing—when you’ve reached the edge. But here on the mountain, I felt as if I needed to preface my desire for every break with lo siento. Finally, I announced, “I’m not afraid to say it, I need to stop.” Equally winded from the climb, other members of our party welcomed the rest.
While it took four days of hiking to truly feel acclimated to the altitude, I moved through the day’s miles, stopping to rest without apology, excusing myself from guilt or misery whenever I made the request. Un momento, por favor (hold on, please), I said to our local guide at nearly every switchback. He patiently agreed, even offering to carry my daypack to make my climb easier. I gladly handed over the pack, grateful for both his help and my ability to recognize that limitations don’t always call for lo siento.