Sobrevivimos

by John Dewald (United States of America)

Making a local connection Nicaragua

We sat in the mouth of the crater draped in a blanket of mist. The volcanic fumes leaching through the cracked earth did little to warm us, but they did make the air reek of rotten eggs. Despite the stench, I inhaled deeply. I was tired. On a clear day, you could see the Pacific Ocean and Volcán Cosiguina. You could even see across the Golfo de Fonseca to the jungle covered peaks of Honduras and El Salvador. But it wasn’t a clear day, so we stared instead at the rough black grit and damp volcanic ash in which we huddled. Large wasps and metallic green beetles scattered the ground. They were drawn to the natural magnetism of the volcano’s iron deposits. The fumes had killed them. What had drawn me here? “Hermano, we will tell them about San Cristobal,” said Noel, my co-guide. He only spoke Spanish. I translated as Noel rattled off the facts. Our clients listened intently, happy to have something more to do than shiver in the cold. “1,745 meters tall… highest volcano in Nicaragua… crater five hundred by six hundred meters… stratovolcano… Ring of Fire… high silica content… cone shaped… active volcano...” “It’s safe to climb?” interjected one of the clients anxiously. A redhead in her mid-twenties, she taught calculus in Canada. “Safe enough,” I said smiling. “There are warning systems; coming up, we passed a concrete shack that monitors the volcanic activity. I’ll point it out on the way back.” Noel had also said that the first time he’d come to climb San Cristobal, it erupted while he was in the parking lot tying his boots. He’d been struck by bits of rock and hot ash. He laughed at my shocked expression. Then he told me that two months ago, our friend Marden was guiding a group up the volcano when it erupted once again. The clients panicked and ran. It took Marden hours to find everyone—one man was hiding in a cave crying and didn't want to come out. The eruption destroyed part of the trail. It was lucky no one was hurt. It was also lucky none of the clients spoke Spanish. I doubted they would’ve appreciated Noel’s stories. It was impressive how calmly he sat on the crater’s rim having experienced the volcano’s unpredictable personality firsthand. We decided to head down a few minutes later. Without a view, there was no reason to remain in the cold. Noel lead the way; I stayed in the back to keep track of everyone. Constantly slipping on the loose gravel that covered the heat-hardened slope, we descended through the phantasmagoric landscape of crumbling black scoria and white skeletal trees. My legs shook from fatigue. I fell twice, sliding into shallow, rocky ravines. We took a break just above the tree line. Exhausted, I feasted on honey roasted peanuts and listened to the chirping, buzzing symphony echoing up from the jungle below. His face taut with worry, Noel approached me clutching his cellphone. “It’s Emma. She says get down. Volcanic activity is increasing.” The group’s concerned eyes searched my face for understanding. Quickly consulting with one another in Spanish, Noel and I decided to avoid inducing panic. “One of the other guides is lost,” I explained. “Our boss wants help.” “That’s it?” questioned the redhead doubtfully. “Yeah, they need us back. Sorry.” Doing our best to play calm, Noel and I got the group moving. The clients seemed tense. I was happy to be in the back. I didn’t want to talk. What would an eruption be like? A flash? A roar? Shaking ground, falling rock, then chaos? Too high on adrenaline to be scared, I felt giddy. I forced myself to relax. I needed to keep my cool. I owed it to Noel. We were a team—brothers. On prior trips, we’d faced angry bulls, floods, lightning, and swarming bees. Now, this. The wasps had come to the volcano to die. We were there to thrive. When we finally reached the bottom, Noel smiled and put his arm around my shoulders. “Sobrevivimos. We survived.” “We” meant “everyone.” Noel and I said that to one another after every trip. That day was no different. We survived.