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The view from Volcรกn Pacaya. Fuego, another active volcano, periodically shoots up puffs of smoke
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WORDS | LEILA KALMBACH IMAGES | SUPPLIED
PERCHED ABOVE MOLTEN ROCK
There’s something about volcanoes that captures the imagination. Maybe it’s the thought that huge geological formations can change shape in an instant. Maybe it’s the thought of solid, predictable rocks melting into glowing neon streams. Maybe it’s the thought of all that pressure building up to the point where explosion is the only answer, and the corresponding destruction of anything that gets in its way. TASMANIAN LIFE | 99 TASMANIAN LIFE | 99
The campsite halfway up Volcán Pacaya overlooks volcanoes Acatenango, Fuego and Agua.
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or me, all of these contributed to the appeal of climbing and camping on Volcán Pacaya, an active volcano near Antigua, Guatemala. Pacaya had been experiencing gentle, almost continuous eruptions — called Strombolian eruptions, as compared to the more explosive Plinian eruptions — since 1965. When you visit most protected natural environments, you know that the landscape looked roughly the same 50 years before, and will look the same in another 50 years. One of the thrills of climbing a volcano like Pacaya is that the landscape may change at any time: the top could blow, or the opposite, the eruptions could stop — and in fact, since the time I visited Pacaya in July of 2009, the volcano has evolved quite a bit. I was in Guatemala with my mother to attend Spanish-language immersion classes, but we stopped off in Antigua first for a weekend trip to the volcano. My mum and I have gone to language school together on an almost-annual basis for the past few years, and at each destination I seem to find myself persuading her to do something fun, adventurous and perhaps a bit foolish — for instance, the year before in Mexico, when I’d persuaded her to climb a huge cliff that overlooked the city of Guanajuato, not realizing just how wet and slippery the climb would be. At nearly 60, my mum was in great shape, but we’d both been relieved when we got back to the ground. Now, in Guatemala, we were ready for a new adventure. At the base of the volcano, we rented walking sticks from young Guatemalan children who jostled each other out of the way to show us how superior their sticks were to the others’. Our tour guide, Sophie, an energetic French-Canadian in her early 20’s, recommended we get two — a suggestion that did not seem like overkill for long. We started our ascent through dense rainforest, full packs on our backs. The earth beneath our feet turned increasingly black as we climbed, and the forest smelled rich with plant life. After an hour’s walk, we emerged from the rainforest and came to our campsite, a small, flat area perched on the edge of a steep decline. It overlooked three other volcanoes, Acatenango, Fuego and Agua. We set up camp and enjoyed the view, a green valley into which wild stratocumulus clouds were settling. Behind them, the sweeping rise of the other volcanoes and nearby hills and mountains, framed by wispy 100 | TASMANIAN LIFE
clouds, stood in a dark silhouette against the disappearing sun. When the colours began to change into darker yellows and tans, we left our campsite to start up to the lava. The rainforest soon gave way to an eerie, barren Martian landscape composed of mounds of volcanic pebbles and soil. Ahead of us, we could see other groups winding down the volcano like ants on an anthill. The rock under our feet got coarser as we climbed, and the ascent got steeper. Behind us, the sun was setting over the other volcanoes, and sheets of clouds played in the rays of light. Every few minutes, Fuego, also an active volcano, shot a puff of smoke into the technicolour sunset. The volcanic rubble slid under our feet, making progress both difficult and treacherous. With every step forward, we slid back a half step. Wind threw my dark hair across my face, obscuring my vision. The bigger rocks were so brittle that they could crumble under our weight, and I realized that a twisted ankle or broken wrist was a real possibility. As the light faded, I got increasingly worried. I had persuaded my mum that this climb would be perfectly safe, and now here we were, slipping and sliding on the side of an active volcano, sharp rocks lacerating us with every fall, the temperature dropping rapidly, and climbing further and further from our camp while the last rays of light disappeared. I heard my mum’s sharp intake of breath as she skidded and fell, and I whipped around. “Are you OK?” I asked nervously. But she’s one tough mama. Finally, we rounded a curve and were hit by a wave of heat. The rubble gave way to unbroken expanses of rippled black rock. This was fresh lava last week, Sophie told us. We climbed over it toward the source of the heat, no longer ascending now. From some angles, the heat disappeared; from others, it was fierce. The wind whipped around us. The other volcanoes and the green expanse leading to them had dropped away; there was only rock. And then it appeared: an orange glow, oozing and tumbling lazily down the side of the volcano and out of view. The sight was mesmerising. Heat radiated from the fissures in the rock we were
The author and her mum
It was now fully dark. Periodically, a chunk of rock would detach from the side of the volcano and flow downward with the lava. climbing over. Three metres away from the lava, we stopped. It looked like a stream of honey made from fire. Sophie pulled marshmallows out of her bag and stuck them on the end of a long stick, then crouched down to roast them in a heatemitting crevice. She offered the end of the stick to us, but the wind blew it into my mum’s hair. I tried to pull the marshmallow gunk out with frigid, clumsy fingers, but ended up just spreading it onto my hands as well, which collected volcanic dust and tiny rocks for the rest of the hike. It was now fully dark. Periodically, a chunk of rock would detach from the side of the volcano and flow downward with the lava. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, though I was anxious about the next part of our trip, the descent. There was something magical about watching rock behave in ways that rock does not normally behave — knowing that it was recently solid and would soon be again. Despite my fears, descending the volcano was not nearly as scary as it had seemed. We wore headlamps, which focused me on my next perilous step, not the many still to come. With every step, we sunk into the rubble and slid a few extra inches, falling backwards frequently. At times, the descent was so steep I sat down and slid. My shoes quickly filled with sharp rocks. Behind us, a second stream of lava floated in and out of view in the darkness as we made our way back to camp. One of the best views of this stream was mere metres from our tents. From our angle, the lava travelled straight down the edge of the steep volcano, flowing heavier one minute, lighter the next, with balls of fire tripping down on top of the stream, hitting other rocks and shattering into glowing fragments that bounced their way down the volcano. In the morning, as we packed up the tents, the wind tossed a rolled sleeping pad down the steep, brush-dotted decline where we were camped. In my eyes, it looked like a hunk of molten rock tumbling down the hill.
In May of 2010, Pacaya began a new stage in its continual evolution. The volcano experienced a Plinian eruption that shot molten rock high into the air. Ash from the volcano blanketed the nearby cities of Antigua, Guatemala City and Esquintla, temporarily shutting down the country’s international airport. The eruption went on for days, and people from around the world came to see the fireworks, though all tours to the volcano had been cancelled from the moment volcanologists saw the eruption coming. Now, the volcano has changed. Its whole top was blown off, and the rainforest that grew around its base is gone. Pacaya is still simmering, and geologists predict lava will build up to the point where it begins drizzling out again sometime next year. Visitors from around the world flock to the volcano, and scientists carefully follow its activity to ensure that it’s a safe trek. The Pacaya that visitors experience today is just as beautiful and unique as what I saw in 2009. Pacaya is an ever-changing landscape, so no matter when you visit, the climb is truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Now, visitors hike around the lava fields below the cone. They peak into fumaroles, or steam vents leading up from the activity below. They look down a hole that connects to a lava tube flowing underground. They go inside a sauna-like cave heated by volcanic activity. At night, they can sometimes see the glow of lava peeking out from the cracks of the volcano. The cracks, hot enough still to roast marshmallows or cook sausages, belie what lies beneath: the power of a volcano — to change the landscape, to change solid into liquid, and to change the lives of both those who live nearby and those who visit from far away. If you go… O.X. (Outdoor Excursions) runs tours to Volcán Pacaya out of Antigua, Guatemala. The cost is $69 U.S. ($69 Australian at time of printing) for an overnight trip to the volcano. This includes the park entrance fee, private transportation from Antigua, a guide, dinner and breakfast, wine and all camping gear. O.X. and other local companies also offer day trips up the volcano. TASMANIAN LIFE | 101