I was given a skewed perspective of the volcanoes of Guatemala. Price sheets listed in bright colors throughout Antigua made the journey up the volcano seem like a fun little jaunt, a safe adventure for the whole family.

A small Israeli gentleman told me he went up twice. “You can bring hot dogs or marshmallows to cook over the lava,” he said.

I packed light—a cheese sandwich, umbrella and flashlight—and dressed in sandals and a t-shirt.

The van left Antigua at 2. It was a soggy day in September, typical for Guatemala's rainy season, which extends from May until November. A crucifix hung from the rearview mirror of a cracked windshield which read Turismo.

Seven others and I were at the mercy of the driver as he lurched up the mountains. Highways turned to streets, streets turned to roads, and roads turned to muddy paths leading to San Francisco del Sales and the entrance to Pacaya state park.

Pacaya is one of a long chain of volcanoes that dot the pacific coast of Central America. It joins with its brethren, Fuego and Aqua, in encircling the former Guatemalan Capital of Antigua. One of the most active volcanoes in Guatemala today, Pacaya is easily accessible at anywhere from 50 to 100 quetzales per person, plus the 50 quetzale park fee. Multiple options are available, including trips to all three volcanoes--a trifecta of natural wonder tourism. I figured one volcano would be enough.

Throngs of local children were waiting at the entrance to the park. The walking stick rental is an integral part of the climb. “They charge 5 quetzals, but you can talk them down,” was the advice given to me back in Livingston.

As we exited the vehicle the children descended upon us screaming, “Stick!”

“Cuánto?” I took the lead in the dance of commerce.

“Cinco!” the lead child barked out. I found it hard to haggle with a child, but chose to go on. We were, after all, discussing lease options for a chunk of wood.

“No, no. Uno,” I said. The child backed off, disgusted at such an offer.

Before I have time ponder whether I’ve committed a cultural faux pas, another child was thrusting a stick in my face.

“Un’ quetzale!” As I completed the transaction, the ten children around me dispersed in search of the next stick-less traveler.

The denizens of our van, all outfitted with walking sticks, assembled at the base of a stone path to listen to a pre-hike lecture. Our guide Francisco had a radio and a machete strapped to his belt, and a tough, beak-like nose protruding from underneath a khaki colored expedition hat.

He looked exactly like what you'd picture a mountain guide to be, except for his "Winnie the Pooh" backpack. Francisco ran through the checklist: If anything went wrong we were uniquely named “Team Pacaya.” He continued to give a rundown of the climb, but I was distracted by lingering crowds of children and stray dogs. Read More...