The van climbs half the mountain for us--unfortunately it´s the bottom half of the 2,250 meter mound of ash and rock. Immediately upon opening the van doors, we are surrounded by pre-teen boys offering ¨steeks¨--well-trimmed and reasonably sturdy staffs for walking. On first blush, their pitch could be dismissed as another in a string of tourist gambits, but the three Quetzales I put down for one turned out to be the best investment of my month-long trip.

Equally pursuasive were the men with worn-down horses. They called each beleagued steed a ¨taxi¨ in what could pass in perfect NYC cadence. And while none of our group commissioned one, they followed in something of an ambulance-chaser routine until they sized-up our footwear and fortitude.

The climb was formitable for the approximately five km. assent. At one point the path crosses a valley of sand above the tree line and enters an expanse of grapefruit-size and razor-sharp lava stones. As the degree of assent increases so too does the heat from the stones, warming our feet through the soles of our boots and singeing the hairs on any bare legs.

The path narrows and we followed one behind another with the rare (me) walker breaking off to establish a new route with larger, sharper stones, but along a less worn and slippery slope. The path we were on, we were told, was the path of the lava flow only one day before. Now, the epicenter of heat and flow from it was slightly west, between us and the setting sun.

I also moved ahead sensing that when we finally reached our destination at or near the top, we would fall into an order of viewing based on our arrival and we´d be running low on the daylight needed to descend. I moved ahead, and the ¨steek¨ proved particularly helpful in balancing oneself on the shifting mountainside now boiling below the surface. Several missteps were arrested only by planting the ¨steek¨ deep into the rocky surface and praying quickly that it found something sturdy before my lower body did.

As we reached the pinnacle, we had closed ground on the group before us, putting two-dozen of us strung out like beads on a string along the path that ended at a field of bubbling molten magma. In positioning for a decent photograph of the red-hot, oozing lava, two other groups came into view, now climbing toward the summit. Our guide attempted to corral his minions as he unsuccessfully dissuaded the other two groups from pressing further forward along the only narrow hillside pass. The sun and its temperatures were in fast descent--unlike us--and it appeared to me a prudent time to head down. Memories of Jon Krakauer and Rob Hall arrested further ambition.

It took the last 30 minutes of daylight to get off the peak and onto a plateau where the ¨taxis¨ awaited in a renewed appeal for riders. Once reunited, our group behind our Guatemalan guide headed back down the hillside by another route--this one through the darkness along a wooded switch-back trail that led toward the distant lights of Guatemala and further still, Antigua. We all wore headlights, which probably gave the impression of a glow worm squirming along the slope.

It was an amazing trek, with the occasional break in the canopy to see glimpses of Volcano Pacaya´s red glow behind us and the now-dark silhouettes of volcanos Fuego, Agua, and Acatenango in the distance.

After an hour of walking, near the opening to the parking lot and the last-chance tienda for beverages and marginally clean water, a familiar gaggle of boys eagerly worked the walkers to re-collect our steeks. The unspoken custom of the afternoon´s sales pitch, it seemed, turned on whether we bought the steeks or merely rented them. I voted for the retroactive rental agreement as did the rest of the group and we turned them in to be restored to a fresh state and sold again.

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