After a couple relaxing yet essentially uneventful weekends in Mexico City following my wonderful Christmas/New Year's home visit, I finally ventured out into the great unknown. Although we didn't reach the destination originally intended for our camping trip, my 4 hiking cuates (buddies) and I still walked an enjoyable line between arduous and relaxing this weekend.
The plan was to summit Tlaloc, a 4,100-meter high inactive volcano on the eastern rim of the Valley of Mexico. We took a 1.5-hour long bus ride towards Puebla, getting off at the unremarkable town of Río Frio, a tiny pocket of a community that, despite living at the base of Tlaloc, has a limited desire to climb the mountain (unless, of course, for illegal logging or sprinkling cow pies down on the woods like rain). We got off the bus and hopped in a cab with Pedro, who regaled us with tales of his unbridled passion for pizzas and Whoppers from San Francisco, all while taking us to a really far end of the mountain (or, a 7-plus hour hike to the summit). We hiked and hiked and hiked, occasionally seeking directions from villagers guiding donkeys burdened with firewood down the trail. With a 30-pound pack on my back and short stubby legs, I managed to remain in last place for most of the time. But the tasty pasta salad I was carrying was worth the hunchback.
We hiked uphill for a few hours, mostly on paths or in small riverbeds but sometimes through steep rocky brush. Realizing we'd never make it to the summit in this lifetime, we aimed for some pretty-looking cliffs instead. On the way, we found a nice flat clearing to set up camp, which just to happened to be positioned directly in front of Iztaccíhuatl and Popocatépetl, respectively the third and second highest mountains in all of Mexico. Distance but clear views could be seen of the snowy tops of La Malinche and Pico de Orizaba, Mexico's sixth and first highest peaks. You would have thought we'd aimed to find this spot, the view was so spectacular. Tents pitched and bonfire started, we sat around on fungus-y logs as the hot and sunny day blended into a clear chilly night. The mountains turned pink, then purple, then black as the sun set, and an impressive number of stars far exceeded the measly three or four bright spots that peek through the Mexico City smog at night. We even roasted smushed PB&Js in the fire, a last-ditch effort to both salvage the misshaped bread lumps and to simulate making s'mores. Nighttime involved me snuggling blissfully into my brand new sleeping bag (replete with a hood), until the wind against the tent sounded like angry cows laying more pies and the rock-solid ground slowly ruined my ethereal fetal position.
In the morning, we slept through the glaring bright sunrise until 9 a.m., then polished off the pasta salad and granola bars (er, and Snickers) before setting off on an amazingly easy and quick hike downhill (isn't that always the case?). On the breezy descent, we looked out across the valley and saw the summit, the faintest hint of Aztec ruins appearing through the pines. Then we (I) cursed Pedro and his affinity for hamburgers and disdain for the great outdoors. Our exit led us through the makeshift humble homes of the nondescript Río Frio; after stopping for a quick quesadilla break, we caught a bus back to Mexico City off the highway. And showered immediately after we got back.
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