While last weekend's trip to Volcán Acatenango was a brutal, soul crushing experience in many aspects, it was not without its moments of glory, beauty, and fun.
Glory for conquering what at times seemed unconquerable.
Beauty in the paisajes and scenery that surrounded us.
And fun for the guns.
Don’t get to thinking that I trekked a day and a half with 10 Guatemalan soldiers armed with automatics, pistols, and machetes and did not bother to ask to at least feel the power of cold, hard death in my hands.
Before making our descent Sunday morning from the campsite our security detail got a bit restless waiting on our group to pack up. While my good Canadian friend Kat and I run on good old North American values, like punctuality, our Chapin counterparts were running behind schedule (surprise, surprise). While Kat took to snapping photos of her bag of Beef Jerky at 4,000 meters above sea level to pass the time, the soldiers had a better idea in mind.
A few, giddy soldiers made their way to a small hill by our campsite and I began to wonder what was stirring. I soon heard, “We’re gonna go shoot some shit if anyone is interested…” (loose translation), and like a good American I sprang into action.
At such altitudes we quickly realized there was nothing much to actually shoot at. Options included: 1) a grassy shrub, 2) some lava ash, and 3) the clouds. As none of these were neither exciting nor logical, we were excited when someone finally rummaged up an empty can of beans. With blustery winds at the top of the volcano it was hard to get the can to stay still, but nothing was going to rain on this shooting parade and some determined soldiers put the defenseless can into place.
Guatemalan soldier firing at nothingness
Soldiers went one by one: Shoot. Miss. Pass the gun. Repeat. Not too impressed by the accuracy of their shots I began to see why Guatemala might be losing the war against better-trained, Mexican drug cartels. With credit given to their argument that the strong winds affect the bullet’s trajectory, I respectfully remain skeptical of Guatemala’s GI Joes.
However, I of course was not much better at all. I completely missed the target and your guess is as good as mine as to where that bullet ended up after making its way over the volcano-side. However, none of that takes away from the glory of firing my first *real firearm.
Me shooting just as poorly
*The Emeott household did have at least 2 BB Guns while growing up, which certainly do not classify as real firearms. As an aside, this is certainly one of the most unsafe purchases a family can make for boys ranging in ages 9-15. Two instances come to mind in support of this assessment: 1) placing a willing friend into a large cardboard drum so we could shoot at him in our own version of “shooting fish in a barrel,” and 2) arming 1 friend with the BB Gun and another neighborhood friend with a bow & arrow, so we could have them “play” Cowboys & Indians. “Play” defined as the two running around our backyard shooting their respective weapons at each other until 1 surrendered.
Note: the friend designated to play the Indian is of Middle Eastern descent, which was an innocent mistake at the time and not racial profiling due to his brown skin.
We then took advantage of the next few minutes before descending from the volcano to snap a few power photos. Not able to fire the automatic weapon, I still felt pretty big just holding that guy in my cold, dead hands!
Protecting the volcano
Kat and her guitar
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