From the top.

It was first called Poyautécatl by the ancients, then switched to Citlatépetl – from "He who lives among the fog" to "Mountain of the Stars". Both names seem quite appropriate for El Pico de Orizaba, the tallest mountain in Mexico at 5,747 meters above sea level. I remember the first time I saw it. I was visiting Mexico for the first time, as a guest conductor for the Orquesta Juvenil del Estado de Veracruz. My host Gilberto Martínez had told me that on a clear day you could see it, but you didn't get too many clear days in Xalapa. One day I went out for a walk around the grounds of Hotel Xalapa with a cigar and a head full of thoughts. For some reason, I stopped next to one of the much-esteemed Xalapan Araucaria trees, and stared at the horizon. After a few minutes, and behind the clearing smoke of my cigar, the vision appeared. It left me absolutely stupefied. I knew how far it was from Xalapa, yet it looked massive even from this distance. I was drawn to it immediately. "I have to climb it one day" I said to myself. The day arrived only a couple of months afterwards.

When I saw this, I couldn't help remembering
that song by genius songwriter and native Orizaban
Francisco Gabilondo Soler aka Cri-Cri:
"El Comal le dijo a la Olla". This is a scene
that was likely very similar to the memory
which inspired that children's classic.

I returned to Mexico for the Orchestra of the Americas tour; we had a scheduled stop in Orizaba (Veracruz), only a few miles from the Pico. I lobbied with the orchestra's admin and the local presenters to set up a visit to the site, and many orchestra members were quite enthusiastic about the climb. The buses left early in the morning, and made four stops for acclimatization along the way. The first stop was at a scenic overlook point where a family had set up a modest eatery. The comal was warm, and fresh hand-made corn tortillas were on top. The smell was tantalizing. I sipped some black coffee while we became slowly accustomed to the thinning air. The view of the Orizaba valley below was breathtaking: rivers, forest, farms, towns, horizon, rising sun. Perfection. Every time I visit one of these places I can't help but thinking how they must have looked before we got our hands on them. Even after centuries of human intervention, this area in the border of the states of Veracruz and Puebla retains a natural magic and mysticism that is hard to explain to one who has not experienced it. It is something you can feel, smell.

First glance from the bus in Orizaba, quite far from base camp.

The last acclimatization stop was at the old Hacienda Buena Vista, a place that is the subject of many a legend. It is said that during the revolution, a band of bandits raided the hacienda, where its French landowners lived peacefully for several years. All of its inhabitants were all killed in the attack. Later raiders reported strange occurrences in the buildings and their surroundings, from cries and sounds to actual attacks with no explanation. It is said that the climbers must test their courage by spending a night at the haunted Hacienda. We did not see or hear any ghosts, but we did get our first good look at the impressive Citlatépetl rising over the surrounding hills and clouds. I had never seen anything as majestic. In that bucolic and quiet place, it is quite easy to understand why the ancients associated mountains and other geographic features with divinity.

At Hacienda Buena Vista, with Citlatépetl behind.
From L to R, Gervasio Tarragona, Guillermo Marín, Ana Catalina Ramírez and Ivan Valbuena
the clarinetists of the Orchestra of the Americas, 2011.

We finally reached the final bus stop, in Córdoba. There was a small shop which we ransacked, considering the little food we had brought with us. We were already famished, and hadn't even begun to walk. What was really disheartening was the fact that as soon as we hit the store, clouds covered the mountain, but we were determined to climb. We walked in four groups, each with a tour guide trained in all manner of rescue and first-aid skills. They explained how easy it is to suffer from accidents related to height when visiting the Pico, and recalled several stories of fatalities. Not what I would have wanted to hear when climbing, but the excitement was just too overwhelming! We walked on a path laid with hexagonal bricks, which was surrounded by farmland, mostly potatoes. They were blooming, and its white and yellow flowers seemed like something out of The Sound of Music.

The blogger and potatoes.

Field workers with their backs bent paused their work for a second to greet us with smiles. We were a bit disappointed that it became so cloudy all of a sudden. I was walking well above 4,000 meters above sea level, which is already higher than any point in my own country (Volcan Barú stands at 3,475 meters). It is the highest I have ever been. I decided to go 'swimming' in one of the potato fields to have my pic taken. Click goes the camera, and as if part of a cosmic master plan, the clouds opened almost instantly, like the hurried hand-drawn curtain of a small-town theater. And there it was.

Clouds begin to clear, and...

Citlatépetl photographed from well above 4,000 meters a.s.l.

I just stared. And stared. And stared. I had to convince myself I wasn't dreaming so that I could ask for my camera back to take a quick couple of pictures before the clouds covered it again. I can't remember what I thought those few seconds of bliss when I was simply looking at this perfect accident of the land. The impression was just overwhelming. When the clouds closed up again, we began the slow descent. Once back in town, we had to wait for the rest of the musicians who had stayed up, or were walking at a slower pace. We were extremely hungry, and having cleared the stock of the small shop before, all we had were a couple of packs of chips, water and mate courtesy of our Uruguayan clarinetist Gervasio Tarragona. There were maybe ten of us lying on the grass, making friends with the locals, greeting farm animals.

"Hola Burro" :) He was such a loud donkey!

The sheep and I.

Mexican Violinist José Luis Ramírez Cuecuecha.

It was a Mexican, my good friend José Luis Ramírez who befriended a young girl who said that we could pick peas off her yard if we were hungry. Mexicans call them chícharos. José Luis picked a bunch, and we had maybe four dozens each. One usually remembers meals because of creative flavor combinations, brilliant executions of classic dishes and such. This meal, comprised solely of mate and fresh chícharos was memorable because of the generosity of the local farmers, the company of true friends I wish I could see much more often, the magical and unforgettable views we had just witnessed, the proximity to the land and its magic. And yes: the peas were sweet, like no peas you will ever find at the supermarket, restaurant, or even farmer's market. Their texture was crunchy on the outside and tender on the inside, they were juicy and oddly filling. Perhaps it was not the peas themselves, but the whole experience which filled our hearts and made us feel satisfied. Before then, and to this day, I have not eaten anything above 3,600 meters.

José Luis displays the first of the many batches of fresh peas we shared.
The missing two were in my mouth when I took this pic.

On the way back, we all slept, exhausted from the climb. I wish I get a chance to repeat this adventure. These are the days you simply don't forget. I like having nice food at a good restaurant as much as the next guy, but there is nothing like sitting below a blue sky, with great friends, on what it seemed at the moment, the top of the world. Perhaps you now feel like going out with friends to a place nearby (or far away), where you can be in touch with nature, and share a meal with them. Go. Don't plan too much. I promise it will be unforgettable. Until next time,

 


Buen provecho!


 PS. Feel free to comment on my posts, or share your open-air, nature meal adventures, I'd love to hear from you!