The Journey of Cerro Manquehue

When I studied abroad in Santiago, Chile last year, a group of students from my program went to climb Cerro Manquehue one weekend. For some reason or another, I didn't go with them, but heard horror stories of how difficult it was. They did not reach the summit, but texted the program group chat with photos of them suffering dramatically during the hike. Two students went back later and made it to the summit, determined to conquer what had conquered them previously. With this in mind, when I found out that I was returning to Santiago this summer, of course one of my goals was to hike Cerro Manquehue.

I am not a particularly athletic person, but I have gone on a good number of hikes and camping trips throughout my life. I am nowhere as intense as others--I've never been backpacking--but I do love spending time outside in nature. I thought that with a good amount of food and water, and a few companions, Cerro Manquehue would be a fun and challenging experience. So I invited the other interns of Bosque Santiago to come with me on a lovely Sunday in July.

The other two international interns and I met up at the Escuela Militar metro station at about 9:15am and took a micro together to the trail entrance. Luckily, one of the interns, my friend from Italy, had already done the hike before, and knew where to go. (The other intern, my friend from England, said that Cerro Manquehue was higher above sea level than anywhere in England, but he was up for trying anyway.) My Italian friend decided it would be best if we took the shorter route up and the longer route down, because I wanted to get to an event by 5:00pm. The hike was supposed to take about two and a half hours each way.

After fifteen minutes of hiking up the very first hillside (in a sequence of three or four hills, depending on what you counted as a hill), I felt my vision start to blur out and had to sit down, afraid that I would faint. The trail was extremely steep and barely there, with zero trail markers. Thank God for my Italian friend, or we would have been completely lost. After I recovered from the initial shock to my body, I decided I was alright to keep going. I was far too stubborn to turn back--I had to prove that I was able to conquer Cerro Manquehue.

The way up alone took over three hours. My Italian friend was way ahead of me, and my British friend was in-between us. I had to keep taking breaks what felt like every ten steps. It felt like the summit kept moving farther and farther away. Gnats landed on my forehead and drowned in my sweat. At a rare flat part of the journey, I had to lie down flat on my back for a breather, despite the rabbit droppings everywhere. I was using my hands almost as much as my legs as I navigated parts of the trail with loose rocks underfoot.

Yet, it was beautiful and peaceful. The noise of the city faded to a distant hum. The sun mostly stayed behind the clouds, a blessing. A pair of tiuques accompanied us on our journey. I was full of joy even in the midst of my unexaggerated suffering.

Eventually, somehow, I stumbled my way to the summit, a few minutes after my British friend. A breeze cooled my bright red face and danced with the Chilean flag planted at the top. There were several other groups of Chileans and tourists who were picnicking and taking photos. I collapsed in the middle of everything and couldn't get up again until I had eaten my packed lunch, apologizing breathlessly to the people who had to walk around me. My companions fared much better than I did, and jokingly made fun of how dramatic Americans are (which I suppose is true).

I figured the way down Cerro Manquehue would be much easier than the way up, and I was wrong. The loose rocks and dirt and the steepness of the trail were a dangerous combination. My friends watched me fall over and over again, and fell a few times of their own as well. I ended up filthy and more than one of us started bleeding from sharp rocks and sticks. The Europeans were maddeningly calm. By the time we made it to the bottom of the trail, it was 4:00pm and there was no way I was making it to my event at 5:00pm.

But the hike ended in another victory: on the road down from the trail, a pick-up truck let us hop into the truck bed to hitch a ride to the freeway! Getting to rest our feet after the two hours down was incredible, and the kindness of a stranger made it that much sweeter. The air rushing past us felt so good after the treacherous hike. It really made the hike complete.

Though my friends continued to lovingly make fun of me for being both a bad hiker AND dramatic, I was very happy and proud of myself and all of us for making it all the way to the summit. Maybe Americans aren't very calm or logical, but we can turn a hike into a story of sweat, blood, bonding, and getting up after you fall. And of course, major bragging rights in my old program group chat.