Above San Felipe del Agua August 7, 2022
It is a rare event that I find myself surrounded by a dozen Yanquis, but here we are together, all new arrivals, to explore the hills directly north of the city above the last neighborhood, called San Felipe del Aqua. It is a five mile hike, mostly up, as the “Oaxaca Expats Hiking Group” exits the 8-pesos city bus at its final stop. Here I am reminded of how far Centro Historico is from nature. In San Cristobal, one could choose a direction and be in forested hills within a 30-minute walk, whereas here wheels are required to reach the city outskirts.
New constructions along the half-finished traverse road show how the edge of Oaxaca City is ever-expanding. If someone is going to dig a foundation on this hill, it will necessarily involve breaking through rock. The shale here is pale-red and crumbly but still solid enough to justify the jackhammers that rumble through the future neighborhood. Homeowners up here will have money, to be sure. They are paying for tranquility, relative security, and an unparalleled view of the bustling city below.
At mile 0.5, our group leaders, Angel y Daniel, veer onto a mule trail that begins the ascent. The ultimate destination of this trail is the summit of the highest rounded summit, Peña Boluda de San Felipe, but our late start keeps us from getting anywhere near the summit. Besides, as becomes immediately evident, these hikers are more interested in mingling than mountaineering.
Naz, an American originally from Syria, worries about the lack of water—in the world, in Oaxaca, and, at this moment, in his empty little bottle. He seems to be worrying quite a bit, fearing his new country, the USA, is falling apart and rapidly becoming unlivable. And yet, returning to Syria is not an option. So he landed in Oaxaca suddenly determined to learn Spanish. He quickly fell in love with his Spanish teacher but found himself overwhelmed and ultimately defeated by her “latina passion,” her insistent demands on their budding relationship, and some undefined anger. He is very interested to know what I think of Chiapas and Guatemala. I tell him that water is a problem there as well. I have no comment on the women.
Like many who signed up for the “medium hike,” Naz is unprepared for the hot sun and steep climb. He is wearing city shoes. The exhausted hiker chooses wisely to pick a shade tree and wait for the group’s descent, where he is joined by Holly, freshly arrived from Dallas with a digital nomad gig. She is also out of water, and she is out of breath at 6800 feet. Fortunately, their tree offers good cover, and the two can keep each other company with stories about their latest romantic heartbreaks. All of the young hikers today seem reluctantly single, hurt, and scared of their prospects in this strange country. None speak Spanish. In an odd twist, they see me as some sort of sage who has figured everything out. I only hint at the delusion.
Further up the trail,we leave the hillside fields of corn and young agave and enter more wild scrub growth, consisting of thorny brush, dry oak, and red-wood trees with thin fern-like leaves, perhaps jacaranda or tabachin. Hopeful vultures circle overhead. At a highpoint along this ascent to the saddle, we come across a small stone pylon. It might be a geologic survey marker, but someone suggests a tombstone, perhaps that of Porfirio Diaz. He did think quite highly of himself.