Every year in August, my friend Franky Álvarez sends out a call: “I need 300 volunteers to plant 300 trees on top of el Cerro del Cuatro.”
This “hill” is actually an extinct scoria volcano whose peak, at 1,870 meters above sea level (6,135 feet), happens to be the highest point in the Guadalajara metro area. Although 90 percent of the volcano is covered with streets and houses, at the very top you find beautiful rolling hills covered with greenery, offering the best view of Guadalajara you could ever ask for. The peak of Cerro del Cuatro would, in fact, make a marvelous park except for one thing: there is no shade to be found there at all, because there’s not a single tree to be seen.
Franky is a young man who loves nature and also practices a sport called Downhill, which consists of racing a reinforced bicycle down a horrendously steep slope at breakneck speeds along a “path” filled with rocks, ruts and ramps which shoot the speeding cyclist straight up into the air. Doesn’t that sound like fun?
Cerro del Cuatro has one of the best Downhill routes around and Franky dreams of the day this peak will offer Tapatios respite from the noisy congested city surrounding it. He has already managed to get it declared a Protected Area, but, he insists, “We have to plant some trees.”
My friend Josh Wolf is always up for what he calls, “a John Pint adventure,” so I suggested we join Franky’s crusade.
“Each of your kids can plant a tree and 20 years later come back to sit in their shade,” I suggested. “But I regret that there will be no adventure this time, because all we have to do is go to a certain 7-11 from which Franky will guide us and the horde of 300 up to the top of the Cerro.”
Simple, no? Ah, but we are in Mexico …
Like good gringos we arrived at the 7-11 half an hour early, allowing Josh’s kids a rare opportunity to thoroughly investigate the store’s seductive junk food delights.
When our meeting time of 2:30 p.m. arrived, I checked out the parking area, but there was no sign of Franky or a throng of tree planters.
I walked around shouting “Cerro del Cuatro!” in the direction of every backpacker I could see, but all I got were blank looks.
I called Franky at 3 p.m. but only got his voice mail. He called me back 15 minutes later. “Sorry, I had a flat tire and I’m now at the top of the mountain.”
“Ok,” I replied, “I’ll round up the tree-planters and lead them up there with the help of Google Maps.”
But my “last call for the Cerro del Cuatro” only resulted in more blank looks, so off we went, all alone.
“Don’t worry, Josh, it’s a paved road right up to the top,” I reassured my friend. “This will be a snap.”
Ah, but we are in Mexico …
Google Maps led us this way and that, right up to the start of a brecha, a mass of mud and rocks heading uphill at a 90-degree angle. It was a worthy challenge for the toughest Jeep, but all we had was a station wagon.
“No problem,” said Josh. “We’ll just use Mexnet,” referring to my term for rolling down the window and asking directions every ten meters – the generally efficient method by which Mexicans used to navigate before smartphones with GPS.
“But what are you doing on this side of the mountain?” said the first man we asked. “The road to the antennas is on the other side!”
This was just the first of a series of short conversations which after a while would end with an encouraging, “You’re on the right street now, just follow it straight up to the antennas.”
And then we would come to a Y, usually leading to a dead end, after which it would be back down the mountain to try again.
“OK, I give up,” I said finally. “Let’s go back home.”
Josh and his kids looked at me, as if to say, “Hey, we’re right in the middle of that John Pint adventure we wanted. Why would we stop now?”
And three minutes later we came to the cobblestone road I had been looking for the whole time. This took us straight to the top of the mountain, where 300 ready-to-plant trees were waiting for us, along with plenty of picks and shovels, but just ten people – and no Franky.
“That makes 20 trees for each of us,” I quipped. “We better get cracking.”
Fortunately, among our small group were tree experts Lourdes López and Noemi Castellón, who gave us a step-by-step mini-course in how to plant a tree properly.
It was now 5 p.m., two hours after the official start of the event, and off we went with a shovel in one hand and a guamuchil sapling in the other, looking for a good spot to make our contributions.
An hour later, as we were wiping our dirty hands on our jeans, a caravan of buses, trucks and cars appeared in the distance, creeping up the cobblestone road. Franky and the horde of 300 had arrived ... but so had big black clouds in the sky.
Somehow, in that unique Mexican way, everything had worked out. All the trees got planted, a dramatic demo of Downhill cycling took place and we managed to get off the mountain just before the heavens opened.
And, I learned a lesson. If you want a souvenir from a Mexican tree-planting event, don’t arrive on time. All the tee-shirts go to the crowd that shows up three hours late!