The Rock.

Pope Francis flew into Medellin on the same morning we left for the countryside. Our goal, mount the Rock of Guatape.

At the edge of a peninsula, the Rock is perched on a grassy hill. Its body resembles a massive humpback whale swimming up to the heavens. And its head gazes at the clouds while nudging the sky. Within the Rock’s crevice, man-made stairwells zig-zag to the top.

“I go up only once a year,” our tour guide says, as he steps into the shade of a coffee house.

I start to stretch my legs but stop when I absorb the immensity of the task, no preparation will suffice. Without ceremony, I start the ascent. Each step is manageable but the endless succession gives me pause. I look over the stairwell’s railing and see I am several stories high. At eye-level, birds fly into nests forged on the Rock’s uneven surfaces. A number drawn on the floor marks the total steps mounted: 300. I look up to scale the remainder of the climb, no end in sight. Up a couple more flights there’s a ledge where a statue of Mary and the baby Jesus stand. A tourist is panting while kneeling next to the statue’s plinth, a nod to divine power.

Despite the number of breaths I take, they escape even faster. The sweat seeps through my pores. My light blue shirt is now adorned with navy blotches scattered at the chest, armpits, and belly. The sizzle in my thighs starts to boil. I look to share my torment but my compatriots are nowhere to be seen. On this stone, I stand alone.

People of all shapes and sizes slog up the final stretch. Some pull over to catch their breath while others plop down admitting exhaustion. An eagle sores above me, or is it a vulture?

I see Alex. His shirt resembles mine in its dampness. “Ahoy there!”

“I think we passed step 600 something. We’re almost at the top,” Alex says.

Anticipating the finale, I start a sprint that feels more like I’m wading through jello. My legs are heavy and eyes are stinging. I turn at the bend to come upon the rock’s peak, I’ve arrived. I look across one edge of the rock to see deep into the valleys and rivers spanning the Western front. Making a quarter turn to my right, I see the expanse of clouds in the North, floating into an infinite blue.

The sunlight, fully bathing me, dries my sweat in moments. And my breathing begins to slow to an effortless pace. Reggaeton music is playing while vendors sell LimonCoco drinks, a candied concoction of lemonade and coconut water, my favorite. But my thirst is quenched by a swig for the senses. The Pope is in Colombia, but today I’m close to God.