7,500 feet

The cloud forests of Ixtlan blew my mind. We drove two hours in the rain up windy roads, and into a cloud. The entire time we drove upwards at a high grade, the engine of our van grunting and groaning. You couldn't see very far ahead or off to the side. Occasionally we would pass towns, discernible only because of road signs and a cluster of fruit stands. We'd also pass signs for trucha (trout) followed by a trucha-serving shack clinging to a curva peliagrosa of the of the road, precariously protruding over the edge of the cliff, looking as if the next downpour might wash it off.

We arrived in Ixtlan, a village at 7,000 feet in the Sierra Norte, skipped the promised comida (with a shrug in place of an explanation), donned our rain gear and set off to climb the long set of stairs - past yards full of dogs, chickens, donkeys, and curious children - to the trail head. We first walked through a field of cows, with random cacti sprouting along the path. At 7,500 feet, we entered a forest full of tall deciduous trees, and a muddy ground covered with rotting black leaves. There were ferns everywhere. At 8,000 feet, the tree trunks turned green with fuzzy lichen, and we discovered a number of species of orchids in bloom in weather conditions that were anything but tropical. Higher still, around 9,000 feet, the ground cover turned red with pine needles. The pine trees covered in drooping moss gave the misty forest a sinister, somber look. Among the spooky trees, an occasional flowering bush covered in what looked like orange silly string would lighten the mood.

The forest was also full of beautifully iridescent, but poisonous mushrooms. Every now and then, our guide Ivan would stop us to describe in great detail just how fast and in what manner a certain species of mushroom would kill us.

Gasping for breath, swallowing continuously to make our ears pop, feeling dizzy, we reached 11,000 feet, and climbed a rickety observation tower that afforded views of... absolutely nothing. We were soaking wet, but exhilarated from the hike. Our guide then led us down the gulf side of the mountain in order to show us yet another variety of forest - ground covered in vine, trees wrapped in moss, and temperatures another 10 degrees lower than at the top of the mountain, somewhere in the 40s.

We descended, dined on trout (our tourguides realized they would have a fit on their hands if I didn't get the promised trout), and retired to our cabins. Unfortunately, the cabins had neither heat nor hot water (the firewood provided was too soggy to burn), nor enough blankets to actually keep us from freezing in the night.

The next morning, following a hearty breakfast of huevos, beans and three cups of café con leche, we set off on another hike - a shorter one this time - along the side of a steep hill of a ravine. We hiked through a forest straight out of Dr. Seuss with blooming bromeliads covering every tree. A bromeliad is a tropical plant, of the pineapple family, whose spiny, stiff leaves look like the leafy top of a pineapple. A blooming bromeliad will have a long shoot of red gladiolas-like flowers protruding from the middle. I'm not sure whether they're parasitic or symbiotic, but these plans covered the tress of the forest through which we walked. Every now and again we would stumble upon a bromeliad that had outgrown itself, when its shallow roots grasping the bark of the tree could no longer support its bodyweight and it would tumble onto the path. These crazy plants made the whole forest look like something out of a fairy tale. I imagined that the whimsical alebrijes of Arazola (animals carved from wood and painted in bizarre colors) - two-headed giraffes, purple cats, mermaids with a sow's head - would peek from between the trees at any moment.