Seventeen thousand feet above sea level.
My face is numb. My hands are shaking.
And for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I actually paid money to do this.

Welcome to Colombia’s Nevado del Ruiz — part volcano, part legend, and part oxygen deprivation simulator.

I came here not just to climb, but to test a myth: is Colombia really as dangerous as people still think? Spoiler — it’s not. But it will try to kill you with altitude sickness before breakfast.

This wasn’t a luxury escape. It was a journey that started in chaos — a Bogotá bus terminal — and ended in silence, at 17,000 feet, surrounded by clouds and cold wind that bites through your gloves.

What it cost me in pesos is one thing.
What it gave me — that’s harder to price.

Every great Colombian adventure begins the same way: at a bus terminal that doubles as an anthropological exhibit.

For sixty thousand pesos — about fifteen U.S. dollars — I boarded a bus bound for Líbano, Tolima. Six hours, one reclining seat (barely), and a soundtrack of reggaeton, road noise, and the occasional vendor selling empanadas and instant coffee.

By the time you escape Bogotá’s gray sprawl, the world turns green again. The air smells clean, the hills roll endlessly, and you start to remember why you travel in the first place.

Lunch along the way? Grilled beef, trout, rice, and a cold beer — 33,500 pesos, or eight bucks. The view was free, and better than anything you’d find in a travel brochure.

Líbano itself is like stepping into Colombia’s analog past. A town where coffee isn’t a commodity — it’s a calling. Locals wave from doorways, invite you in for lunch, and make sure you never drink alone.

It’s not touristy. It’s alive.

And it’s the kind of place that reminds you what travel felt like before smartphones — when people were the Wi-Fi.

From Líbano, the road climbs toward Murillo — a mountain town so high the clouds feel like neighbors.

You can take a shared 4x4 for ten thousand pesos (about $2.50). Expect bumps. Expect diesel fumes. Expect to question your life choices around every turn.

Murillo sits at 2,900 meters — about 9,500 feet — which is just high enough to make your lungs protest and your coffee taste divine.

It’s cold, quiet, and absurdly charming. Streets lined with colorful houses. Locals who still wave to strangers. A pace of life that makes you forget the concept of “hurry.”

My stay? Two nights at Hostal Pachanuna — 114,750 pesos total, or about twenty-eight U.S. dollars. Thick blankets, hot showers, and a view that could make a monk emotional.

Dinner that night — tortilla, hot wine, and nostalgia — cost eight dollars. By 8 p.m., the streets were silent except for wind and barking dogs.

It felt like peace had a postal code.

4:45 a.m. The air cuts like glass. My breath fogs instantly. I sip hot chocolate — because coffee at this altitude feels like rocket fuel — and step into the pre-dawn darkness.

The tour costs 425,000 pesos (about $110) and includes transportation, a guide, breakfast, lunch, and more humility than you’re ready for.

Everyone else on the tour is Colombian — farmers, teachers, couples. I’m the only foreigner. Which means I’m either doing something right… or very wrong.

Our first stop: Armero, the ghost town buried by the 1985 eruption of Nevado del Ruiz. Twenty thousand lives lost overnight. Today, it’s quiet, heavy, and deeply human.

Colombia doesn’t erase its scars. It builds around them — and somehow, keeps smiling.

The road to the summit is both breathtaking and breath-stealing.

By the time you hit 13,000 feet, the air feels optional. At 15,000, your lungs start negotiating with your legs.

The landscape morphs from forest to fog to alien tundra. Strange fuzzy plants called frailejones dot the hillsides — nature’s water filters, drawing moisture from the air and feeding entire rivers below.

They grow about one centimeter a year. Which means most of these plants are older than the cars that brought us here — and probably wiser too.

At 4,100 meters (13,400 feet), the temperature drops to 5°C (40°F). Your fingers stop listening to your brain. But your eyes? They can’t get enough.

The world feels suspended — clouds below, volcano above, silence everywhere.

And then, suddenly, the fog breaks.

El Valle de las Tumbas. The Valley of the Tombs.

No graves — just volcanic ash, black stone, and a sense of reverence. You pay 65,000 pesos (about $17) to enter Los Nevados National Park. Cheap, considering the mountain itself seems alive.

We shout “¡Gracias!” into the wind.
And the mountain echoes it back.

For a moment, it feels like the earth answers.

Lunch: soup, rice, beef, salad, and juice. Nothing fancy. But at that altitude, it tastes like victory.

On the ride back down, we stop for sugarcane juice (6,000 pesos, about $1.50) and empanadas (8,000 pesos, $2). Because in Colombia, every adventure ends with snacks — and usually a new friend.

The total cost for two days, two nights, one volcano, and a priceless dose of perspective:
About 550,000 pesos. Roughly $137.

That’s less than a one-night hotel stay in Miami — and about the same price as a decent pair of hiking boots.

But it buys you something money can’t: the reminder that adventure isn’t about comfort.
It’s about connection.

You don’t need luxury to feel alive.
You just need altitude, curiosity, and maybe a little frostbite.

Climbing Nevado del Ruiz wasn’t about conquering a mountain.
It was about redefining Colombia.

This country isn’t dangerous. It’s real. It’s raw.
It challenges you to trade fear for discovery, comfort for curiosity.

The buses rattle. The air thins. Your lungs burn.
But somewhere between exhaustion and awe, Colombia whispers:
“See? You were never in danger — just out of breath.”