It all started with the kind of optimism only three teenagers armed with All Trails and caffeine-fueled ambition could possess. Marshall, Brianna, and I had decided—somewhat impulsively—that we were going to summit Cerro Manquehue via the Santa María route to catch the sunrise. The plan felt flawless in the group chat. Execution, however, was another story.

We left at an ungodly hour, 4:00 am, in our hoodies and whispering half-lucid encouragements to each other while clutching our water bottles and gas station snacks. Santiago was still asleep, the streets quiet, and the city lights flickered below as we drove towards what we thought was the trailhead. The darkness, combined with confusing signage (or a complete lack thereof), meant we spent a good thirty minutes wandering aimlessly through brush and gravel roads, arguing softly over whether this was actually the start of the hike or just someone’s driveway.

Eventually, we stumbled upon a group of locals stretching under headlamps, decked out in full hiking gear—hydration packs, trekking poles, windbreakers, shoes that looked like they could scale Everest. They glanced over at us, three silhouettes in yoga pants, tennis shoes, and, in my case, a tennis skirt. I think one of them gave me a pitying smile, which I chose to interpret as we should turn around now, but no one agreed.

We asked if this was the trailhead. They explained the trailhead was actually blocked off and only for locals, but we could follow them through a less direct path. We followed them until we realized we were just slowing them down, so we waved them on, and they vanished up the mountain like mountain goats with GPS and purpose. When we were maybe five minutes in, not even at the trailhead yet, the girls started to doubt how realistic this hike was. We decided to keep going, and we agreed that if anyone needed to, we would all turn around. I kept going, with the doubts in the back of my mind, and ten minutes or so in, my foot caught a rock that was unstable, and it felt like my whole body gave out from under me. It was so dramtic I could have sworn it was necessary to call 911, I even imagined we did!

I landed awkwardly, one leg scratched up, dignity slightly bruised. Marshall rushed to help me up while Brianna stood above me, catching her breath and trying not to laugh. After some contemplation—mostly me clutching my knee and muttering about why on Earth I thought a tennis skirt was appropriate hiking attire—I made the executive decision:

“We’re turning around.”

And just like that, our grand plan of sunrise at the summit turned into sunrise from the parking lot. Honestly, it was still beautiful, and made for great pictures. The city below started to glow pink and gold as we sat on a rock, sipping water like it was victory champagne, and laughing at ourselves.