I land in Mexico, shedding the last traces of Canadian cold. The air is dry, thick with dust. I drive north, past cactus fields and abandoned silver mines. Hidalgo smells of warm stone and rusted metal. At dawn, I reach Santa María Regla. The Prismas Basálticos, born from volcanic fury 2.5 million years ago, rise like black organ pipes, frozen mid-collapse. Water carves between them, whispering stories Humboldt once heard. I stand close. The mist is cool on my skin. Later, in the highlands, I meet Don Emilio, his face carved by years of sun and wind. He moves slow, steady. With practiced hands, he slices into a towering agave, hollowing its heart. The sève, aguamiel, golden and thick, seeps into a gourd. He drinks first, wipes his mouth. “Come back in two days,” he says. When I return, the aguamiel has fermented. It is now pulque, thick, white, alive with bubbles. The clay pot breathes as he stirs. “It’s ready.” He hands me a cup. The first sip is strange, sour, ancient. Here, they call it “the drink of the gods.” The wind shifts. I close my eyes. The cold is gone.