Sometimes you have to descend from the lofty peaks to really see a country.

"The gods are not going to be happy about this," I warn Flavio Parajón, who is leading my kids and me up Nicaragua's San Cristóbal volcano. "They have high standards for human sacrifices. You don't want them to rain down locust plagues, crop failures, or some other pestilence on Central America because of the paltry offering my sweaty, bruised body represents. So slow down before you kill me." Parajón—more concerned about the ferocious noon-day sun than the wrath of the volcano gods—responds, "We need to summit before lunch."

This climb is supposed to be the bonus portion of our Nicaraguan journey, a day of easy adventure to cap off a trip designed to get the family out of our too often self-absorbed world. A familiar refrain from kids these days is, "I'm bored. There's nothing to do." Actually, there's too much to do, too many choices, but the kids frequently opt for none of the above—and do nothing.

We've come to Nicaragua primarily to meet people, especially children, who have limited or, in many cases, no choice about how they spend their time. We want to help provide some options. We're using this vacation as a way to give something to others but will most likely get more in return by way of inspiration and joy.

Oh yeah, and we're also climbing this damned volcano, Nicaragua's highest at 5,840 feet. My daughter, Erica, a college senior, has, as best as I can tell, concentrated her athletic energies for the past four years on competitive beer pong. My son Taylor's recreational focus is surfing (the Web). Neither sport is known to enhance aerobic conditioning. Based on our past climbing experiences, I assume that I'll be shouldering the heaviest backpack while conducting a sort of nonstop Tony Robbins seminar for their benefit, repeating endlessly, "You can do it. Just believe. It's only a matter of will power."

I forgot one key element—the kids are in their physical prime. I'm not. My motivational pep talk is now reduced to a mumbled, Buddhist-like chant. But instead of, Om mani padme hum, it's, "Oh, God, please get me home."

San Cristóbal, on a scale of alpine challenges, is little more than an overgrown hill. And yet today, for some reason, I'm struggling harder than a Chrysler dealership. My lungs are bankrupt; my legs could be sued for non-support; and my heart is beating so fast I worry it won't pass the stress test. Erica looks at me and suggests I not go to the top. Taylor insists on carrying my backpack. It appears the whole family will learn some unexpected lessons on this trip, including one in humility for me.

The people facing the greatest challenges in Nicaragua, however, aren't climbers but rather those living in the shadows of the volcanoes. For many, there's no summit to conquer, only another day to survive.