Ya tú sabes

Never. Again.

That's pretty much what I was thinking most of my waking hours (oh, and "sleeping" hours, too) the weekend before last as I climbed up and down.. and up and down.. the highest mountain in the Caribbean, Pico Duarte.

You may have noticed the seeming excitement in my last post about the coming 5 day ordeal over our the long weekend that coincided with the Dominican version of President's Day (the birthday of Juan Pablo Duarte, namesake of aforementioned mountain peak). Well, folks, that was the optimism of a man in extreme denial. I had a vague idea that I'd be doing some hiking, but since it was over several days and in such a lush, tropical destination, I think I assumed it would be a peace of cake. (I think another part deep inside realized how difficult it would be but shut up so I would get some much-needed exercise). Besides, other mountains that I've gone very high on--in the Smokies, for example--are pretty easily accessible by car for most of the way. Even at Chimborazo in Ecuador we took a bus almost up to the extent of the ice itself.
Pico Duarte has no ice, even in January (excepting a few frosty rocks in the morning) but what Dominican mountains lack in snowpack they make up for with a surprising steepness.

So, on the afternoon of Thursday, January 27th, several American friends and I met with our Dominican friend Jocabed and her family and friends at the church in Santiago where her father is pastor. After much preparation (and bags and bags of food that would be carried up the mountain on mules, along with our bultos and sleeping bags) we set out and finally reached our first destination a few hours later high up in the mountains at the edge of the national park that includes the pico. The head ranger of the park (who looked like a young Fidel Castro/Santa Claus mix) gave us a solemn talking-to about the importance of caring for the environment and then I spent the first of several nights outside in what turned out to be very, very cold (at least for the D.R., and for sleeping outside).

We woke up before dawn, cranky and still half-asleep, only to share a hurried breakfast and pack the mules before setting right out into the half-darkness of the woods. I quickly figured out "hiking" was less an apt description than "wading-through-knee-deep-mud" uphill. At some point hours later, the mud mellowed a bit and the jungly surroundings transformed into the ferns and dense conifers of a temperate rainforest, and later on into spiky grasses and sparse,broken pines higher up. I filled my water bottle from springs that feed two of the biggest rivers on the entire island (better than the tap, for sure) along the way, and after more climbing (and some rocky descending) I made my way to the base camp some 9 hours after leaving that morning--though I was ended up being the 4th or so of our 25-person group to arrive.

That night in the tent (the previous night had been under an open-air pavilion), I slept more soundly because of how tired I was, but I couldn't help but feel the wind cutting through the canvas walls, especially considering we had climbed more than a mile in elevation that day. Another pre-dawn departure and a few hours more of climbing--this time with some pleasant back and forth Spanish/English with Jocabed's brothers Juan and Jonatán-- until we reached the actual Pico Duarte. A scramble up to the boulders at the top afforded a view not only of Duarte's bust and the bandera dominicana waving in in the breeze, but also a view of most of the island. I saw the Cibao valley to the north, where Santiago lay hidden, but also the mountainous east where Haiti lay and even Lake Enriquillo far to the south and beyond. It was an amazing sight and helped to make the trip more worth more than just a few aching joints.

The unfortunate trip back down to base camp later that morning was less enjoyable: in fact, some ill-timed stomach issues had me hurrying back in the increasing heat, curses increasing as the elevation decreased. Luckily I made it back in time (whew) and didn't have to suffer the fate that Jordan, a fellow traveler, did when she twisted her ankle later that day--and consequently had to (or got to, depending on your outlook) ride one of the smelly, depressing mules the rest of the trip. The rest of the day was spent slipping and sliding down a different mountain, exchanging stories amongst ourselves until we made it down to the valley where we spent the night and the next day (Sunday) resting and exploring the freezing-cold river.

The final day (Monday--el Día de Duarte) we had to dig our way back up out of the valley, this time in a mist that played with being real rain before reaching the ridge from which we could once again go downhill. Needless to say, I was already soaked even before we reached our old friend from the first day- the lodo, or mud. Climbing up mud and slipping down it are two entirely different things, however, and even though I looked like a mud-wrestler by 2:00, I felt more like a mud-surfer (since such things exist). It's hard to describe how I felt when I finally got back to the camp from the first night, but the tears of joy/exasperation on some of my friends' face when they got back said it all. I realized later I had gotten significantly tanner (despite copious sunscreen) and had lost I'm guessing at least 5 pounds, judging from my waistline, so there's that. And the amazing pictures (see facebook soon). And the fact that I climbed a mountain. Ok, so in retrospect it sounds a lot better, as I new it would, but for the first few days after I got back all I could do was stare blank-eyed at those who asked about the trip.

Last week at school was pretty uneventful, and I'm pretty sure that I did something on Friday but can't remember what at all. Sunday (yesterday, the 5th) though was a trip once again to the north coast, this time to the Parque Nacional la Isabella, where is located the first European settlement in the New World (barring those confused vikings in Newfoundland). All that's left are a few skeletons and low walls (and the ruins of Columbus' relatively swanky sea-view hut). That afternoon we visited two different beaches, the first warm and shallow where I found a beautiful finger-length shell that unfortunately already had an owner (who liked to pinch fingers), and the second deep and open with large waves farther out. At this beach, Playa Grande, I also ran into (literally) a few sea urchins and still have the spines in my hand and foot to prove it--though some others (here's looking at you, David) had it a lot worse than me. This beach trip was more than needed, especially after the previous weekend, but it unfortunately ended up with a ton of homework for a parcial or midterm that I was supposed to have this morning in literature class. Luckily the exam was moved, as I was extremely underprepared, but I still didn't get to experience much of the carnaval celebrations going on a block or two up the street at the Monument last night. As it's a month-long thing though, I've got more than enough opportunities left, including next Sunday when I'll be going to La Vega to see the most famous carnaval celebrations in the country. Until then!