El Mogote

The next morning, the first day of the new year, to everyone's surprise (and chagrin) Mark was the first up.  It was our last full day in Jarabacoa and we had foolishly planned to climb a nearby mountain.  Mark held us to it.  With superhuman effort and a pillow, he beat us all out of bed at 11:00 in the morning.  We dressed, bought food for a picnic lunch, and piled into a taxi.  At the timely hour of 1:20, we were dropped off on the side of the road at the trailhead, nauseous and weak, ready to attempt "El Mogote".  

Music from some of the clubs was still blaring in the town below, echoing up the valley.  Heavy, gray rain clouds filled the sky.  The breathless, muggy air felt physically heavy.  Heads throbbing, bodies shaking, we began our ascent up the packed dirt trail.  Mark and I brought up the rear.  Each step was agony.  Fifteen minutes in, dizzy and light headed, soaked in sweat that was not from the heat, I wanted to turn back.  Shame kept me moving.

(Negotiating a washout in the trail)

 

The trail was for the most part made of hard packed, red clay, worn as smooth as asphalt.  Some sections sported loose gravel but these were short and rare.  In softer spots, the deep hoof prints of passing donkeys could seen, half filled with cloudy water.  As we went up, the trail became steeper and more deeply rutted by past rain storms.  In some places the washouts were waist deep.  

(Mark poses by a well mixed section of muddy trail)

 

 

An hour from the trailhead, we saw a local man hiking down the trail towards us.  He carried a plastic sack of oranges in one hand and with the other worked a long, stout walking stick with a metal spike on the bottom of it.  As he drew near, he stopped and eyed us appraisingly. 

 

"Do you have walking sticks?" he asked, although he could see that we did not.  

 

"No," we told him, too feeble of body and mind to pick up on the hint he was giving us.  He peered into our pale, sweaty faces and laughed softly.

"Buena Suerte," he said, "good luck," and then turned continued down the trail.

 

"Feliz Ano Nuevo," I called after him with a forced show of enthusiasm.  He waved back but did not turn around.  

 

(Becca uses her hands to augment the traction of her sandals)

 

As we got higher, the air grew cooler, the breeze picked up, and Mark and I began to feel better.  We surged ahead of Nate and Becca.  The donkey prints in the trail disappeared.  Soon, the clay was scalloped and more consistently smooth, broken only by the occasional rocky knob poking through the clay.  

On one side of the trail, a barbwire fence.  On the other, a wall of thick jungle vegetation hiding a sharp drop down to the ravine below.  The clay was sticky and easy walking but, where the trail was still wet from the most recent rain shower, the water had mixed with top few millimeters of dirt to form a thin layer of mud.  It was the consistency of axle grease and had a similar effect over the hard clay beneath.

 

(Posing with a view)

 

 

"This will be fun if it rains," I observed to Mark, an eye on the dark clouds above.  He grinned at me, breathing heavily.  

 

"Like a slip'n'slide," he replied.  An hour later, it started raining.  We kept hiking up.  The clay grew slick.  We moved slower.  We were almost to the top.  No one was willing to give up now.

 

(Beautiful views on the summit from inside a storm cloud)

 

 

By four in the afternoon, we crested the summit.  A radio tower, a lone caretaker's shack, and an observation tower, graced the large flat summit, mowed bare by a grazing donkey.  Chickens ran past. The rain had stopped. The heavy clouds rolled silently by, covering the summit in fog with only intermittent breaks.  We ate a late lunch and made appreciative noises whenever the we caught glimpses of the views surrounding us.  It started to rain again.  We started down.

 

(Rain turns the trail muddy)

 

The rain was light, not enough to create streams in the trail or fill the washouts.  It was just enough to wet the surface and cover the entire length of the trail it in that red mud axle grease we'd noticed briefly on the way up.  With almost no switchbacks, and nowhere to leave the trail to get out of the mud, there was almost no way to stop ourselves once we'd picked up momentum.  Now, we understood why the local man had laughed at us and asked about walking sticks.

 

 

(The trail becomes fast)

 

Faster and faster we moved down the trail, keeping our feet underneath us with varying degrees of success until, either with feet or butts, we discovered the sharp points of rock poking through the mud and were able to stick and stop.

 

(Becca uses multiple points of contact to come to a stop)

 

 

Nate and Becca, in smooth soled sandals, had the worst of it.  With the slightly deeper tread on my sneakers, I had the easiest time.  Mark and I once again surged ahead but, with dusk approaching, we didn't wait for the others to catch up.  We pushed on, propelled by a deep desire to be off the trail before dark.

 

 

(Still daylight and still smiling)

 

 

We'd sent the taxi driver home after it had dropped us off that afternoon.  Now, at night, at the end of an empty dirt road in the mountains, we began the long walk down through the valley and back into the city.  The rain had stopped again.  We were soaked to the skin, covered in mud, tired and hungover, but still, the walk through the little mountain pueblos was fun.  The little stores and bars along the way were open.  People were out drinking and dancing.  Music was blaring.  

 

Mark and I picked up a roast chicken dinner along the way to our hotel, ate and took long, hot showers.  Clean, warm, and fed we listened to the rain that had started up again.  It was much harder than before.  Rain pounded the sheet metal roof of the hotel with a steady, low roar.  I fell fast asleep.   

Sometime in the night, Nate and Becca arrived.  I did not wake up.

(Jungle in the fog)