With a diverse crowd consisting of (L- R) Bellvitt, Michael, our driver, Robin, Bob and Prem, our host, we traveled to the highest mountain range in Jamaica, the Blue Mountains, and ascended the Blue Mountain Peak, which is 7400 feet above sea level. To accomplish this we had to leave the coast at Silver Sands at 5:00 AM and travel across Jamaica via Runaway Bay, Ocho Rios and Spanish Town to Kingston, the capital city. After a long drive through terrible traffic across the crowded city we finally crossed Single Tree Road and then pressed on to Hope Road past Bob Marley's house to the B1 Highway where we turned north. Soon we were out the other side of town and curving up into the mountains following the Hope River to the turn on the incredible narrow single-laned bridge toward Gordon Town.

Gordontown Road 9:00AM Dec 6th

The road quickly became twisted and narrow as we rose further above Kingston into the steep sided world of narrow valleys and small towns northeast of the city. From Gordon Town we left the Hope River and began the assault on the towering mountains in earnest. The pavement was in good shape, but narrow as we twisted along across World's End, through Guava Ridge and into the rugged Yallahs River Valley.

At one point we took a wrong turn and ended up attempting a turn around in the middle of a mountain stream which ran across the road between two steep roadside cliffs. It seemed an impossibility, but the road ahead entered directly into the gates of the Jablum Coffee Factory and was blocked completely by huge trucks there to load the coffee. All around us workers streamed in to begin their shift coming down precarious trails and along the roadside. Everyone was dressed so nicely as they went in to the factory, the women were as if they were in Sunday best, walking proudly along with umbrellas above their head and large purse/bags with shoulder straps firmly under their arm. Down through the rugged terrain around the plant, in from all directions through this countryside that had to be the model for "Snuffy Smith", they came.

Michael somehow managed the turn but as we pulled forward back out of the creek there was the inevitable "ka-thunk" and we ground to a halt. Michael jumped out and took a look, "it's the spare, it's fallen". The spare tire mounted under the van had gotten stuck on a rock and been partially wrenched away from the frame. On-the spot repairs were required before we could go on. Michael no sooner had his tool kit spread about than several guys arrived to assist, and with a few bangs and several lengthy, fasted paced and thoroughly unintelligible (to me) conversations in Patois we were once again on the road.

Mavis Bank, 10:00AM Dec 6th

Finally we were as far as we could take the mini van and we parked it in front of the Police Station at a small mountain town at the end of the paved road called Mavis Bank. We had read that some people start the hike to the Peak from here but we can't imagine that. We also heard some folks attempt to drive rental cars on to Hagley Gap and go from there. I can't imagine that either for the ford of the Yallahs River would defeat anything but a high clearance four wheel drive I would think (unless driven by a native of the area). From both of these spots the trails (Farm Hill and Radnor Trails) are more direct than the "road" we would take, but walking from either place still added about 10 miles to the trek for a total of 17 miles each way. Mavis Bank is as far as the public buses go also, so it is possible to arrive there for about $2.00 US from Kingston. What a ride that must be!

We asked the local constable where to park, and he was very specific, right in front of a car with smashed headlights and a long-been-flat-tire directly across from the station. He had no questions for us, obviously we weren't the first who had parked here headed for the mountain. We did wonder, but didn't ask, who the disabled car might have belonged to. I guess we really didn't want to know.

We waited for a while, ready and anxious to go, but our ride was late. Mavis Bank hanks on the side of a cliff, the narrow road hemmed on one side by a large rock wall maybe 20 feet high and on the other the small row of buildings all hang out over the void it seems. None of the buildings could have been more than one or two small rooms deep, so all stretched along the roadway further, making them look larger than they were. Up the road from the Police Station was the tiny Post Office and its fluttering black, yellow and green Jamaican Flag and a Western Union sign, beyond that the Mavis Bank Public Library, a block building that hardly seemed it could hold more than one or two patrons at a time, and then the Grocery perched above that. I was amazed and asked Robin about the abundant "weeds" growing on the overhead power lines. "Bromeliads" she said, like she saw that all the time.

I asked Prem if he thought I might get some rum at the grocery and he said "sure!" He volunteered to go with me to help him pass the time. The establishment wasn't much more than a small, rough hewn room, with a bar transecting its whole width. The bar had stools for maybe four and a central spot for other customers to stand. Behind was a floor to ceiling set of shelves burdened with groceries of every sort. Tobacco products, canned goods of every basic sort, salt bags, sugar bags, tins of coffee, cloth bags of flour and corn meal. The works. There were two guys seated on the stools when we squeezed into the small room, and they both called for the proprietor, who turned out to be a beautiful girl of twenty something, dark as the darkest ebony with two small children clinging to her knees. "Wat da wan hon?" I figured out that one real quickly, and I said "rum". The next few sentences were posed to me as a question I could tell, but I cannot reproduce them and certainly couldn't make them out, but it started a rapid exchange in which everyone, including Prem joined in. I cannot understand Spanish at all, but I decided standing there that I might well understand that language better than English as it was being spoken around me and probably about me. When it was over the proprietor pulled a quart bottle labeled Appleton's out from below the bar and pointed to it. I could tell she was asking me to tell her how much I wanted, but I was still a bit dense, as I had never purchased Rum in such a fashion. The best I could do approximate about a half pint with my fingers, but it was enough and soon she had an empty half pint bottle on the counter. In a flash she produced a plastic funnel and poured the empty bottle full from the Quart. She then asked me "wa more?" I had spied a can of fruit juice along the shelf, and fearing the effect of straight rum on my already queasy stomach I pointed that out to her, she retrieved it for me and then with a stub of pencil on the corner of a magazine she figured out the price.

It came to probably J$150, about $3.00 US, and all the sudden I remembered my Jamaican money was down in the backpack. Already I had discovered it to be extremely impolite to pull out American 20s, which is all I had on me, and ask for change, so I was glad Prem was right behind me. I asked if he minded taking care of this for me, and he said 'No Problem". In Jamaica you should always carry small bills, as change is thought of as a coins only thing. There is rarely enough in the meager tills to handle much change, Jamaican or US. Most folks are happy to accept small US bills, but it seems to bother some to figure out the change and exchange, so the polite thing is to pay in Jamaican. US Coins are a "no no" however, they tell me they are just not worth taking cause you can't pass them along and they are not worth the trip (and the line) at the bank to exchange them. This might not hold true in tourist areas, but we were a long way from there.
As I left the store the proprietor and her customers all said a cheerful goodbye. As we turned to the street Prem said "You know that's 'to made' rum don't you?" "Moonshine?" I asked, suddenly understanding a bit more. He laughed, "You might know a 'hillbilly' would understand, yes 'moooonshine' he mocked in his best attempt at my accent.

Later on Robin greatly regretted she hadn't visited the Library and bid her fellow librarians at Mavis Bank hello while I was off on my dubious errand to the Grocery.

Further up the mountain 10:30AM Dec 6th

After a half hour wait a Land Rover pickup truck arrived to carry us on the next leg of our journey. We threw our backpacks in the back and climbed in with them for the ride. We bounced out of Mavis Bank onto dirt pathways that first forded several rivers and then rose up and up and up into the hills. We passed small shacks sitting right on the very shoulder of the road and from time to time nicer abodes that would have been at home mixed in with the pastel concrete block cottages of Florida in the 50s. These became more scarce as we climbed, and by the time we had skirted a huge mountainside a hundred feet above the area's biggest enterprise, the impressive modern barns of the Epping Farm egg farm, such abodes with their extraordinarily un-dented and unmarred Toyotas and Subarus virtually disappeared.

On we climbed, leaving the electric lines and telephone poles below us, up onto the "Commissary Road". No one could tell us why this route was named that, both the reason for name "Commissary" or the idea that this was in some way a "road" were mysteries to Robin and I. Once and a while and roared through several little towns such as Hagley Gap where it seemed the whole population was out on the mud streets, and everyone had to stop what they were doing and watch us go by. Almost all smiled and waved to us. At one place two small boys ran up behind the truck and hung on, taking a fun ride up a hill, until they laughingly dropped off as we topped the incline and gained speed. Robin called after the laughing boys, "I bet your mama didn't see that!!

As we rolled along the ridiculously inclined goat paths, swerving to avoid wash outs and slowing to splash through creeks, it began raining so we all pulled our rain gear from our packs and braved the pouring rain as we held on for dear life. In many places it looked as if one ran off the road he would fall forever the mountainsides were so steep. We had to dodge cows and goats in the road, and even a few donkeys laden with huge bags of coffee beans. We passed a few trucks and buses coming the other way, and one big truck we had to maneuver by came within a half inch of scraping as we slowly fit past each other in a big mud hole on the cliff's edge.

Three quarters of an hour of this "wild ride" finally deposited us at the end of the "road", Whitfield Hall. This compound was built as a "Great House" by an English gentleman in the late 1700s as a seat for an extensive coffee plantation. It has fallen on hard times (probably a century ago) and is "great" no longer. It is fascinating however, from the huge fire place, to the foot wide boards of the paneling, the hand hewn floor planks and time worn fixtures it speaks of its age. The furnishing of ancient pianos, rugged hand hewn furniture, shelves and shelves of old classics in weathered leather bindings, and old prints of English cities and far away places make the atmosphere uniquely pioneer yet Colonial as well.

In the dark kitchen, across a breezeway from the main living quarters were several low, wood burning stoves attended by today's residents of the Hall, a group of rotund, barefoot and smiling Jamaican women with scarves around their heads. They busied about in the dark smoky room making us a noon meal of Fricasseed Chicken and wild rice with red beans while bringing in ancient galvanized pots of a steaming stuff, black as the depths of a coal mine, that they described as "real coffee, mon". An old fellow with white curly hair rocking next to the smoldering fireplace called out that what we were experiencing was the world famous "Blue Mountain Coffee", he said to see him when we returned and he could sell us some of the best to be had. He assured us it was much better than we could find in the city. I wandered over later and asked the old guy, as we shared the view of the rainy backyard through a dirty window, what he thought of our plan to camp at the top of the peak, and he looked at me for a long moment and then said "why would you do that ?"

Rain hammered on the old tin roof. Out back in the attached barn several men worried over a broken down truck and chickens interspersed with a few cranky looking roosters strutted about the yard. I recalled that Prem had told us that Jamaicans were always adept at saying they knew how to "fix things", for example the current convention inspecting the truck in the barn. He told us that whenever a car broke down on the highway a crowd would always gather to help, a dozen or so chiefs and no Indians is what it sounded like to me, in my vernacular. He told us it was often said in Jamaica that if the Concorde had to make an emergency landing in a field in Jamaica, within minutes a crowd would gather with dozens of Jamaican experts available, all of whom would profess and truly believe they were able to "fix that thing, mon".

At the far end of the barn stood the small group of huts that originally served as servants' quarters that now rented for about $12 per night to adventurers (or there are optionally separate men's and women's dormitory rooms with bunks in the house available for less). The house is old, and has no electricity, just gas lamps, but it has excellent indoor plumbing in a single bathroom shared by all. Robin visited that establishment (the only one on the property, and maybe within miles) and came back whispering that I "had to try it out". Having resisted an appropriate amount this bizarre suggestion I did find myself using the facilities, which so much reminded me of my Grandmom's house on the farm. The fixtures were sparse indeed, though modern and clean, but the flush was really the star attraction. Here, adjacent to the john, the towel racks were bent, the result of previous visitors attempts to prevent their being consumed by the powerful evacuation of the bowl. I told Robin "that thing must flush straight out into the ocean, a full mile below!"

From the front steps the yard dropped away through a grove of three foot diameter and hundred foot tall Eucalyptus Trees, and then opened onto an endless view out across the valley we had just ascended. Far in the distance, a mile below in elevation and about 30 miles away the sun sparkled off the Caribbean. On those front steps lounged a couple of "hounds", the result of various mixed breeds in union, a "breed" of dog so common in Jamaica that I'm sure someday it will attain purebred status as a "Jamaican". One in particular took interest in us, a female besieged by a set of four rambunctious puppies constantly bothering her for a teat. Robin did her usual "oh and ahh" for the "baby dogs" and made fast friends with the momma. Just inside the open door was the great room, where we all assembled at an ancient wooden table that would probably comfortably seat twenty. Robin joined us but Momma Dog had evidently been spoken to in the past about entering the house, so she, and at her insistence, the puppies, stayed just outside the door.

The meal was served on big plates with faded roses of the "old style" around the edges. They were worn smooth by who knows how many years of use, and not one had escaped a chip (or several) around the perimeter. The aromatic chicken was piled high on a huge platter of the same set and age, while the rice and beans steamed in a big black iron pot. Another of those urns of steaming darkness made its way around the table, poured thickly into small coffee cups with saucers, incredible examples from the same museum-like collection of simulated china.

After we ate Prem took on the task of finding out the truth about our obviously absent guide and his mules. We had agreed months ago to hire mules, and while at first this seemed a bit unseemly, a circumstance we might decide to forget to tell our backpacking friends about, we eventually decided that it was they that would know well enough that a 7 mile - 2000 foot climb with full bivouac is not so much to be enjoyed as endured. In that light the mules became an important part of our plans. They were supposed to be here waiting for us. He had asked the ladies several times and been given variations of "don't worry" and "soon come". As the old Grandfather clock in the great room ticked we were all aware that time was passing and daylight was limited. Prem went beyond the jolly proprietors "happiness and light" and ventured over to the small group of muddy "truck mechanics" at the barn. Finally a small man with dredlocks to his waist took Prem aside. "Don't believe them, mon, the guy went to town with his donkeys and won't be back." He explained "Them don't want to loose the commission so they put the word out and they hope somebody will come. But they won't, I tell you."

Prem brought us the news, and we began to evaluate the situation. While Prem had a small daypack, the others in the group brought equipment more fitted to a mule's back than their own. While Robin and I had our usual backpacks and gear, we had considered the weight factor to be the mule's concern, not ours, and had packed accordingly. On top of that several days of abandon with the Appleton's Rum at the Beachcombers Bar had left me in less than prime condition, and I felt like hell. I had even fancied the possibility of renting a third mule so I might conquer this mountain in some Don Quixote fashion, noble knight with head in hand. The "Wild Ride" had set my "Roller coaster with a hangover Stomach Syndrome" in high gear, and the pure, thick, dark caffeine had done its work to bring me to a level of suffering that might bring about reformation or make a monk of other men. Not being that wise however, I put my vote on the positive side when we bravely determined as a group, "who needs the mules, we are going to the top!" About that time another fellow entered the room and looked around, when he was sure nobody could hear him but us he said "Hey mon, I can get you a donkey".

While I might have jumped at this opportunity just a few hours before it was Michael that had told us about Donkeys on the way up the mountain. The large quantity of loose goats grazing on the roadsides had lead Robin to ask how the owners kept track of them. Familiar with ear cropping and branding the query was made suggesting that such might be the method. "Heavens no!" Michael reported, amazed at our ignorance, "a man knows his goats, just like he knows his dogs or even his children! If a goat wanders off a neighbor keeps him and sends word, and the man just comes and gets his goat. It is the same with his cows, too." Then Michael went on with our education, "the only thing that's not that way is a donkey. If a man looses his donkey, he won't come get it, and if the neighbor takes it back he will claim it isn't his. Such is the bad nature of a donkey" We turned the man's offer down.

Climbing Jacob's Ladder, 12:30PM

Finally, an hour late, we donned our backpacks for the climb up to the peak, for we were even more determined to camp on the top and prove ourselves more than this setback. We were told camping at the top was just "not done", but we had decided to try anyway. Later we were to discover the Ranger had told them not to help us do this, for "there were no facilities at the top for tourists." But nobody would take the responsibility to tell us that at the Hall, in Jamaica people will generally leave you alone to do what you will, if the Ranger had wanted to tell us, he could find us himself, it wasn't their problem! That's probably why the mules missed our rendezvous however.

We set out in pouring rain with directions from another "truck mechanic" at the house and soon found the trail he had told us to look for. A small sign marked a steep intersection and announced "Blue Mountain Peak Trail : Blue Mountain National Park. You are 6 ½ miles from the peak." So up we went on this winding path, climbing with our heavy loads up the extremely steep and muddy way as it wound through a coffee plantation. This section of the trail is known as Jacob's Ladder. I lost count of the switchbacks and soon stopped to loose the contents of my stomach, while Robin looked on with disgust, but somehow I struggled on. At last we were above the farm and into the steep grasslands that surround the National Park proper, always with each step having new and grander vistas of the valleys far below us veiled in parting clouds.

During the climb the persistent rain we had had all morning died away and in the sparkling then steamy sunshine we quickly peeled off our rain gear. Up and up and up we struggled against gravity as the last sounds of distant engines from trucks struggling in the mud, roosters arguing and the donkey's greetings to each other far below faded. After about an hour's walk we entered into the National Park and with that we walked into a pristine jungle wilderness.

Three intense vertical miles brought us to the ranger station at Portland Gap. Here on a low spot on the main Ridge of the Blue Mountains we could look over the side to the north coast of Jamaica. At Portland Gap there were outdoor showers, some out-houses, primitive camp sites, a picnic shelter and the ranger's hut. We were supposed to register here and pay a $50 Jamaican users fee (US $1) for upkeep of the trail, but the ranger was no where to be found. From my standpoint it was hard to imagine a National Park so remote that the way we had just come was the front entrance! The ranger station had no electricity, no telephone, not even any sort of road access. As we left the grassy openness of the gap proceeding upward on the trail about 3:00PM a sign said we were 3 ½ miles from the peak. The afternoon had become a bright, breezy royal-blue-skied wonder of a day with temperatures in the high sixties.

The trail as far as the gap had been fairly wide, say enough for two to walk abreast in most places, a trait probably caused by the occasional mule or donkey making the trek to the gap with supplies or gear. From the gap on however the trail became a strictly a "one track" affair, with the side often a sheer drop into the jungle below. As it wound upward it switched back and forth often with big steps at the turns that were a struggle to scramble up. As we were behind schedule, and felt we must reach the peak before dark, we agreed to part company and press on each at our own speed. I was seriously overloaded, my old hiking boots were a bit slick on the often muddy trail, my new pack wasn't working right and I had expended all my reserves of energy on the initial ascent, so I knew I would be moving slow. I bid them all go on and I fought the ascent on my own.

Misery has often been my partner on such hikes, and this time it visited me in spades. I not only bore the weight of my unwieldy backpack, but on each shoulder I seemed to carry the extra weight of many of my several perceived personalities. On the right was the whiner who constantly encouraged me to stop this foolishness and just sit down, if I did they would eventually come back down and we could leave. This me-guy tried to convince me as time wore on that I was only going to have a heart attack and die here on this distant trail so far from the imagined security of 911, and that I should give up on the climb just to save my loved ones the pain of my demise and the expense of returning my remains to the US from such a remote spot. On the other shoulder my "better" side told me not to give up, it is all in the "mind" and I didn't even want to contemplate what my potential failure in this effort would mean in the future to me and all around me, after all I fashion myself somewhat of the Mountain Wizard (grin). A more reasonable personality told me to stop all this internal dialog and just put one foot in front of the other, while some butterfly-like tree-hugging aspect flitted around and kept pointing out that I was in a wonderland of exotic flowers and possibly the most beautiful wilderness I had ever seen and that I should look around and be glad for the adventure, for all this other tripe expounded by my group of me was just BULL.

Beautiful it was indeed, at every footfall, at each step up, at every turn and corner a new an amazing sight was present to behold. The flowers, the jungle foliage, and when these failed the rugged weathered rock and the long distance views combined to provide an endless panorama of natural beauty. In addition the Mamma Dog had followed us. She had left her pups to find their way in the world for a few days and gone with us up from the Hall. Now, with Robin far ahead, she came back to help move me forward. In time though she ran out of patients and moved ahead, only to be found again after dark. Moments were spent before her departure from me though, as I slowly stepped forward, in which my heart raced and my adrenaline was revived because something rushed by in the adjacent jungle. It always took only a few breathless moments to determine that it was just our shadow, the Momma Dog. I'm not sure if she did this on purpose just for me or not. I also wondered if maybe she had been sent by Robin.

And so the pilgrim (me) slowly and painfully moved up the ridge. At each switchback I held a public debate of one, and queried the audience of one looking for a forum, seeking a majority vote. Each time I rallied after the debate and that little voice sent me onward, "just one more push". Finally I ran across a National Park sign, as the sun was making the shadows longer, "Blue Mountain Peak 1 ½ miles". To make matters worse for my disillusioned soul, an entity convinced I was "almost there", into the afternoon sun loomed the perfectly beautiful visage of the Peak itself, in all its glory, so dominatingly high and sooooo far away. I recalled a similar view once while climbing El Toro in Puerto Rico on the Tradewinds Trail. My partner, upon viewing such a sight of the peak of El Toro, exclaimed that "That Can't Be It!, It's too far." When hiking to the highest peak around however, the truth is obvious, though the desire to recognize such a truth is not. So as the sun began to set in the west here in Jamaica, I dragged myself along in what seemed like one of those slow and endless dreams, only happy that at least I got to see the peak before my momentarily anticipated collapse made me blind.

Finally the end came, after dark began to conquer the landscape of the jungle beneath the trees, and I could go no further, even though, of course, I had to. I remembered once a good friend who had fallen far behind of our group on the trail up Stratton Bald at Joyce Kilmer. Brian had abused himself with booze the night before and was paying the price I knew. Even so I didn't want to leave him alone so I dropped my pack and went back down. I found him "caching his stuff" as he called it, and pouring out his water bottles. I felt somewhat superior at the time but now, years later, I took up his example. I found a hollow log at trail side in the encroaching dark, and I divided my load into hastily determined piles of "essentials" and "things I could do without". Taking my trash bag I wrapped those non-essentials and stuffed them into the void, then I proceeded to drink as much water as I could force down before dumping the remaining precious fluids on the ground. Thus with load lightened, and now in procession of my flashlight from deep in the backpack, I stumbled on up the unforgiving path. Jacob's Ladder indeed!

I stumbled always upward, I couldn't believe that the trail just kept getting steeper and steeper. In some places I was reduced to almost crawling on hands and knees. After seemingly thousands of steps, each one an act of will power I came eventually on a rock outcropping, complete with a "Blue Mountain Peak 1 KM" sign. Attempting to make good news of the switch from English to Metric I threw off my pack and decided to celebrate. Here I sat and watched for a while as the sun finally set over the ocean far below. At my feet glowed the lights of Kingston, a city of millions, reflected on the waters of the shallow bay on which it is situated. The lights further out defined the peninsula that reached out to the sunken city of Port Royal and on that narrow strip the runways of the Kingston Airport stood as a plain testimony to our age. Out beyond that was just the boundless darkness of the open sea eastward creeping toward the disappearing sun to the west. A darkened silhouette brandishing the bright star of landing lights against the red sunset a jet made its descent into Kingston as I watched. The lights of the city far away were a stark contrast to the blackness of the mountains around me. Even the jungle noises of the night seemed far below from my perch on this rocky outcrop on the side of the peak's ultimate rise. Only a cool evening breeze and the activity in the heavens as thousands of stars began to make their many multitudes known to mankind once again disturbed the peace. I leaned back against my pack and closed my eyes.

Suddenly I started wide awake. I have to get going! How I got back to my feet with my pack on, my boots re-tied and my gait revived I don't know. It must have been a real struggle. With new vigor I made the first hundred yards, intent on the small circle of light from my flashlight tracing the trail ahead of me a few feet in the inky darkness. The trail was an endless collection of loose stones, each a bit larger than my foot, but none big enough to secure a good footing by themselves. Upon each footfall the trail seemed to roll around under your foot, and were it not for hundreds of inconveniently placed roots barring the way I might well have fallen off the mountain. It was as if I was to be tested, my new resolve was to be stretched to determine its validity. It was a test that new and refreshed pilgrim failed, for before 200 yards was out I was once again despondent and pained, sitting on a stump, sure I could not go on. Now I longed for the water I had dumped out far below.

The jungle was gone now, I was in an area thickly forested by the same kind of growth we see on the peaks of the Blue Ridge at home. Low bushes, not much higher than my head (if I could have stood erect), with knarly limbs. A type of shrub that my Grandmom called Ivy and I call Rhododendron and Laurel. Of course Jamaica must have its own varieties and names for this high altitude, wind tortured stuff, but I'm sure it's not very common on this generally tropical Island. While common in the woods of home, often masquerading as a tree in dimension, it reaches it's thickest density as a mass of low growing tangled life on the rocky faces of the highest heights. My Grandmom called such a place an "Ivy Hell". Hell, just like it was in the darkness around me on the Peak at that moment.

As I sat there and peered into the darkness, bathed in the now brilliant sharp white light of billions of stars, I saw, or thought I saw, the sudden flash of artificial light far above where the darkness met the sky. It was only there for a millisecond it seemed, and though I watched and hoped for a repeat showing it never came. Fantasy ensued, they might be returning to carry my pack (and me??) to the top. I waited, they didn't come, and soon I was sure it was just my imagination. But still, I could be nearing the end couldn't I? Of course I knew that if they did come all the way back down here, I would still have to decline, and bravely lift myself up, probably better with audience, and like some hero of old forge onward while they looked on in wonder at my resolve. Without audience it was a thing much harder to do, but hoping for an end to all this the hero found his tired and sore feet, put them somewhere below his weak and tortured knees, rolled his aching back erect and swung the weight of the world on to sore shoulders. The pads on my shoulder straps had to be made of barbed wire, why had I never noticed that before. Oh well. And those 50 pound lead insoles of my boots! One foot in front of the other, or was it one foot above the other?

In the dark I missed another change of the mode of measurement, the sign that said "Peak 1000 yards" might have enthused a bit more will power, or it may have just added to the agony. Finally after a particularly steep, slow-motion scramble a log blocked my way, and I saw it as some sort of easy chair just waiting for me. Down again I went, ready once again to do battle with my determination to give up, a battle I was beginning to believe I might loose. My mind went back to a hike 10 years ago on a humid summer July day in the Red River Gorge in Kentucky. There I had, on the second day out, begun with an affliction of some Intestinal disorder that sapped my energy and devastated my resolve. The trail made its endless way up and down across sharp spires of eroded rock and through deep gorges full of a muddy goo that somehow achieves the ability to be both sticky and slick at the same time. The heat added to the torture and forward progress had become a thing of fits and starts. As I had here on this mountain I invited my concerned partners to leave me to come as I could. All that day had been a lonely struggle, but in the end I had stumbled into camp. I remembered well the moment I was able to finally drop my pack that evening. I longed for such a moment again. I decided that this new tact, remembering Red River, might buy me another hundred yards, so I began to put together the tattered remnants of resolve and to make plans to roll over out of my "easy chair" log and press upward.

Then I saw the light. It was from somewhere ahead on the trail, but it was there and then gone. I put my plans on hold and watched, there it was again. Then again bouncing this time and disappearing again. Then it was a beam through the bushes before once again disappearing. Finally I knew for sure, someone was coming. My Red River plans fell through. Now I would be able to tell someone how miserable I was, I would able to elicit sympathy for my poor state. I could give up responsibility for myself and pass it off to others. I would be able to lie in that therapeutic, warm bath of self pity, finally. Hallelujah!

Robin was alone. Her first words were "Thank God! Are you alright?" I of course said "NO!" As if I had said something else entirely she said, "No, I mean REALLY!" It was obvious she was not going to accept the truth, so I gave her what she wanted "I guess so" I offered feebly. "Well come on" she said, "you are almost there!" Suddenly, unbelievably, she turned and started away like I was going to jump up and trot along after her. "NO!" I yelled, "I'm not going!" What cruelty she exhibited, how could she treat me that way! Couldn't she tell how much I had suffered! Where was the pity, where was the appreciation of the earth shaking heroic struggles I had been through since she had last seen me four hours ago on the sunny ridge above Portland Gap. I wasn't putting up with such treatment!

She relented, I thought, turned back and shined her flashlight in my face. "Would you COME ON, we have to get the tent up, the wind is getting bad up on top". Suddenly I knew she intended to force me to put off my whining until we got camp set up. She turned away, took a few steps, turned back and shined the light back at my pitiful form, still wretchedly spread across my log and said "are you coming?" I was silent, "no" hadn't worked, it was obvious I would get no sympathy here unless I had a heart attack and died suddenly or something like that, the wind was already too noisy to summon help from others in our party. All seemed lost. She took a few more strides up the trail and looked back again. She stood there for a long moment until she heard the unmistakable rustle of my pack being readied to swing, and the grunts and groans interspersed with curse words partially taken by the wind as the transition to upright was made and then the crunch of my boots on the tread way, and then she headed on up into camp. I followed her like Frankenstein in those old black and white movies. The "Red River Plan" might have worked after all, I remember thinking, as it was only a little over 100 yards to camp.

On top of the world 7:30PM Dec 6th

Dropping the pack I found myself recruited right to work unpacking the tent and with the help of my other relieved-to-see-me partners setting it up in the dark and in the wind. The top of the peak was a grassy, open field of about 6 or 7 acres. The actual high points were two stony elevations, the further one with a monument and old flag pole and the nearer a steep stone outcropping flat on the top. The site chosen before my arrival was in the lee of the ruins of a stone building that once served as a ranger station. Prem and the guys already had their tent set up of course and they had watched the same sunset as I had while they were perched on that very highest point. Robin had arrived to join them just as the final red burst occurred and from that high point they had watched the stars appear seemingly just inches above their heads.

Once we had camp set I took the stumble up to the nearby high point with Robin and then professing imminent and ultimate collapse I found my way to the tent. Soon Robin joined me and confession time came. She was shocked that I had "cached" and unhappy that we now had a shortage of water. Luckily she had carried the two big two-liter jugs. Upon investigation she also disapproved of my determination of essential nature of the goods I cached. She was most unhappy that I had chosen to leave the first aide kit behind while the pint of Rum I had bought at Mavis Bank made it to the top. (The mistake of a momentarily cloudy mind I'll admit.) In that first aide kit was the Excedrin PM, probably the single most important thing we carry on a backpack. We call them "little air mattresses". This is the moment that I first learned that everyone had experienced a little difficulty on the assent, and it wasn't just me that had aches and pains in abundance. Robin's normally painful back was in flames from the trek. I was struck with sudden horror as she began to angrily put her boots back on determined to hike back down and find the missing kit. Suddenly full of energy I unzipped the tent and went begging at our neighbors. Prem saved me with some type of pill from his kit that he assured me would "take care" of Robin's back. Thank God for modern medicine, it worked. As we settled down the wind whipped the tent like a sail at sea. As I lay there I thought about the little bottle of rum their next to me in my pack, then I thought better, I decided that if I were to survive the whole "Essentials Issue" that poor little bottle would have to find it's way down the mountain untouched, and it did. Around midnight it started to rain, and Momma Dog, who was still with us, snuggled up to the side of the tent under the overhang of the tent vestibule.

Waiting for the Dawn 4:00AM Dec 7th

A word or two needs to be said before the dawn, our next event. While we feel quiet the "adventurers" with our quest of Blue Mountain Peak, we can only claim any such notoriety in the halls of those ignorant of Jamaica. There is no Jamaican we spoke to that wasn't well aware of not just the Peak, to be expected as it is the highest in the nation, but also the almost ritual trek to its summit. When we offered our plans to those interested (or sometimes not) usually the reply was "I haven't been yet", or "I went when a child", or "I've always wanted to go". Not one Jamaican asked "why?" or professed to know nothing about the climb. Few had gone more than once it seemed, if they had been at all, but always they knew an Uncle or their Father that had made the trip in years past. It brought to my mind some Jamaican version of the Pilgrimage to Mecca the way everybody was aware. And this on the North Coast so far from the trail. We knew from Prem, who had been four times before, but the last over twenty years ago, that in Kingston, a city who exists in sight and shadow of the peak, the trek was even more a part of the urban lore.

Over the years, probably going back a century, maybe more, an etiquette or custom has developed related to the trip to the peak that seemed at least a little odd to me when I first read about it last summer. It seems that the procedure is to always begin the ascent long before dawn, in the wee hours after midnight, and to conquer the incredible trail in the inky darkness, something not alien to me now by shear accident. In the old days it was by procession in the flicker of torch light, but now the climb relies on the electric variety of the torch. The goal is for those who are of strong resolve to arrive there in time to view the Sunrise from the highest point. Sunrise at the Peak has taken on therefore a magical quality.

The sun appears from the dark eastward ocean which stands at your feet in three directions. It comes from Africa, its light spreading across the Caribbean from that direction first in the spreading pinks and soft blues of dawn and finally in the blazing glory of the "Son Arisen". In the forth direction lies Jamaica, in the beginning a dark mass to the west, but soon the suns warm rays begin to penetrate that mass as well, long after the sea off both coasts are illuminated. The fellow high places along the Ridge of the Blue Mountains, those massive cousins of the Peak, Mossman's Peak (6100ft), the closest, High Peak (6300ft), Sir John's Peak (6000ft), John Crow Peak (5300ft) and finally Catherine's Peak (4800ft) all spread along the 25 miles of the ridge are the first. The light settles on their jungled tops and then begins the journey down the steep slopes. The fog that fills the valleys is expelled as the light slowly begins to penetrate the deep valleys marking the wrinkled folds and highlighting the ridges. Far beyond the beaches begin to shimmer as the sun races along north and south coast toward a meeting at Negril.

And so the sunrise takes on almost a religious grandeur that in fact is considered just that by some of the more ardent Rastafarians. To them it is "The Rising Light from Africa". No doubt that the gathering and then the ascent of family and friends through darkness, the rugged and purifying climb, clinging to each other in the mysterious jungle under the protective ring of torchlight, up, up up, always up, one hand helping the other. And then the moment of arrival and the amazing experience of the world being reborn, and then the wonderful symbolism of Jamaica's rise from the darkness…

Leave it to we of this supposedly "modern" society to decide that we shouldn't try it in the dark, if that sunrise is so great we'll just hike up there and camp overnight. No midnight climb for us, no sir! We'll be ready, so that all we have to do is open our tent door and sip on warm cocoa to watch the event. This is probably about the same as comparing the Pilgrims' shoe-less, once in a life time trip to Mecca, with nothing but his meager homespun robes, walking, always walking until finally with parched mouth and toughened leather-like feet he appears in the Kabal, with that of the oily aristocrat who hires an air conditioned limousine to take him from the Jetport at Jedda to the Hilton in downtown Mecca. "But at least we didn't have Mule's", Robin says of this whole idea now.

I didn't sleep well, at least not after my initial exhaustion wore away with the first few hours of slumber. I still felt poorly, the wind was disturbingly powerful and the rain came in waves, beating for a short while on the tent's sides and then dissolving into a mist leaving the noise to the wind. The old tent wasn't doing very well, water was seeping in around the corners. The cause was of course that I hadn't done the proper lashing and staking required to make the dome weather worthy. That made me feel worse still about my poor performance on the climb. As I tried to pull the gear away from the wetness in the dark without disturbing my partner, who was blessedly asleep, I thought I heard a strange noise above the wind. It seemed a human noise, and while I tried to make it something that might have come from the other tent, it seemed to be too far away for that. As I listened for more samples to evaluate the rain hammered in again and left me sitting there in the dark feeling a bit uneasy. It seemed hours, the long minutes until the rain abated again. I sat hardly breathing while I listened, and then I heard it again. It was without a doubt a voice calling. Its meaning was lost in the wind but it was a high cry meant to be heard afar. The call seemed to have an exhilaration to it, and almost seemed to have an echo behind it that repeated faintly in spite of the roaring wind. Then it was gone, and though I waited for more, that was all I was given in that dark moment.

Thoughts returned of the stories I had read about the spirits of Jamaica. The Obiah Men who could deal with the spirits of all things alive and dead, and those of the dark side who could set the sprits of the undead on their enemies. Jamaica is inheritor of the legends and beliefs endemic to this long illiterate nation held in the evil clutches of slavery and poverty, and also the lore of their homelands in Africa, which is much better preserved in their day to day culture than in the post slavery culture of the US. What if my modern evaluation of such things was in error? On a more human scale I thought of the Maroons. How they had been the released slaves of the Spanish when the English first took Jamaica with the sword in the 1600s. They took to the "hills" and in those wild lands, such as where I was now, they resisted every attempt by the English to bring them out for generations. They in time gave the backwoods the reputation as "the land of look behind". It was a fool who ventured into their homelands without passage. They were sure to never return. And then there is the violence of Modern Jamaica. Those beautiful lights I saw at sunset were of a city that has the highest murder rate in the western hemisphere. I though about the fact that just a few miles away as the crow flies, Bob Marley's House, the place we had driven by on the way here, was attacked by thugs with machine guns in the late 70s. I thought of the horrors of the worst slum of Kingston, Trenchtown, a place I could see from here if the clouds were to part, and its multitude of warring gangs. My fearful mind wandered even to the political unhappiness most Jamaicans feel toward Americans just now because they feel our persecution of Saddam Hussein is unjust. The awful thought crossed my mind that the only defensive weapon I had, a small canister of Mace, had been left behind in my stupid Cache far below. My how I wished I was asleep.

After another long, dark while the voices suddenly returned, and with a vengeance. I heard the low voices of grown men, the happy cries of children and even the voices of women, mothers in fact telling children to be careful. While the language was not to be deciphered the tone was impossible to miss, it seemed to be families arriving at the peak on the trail! Unzipping the tent door a bit I could plainly see flashlights bobbing into the field in the misty pre-dawn. Soon the closest of this approaching group passed nearby and his companion slightly behind him said "Look Mon, Tents!" "Fantastic" the other said excitedly as they passed by. The Momma Dog, just below my chin, growled at them slightly. The fact that this little mutt was there protecting us gave me some comfort, showing how completely out of place I felt in that moment.

As the group filed by on the trail, all set on their destination, the ruined building nearby, some brought their flashlights to bear on the tent, but most were much too involved in the 90 mile-an-hour patter of excited Patois between each other to bother with us. It seemed now, after the parade had passed, that there were about 20 of these new inhabitants of the Peak, an even mix of Men, Women and Children it seemed to be. All this investigation had been done by ear, for it was still much too dark to see our new neighbors.

The old ranger's house was in bad shape. It lacked most of its roof and had been all but disassembled by vandals. The signs of fires that had been started but failed to finish the stone ruins off were abundant. The floor was wet and covered with debris of all types. Into this dark house the group settled and soon the smell of campfires, expertly made no doubt as it was so windy and wet, the clank of those familiar galvanized pots and soon the aroma of the strong coffee of the region came across on the wind. Children were told to settle down and after a while things became very still and quiet. I had from time to time considered going out to meet our guests, but was hesitant. When Robin awoke to the noise of the crowd she was hesitant as well. But as the sky began to slightly brighten and the rain and wind died down she began to feel we should go and see what was going on. We pulled on our still damp boots, found our raingear and flashlights and painfully and tentatively stepped out of the tent into the breeze. The field was enveloped in a thick fog, which from moment to moment morphed into a wet mist and then back to a fog at the discretion of the wind. The light was a dull thing, coming from no particular direction, but definitely more than the inky blackness of nighttime. The flashlights still had power over the close ground but we could tell it wouldn't be too long before their power was broken by the coming dawn. Robin made a tentative reconnaissance to the front of the ruined building and came back quickly to report "There are bunches of people sleeping in there!" While the prospects of the hallowed sunrise were seeming pretty dim, we decided to make the best of it and venture to the high point to wait and see. Along with us tagged along Momma Dog, evidently oblivious to the weather. We sat for a while there on the very top, wrapped together in a tarp, while the mists rolled around us. It had that strange feeling of emptiness you become aware of when you know you are surrounded by nothingness, yet the fog blocks all aspects of the view except in your mind's eye.

Eventually one of the mysterious neighbors choose to join us and he arrived to stand quietly with us for a while looking into the featureless fog of the east. He was a tall man of large frame, extremely dark skinned, with the large flat nose and wide brow that distinguishes those Jamaican's of purely African heritage. He watched us from time to time, inconspicuously, with his large black eyes. His raingear was olive green, and from time to time the wind whipped it back to reveal a camo uniform and a black holster on his belt. His boots were pure military spit and polish and a black beret sat cocked upon his close cropped black hair, spying out from under his rain hood, sporting a shield or badge of green, yellow and black.

To break the silence I offered "Doesn't look too promising for a sunrise does it?" "No indeed, it doesn't mon" he replied. After a moment he decided to continue "I've been here five times now and I've never seen it…" Incredulously I offered "Do you come up here regularly?" "Yah mon, I come with my mates and our families whenever we can, here lately. For many of the children it is just their first time". Exhibiting my total ignorance I asked "are you a Park Ranger". He laughed heartily and said "NO MON, Jamaican Defense Forces, the JDF" like I should have known from the start. "Americans are you?" he queried, already knowing the answer in some way. "Yeah, from North Carolina" I said. "First time in Jamaica?" It was by far the most common questioned asked of us. "No, second, we got married here five years ago" I said. Now he smiled a big toothy smile for a long moment and then said robustly "Welcome Back!"

The rain picked up, in concert with the wind, and our new friend left us for the shelter offered by the ruins. We stayed on this very topmost rock with some lingering hopes that the clouds might part and the sunrise be revealed, but our hopes faded after a while. Robin spent a picture, sure to be wasted, to capture me and Momma Dog on the very top of the Peak that sunrise. The rain then grew in intensity and drove us from that exposed point after while and we made our own way down to the ruined house.

We passed Prem's tent to find they were awake and we spoke to them for a moment about the abortive sunrise. They seemed to have no inclination to move out of the dry shelter of the tent as it was obvious there would be no view this morning. We went on to the front porch of the old structure and leaned against the rock wall where a small segment of the porch's roof still lingered, and it was dry. We felt no open invitation to enter, and didn't want to intrude, so although our friend from the top acknowledged our presence with a wink and a smile while he sat in a corner and ate from a small tin of fish, possibly sardines, and a few of the children gave us continuing stares of innocent curiosity there was no blushing invitation to join their private family moment.

An old man with white hair and bent frame came out to wash a cook pot in the rain, and although I spoke to him he wouldn't look at me, and went back in when his task was done. As the rain continued I had occasion to meet eyes with just about all the soldiers. It was each ones intention it seemed to in some way catch my gaze, as some sort of measure I guess, and led me to believe our first acquaintance was the officer, and probably the eldest of the group. None seemed to be too friendly, but one in particular found his way out to the porch, produced a large hunting knife and proceeded to wipe the gleaming blade across the post of the dilapidated porch in a parody of cleaning just a few feet away. He suddenly drew back and quickly planted the point in the old weathered wood of the post, then turned around to smile a big smile, complete with a gold tooth, at me. I was determined to be nonplussed, and so I gave him a limited smile back, and then looked away, keeping his blade visible in my peripheral vision. He made a small chuckle sound, put the blade back in his belt and walked away. I thought to my self how wonderful adventure is…

A new day begins… 7:00AM Dec 7th

After a while it was clear to all that we had missed the sunrise due to the weather. Rain came and went as it had all night and finally after full light it stopped and left us with just a cool mist that twisted and turned about in the wind. Our neighbors in the old ruins gathered up their gear and bid us an unexpectedly friendly goodbye. Just after they left our companions finally left their tent and begin to stir around in what seemed to them to be a cold morning. Robin and I explored the peak and discovered a multitude of other ruins not at first noticeable in the long grass of the field. Obviously at one time there had been a large group of buildings on the top. Overgrown picnic tables and foundation stones, along with rock cisterns dotted the field. We wandered up a well worn path to the second high spot, and inspected the monument there. It had once held a plaque of some sort, but like most of the structures on the peak the monument had been vandalized and the plaque was missing. Even the steel tube structure that had once supported a large flag pole was torn and broken. It was a sad comment on the nature of man when out of the sight of supervision.

Prem talked about his feelings that the Government should rebuild the Ranger Station here and bring it back to the kind of well developed, manicured spot he remembered from his youth. Having been just that week to the Department of Parks in Kingston to speak with officials about the Fisherman's Beach at Silver Sands, he said that when he had to return there in 2003 he might speak to them about it. I heartily wished him luck, for a more deserving place doesn't exist. The ruin of such man made things took a back seat to the beauty of the place and we wandered around with delight in the damp morning inspecting the unusual flora and fauna, as well as those many plants and shrubs that would be right at home in our Blue Ridge. Prem told us how the view from the other high point was wondrous, down the "other side" toward Port Antonio and the east coast of Jamaica. Sadly, in the mist and fog that enveloped us we could only imagine the view. We waited for about an hour before we finally decided to break camp and begin the long trek back to the north coast.

Looking back I'll tell you that we would have been better off to stay and camp at Portland Gap or the Hall, and that a single overnighter isn't enough. Don't misunderstand, we have NO REGRETS! All that our many missed opportunities; the "view" north and east; the sunrise; the relaxation we could have experienced in front of the fire at the Hall; all these simply give us reason to go back. In fact, looking at the network of trails, and the more "off the beaten track" peaks that are sisters to the Peak… The mountains of Jamaica may well become a second home, a second Blue Ridge if you will, we loved it so.