Grand Tacaribe - March 2014

It was a three day jungle adventure to the sea. We drove a dusty pickup truck from the Guppy house, the cab full of seven Guppsters in stained field clothes and flip flops, the bed laden with field packs, snake gators, and hiking boots. We were looking for C-, his wife K-, and their children. We were hoping to begin our trek across their land. The kids popped over the railing of their house, a work of precise carpentry crafted from fire-resistant hardwood. Swinging in a colorful hammock on the open porch, they gave quintessentially Trini directions to where we could find their father.

“You go up so, then on so, then left at the river. Well, first you cross the river, and then go left, then down the hill, and then you go so!”

Each “So!” is emphatic, and accompanied by a hand gesture that you could probably interpret if you’d lived on this island all your life. Since the degree to which such directions are incomprehensible to a bunch of Americans, we agreed with polite interest until the litany ended. G- stayed for a while to play basketball with the kids, rebounding the ball and all six feet of him lifting them to dunk.

Not even attempting to follow the directions, we drove back to P- Road and began our hike. Starting as a wide paved dirt road, a highway for butterflies, the flat quickly gave way to a jungle path wound around the sides of the mountains like a band of brown ribbon. We hiked with open eyes and open hands and open mouths, chattering and passing water bottles and enjoying the greenery, not unlike the hikes to work but easier going and as yet unseen. A coral snake on the trail caused startled excitement, the small serpent's red and black stripes announcing a neurotoxin, fatal if only the tiny teeth at the back of a Sharpie-sized throat could break the skin.

We hiked on into the jungle. Boots began to wear on skin, but attitudes remained unblistered. Conversation began to center around the great distance remaining to lunch. The ribbon of trail wound again, and with a sudden roar the sound of the ocean rose through the trees.

We gained the trail to P- Falls and deviated from our course to the sea, hiking above the bank of a shallow stream. Jumping from the last ledge, the water fell dead ahead, beautiful and welcome. Packs were dropped and shoes were shed, and we jumped in. Cold water washed away the heat of the hike. Afternoon waned and bellies called, we broke for lunch, perching on the highest rocks, refugees from the armies of ants searching for tender morsels of lunch and flesh.

From the falls, we quickly gained the sea. The sight of tropical blue lifted our hearts – it is lovely to behold the Caribbean, doubly so when your journey’s end is near. Pah! If only we knew how far it would be. But no matter, for then the sun still shone and the sand squelched amusingly under our heavy-treaded boots, lunch was still bright in our bellies and the afternoon seemed young. The trail grew strenuous. We joked about our ragged edged breath, talking and laughing between stretches of quiet. The way wound on and off the beaches, up into the jungle, dropping on to the sand before climbing back into the rainforest again. We passed occasional dwellings, some like old tree forts, others little more than tarpaulin and faded rope.

Gaining a bluff with a killer view of the sea, G- triumphantly cried "The coconut grove!" Thirsty and tired, we drew cutlasses and chopped coconuts, drinking the sweet water and feasting on white coconut jelly. Some of the ripest coconuts fizzed like champagne, younger nuts gave a smooth sweet water. The grove rehydrated seven hikers and filled us with a view of the sea. Little did the rest of us know that G- was bluffing when he said, “Not much farther now. Maybe another hour or so.”

Day turned to night as we wound in and out of the jungle. Stretches on the beach were bright in the afternoon light, but stretches through the trees were deeply dark and dusky. The light grew faint and dark shadows gathered around leaves and fallen logs, and we armed ourselves with lights against the night. Resuming a now weary pace, a string of headlamps and flashlights pressed on up and down the mountains.

We kept the tiredness at bay putting one foot in front of the other and calling occasional encouragement to each other in the pitch black. J- snorted laughter and said,

“You know how some people complain hiking is just moving forward staring at the ground? This is the epitome of that. All I can see is the spot right in front of me. There could be a T-Rex with an astronaut in his mouth right next to the trail and we’d have no idea.”

This got a laugh, but quiet fell again. We concentrated on breathing and not falling off the cliffs in places where washouts made the trail scant inches wide. Habitually, we pause as a troupe whenever there's an interesting bug or plant or bird – usually G- can call the land bugs, J- the water bugs, J- can name the plants, and I can identify the birds. So when the frontrunner spotted a huge interesting spider we gathered round, interest quickening our flagging energy.

“Ohh, yeah,” G- said. “I know this spider.” He gave it a name I didn’t recognize. “A girl got bitten by one of those and a chunk of her finger necrotized.”

“Necrotizing spiders! Let’s move on, shall we!?”

We fell rapidly back into line and moved on at a good clip. Soon, though, glittering diamonds strewn all about the trail told us that this was a nocturnal species, and there was no getting past them. So watching were we placed our boots, grateful for the snake gators, we kept going. The dark livened insect activity, and we shared the very narrow trail with a line of red ants. A bellow came from the back of the line “KEEP MOVING!”

Constellations and moonrise illuminated the stretches of sand, and weariness set in earnest. We dropped onto a beach, much like the remote sands we’d been crossing for hours, but this time a name was spoken – Petite Tacaribe. This should be the last beach before Grand Tacaribe, though more jungle lay still in our way. The dwellings here were more permanent, large wood structures. Stone stairs carved in long winding paths down to the sea.

Grand Tacaribe! We had arrived. Crossing the whole length of the sand, G- ran ahead with a light to find the trailhead to our beach camp. A sheer hill rose before us, full of rocky roots and necrotizing spiders glittering eyes, but this time the trail rose straight up. At the top, we spilled out onto a level semi-cleared area around a big half-enclosed wood platform, roofed walls on stilts. The slats between the walls invited stringing hammocks. With a cheer we dropped our gear on the benches and split into teams, hanging hammocks and kicking up a fire for dinner, pasta salad made at home the night before and silver turtle hotdogs cooked over the fire.

Camp was up and running by a cheery blaze in a blink, fire burning in an open air clay oven by the open doorway. A freshwater mountain stream, clear water clean enough to drink fountained from a thin length of PVC pipe, serving as a spigot to fill our water vessels and a chilly open air shower. Nothing could keep us from the beach, and as soon as dinner was done, we headed down the steep hill to the sands of Grand Tacaribe. Swimming by moonlight, the white crests of the waves reflected brightly on the dark water, the sands hardly darker than a cloudy afternoon. Orion hung overhead, keeping watch, as we looked north over the warm Caribbean sea.