The Gorge - Feb 2014

The last fish swam free from a rectangular 2 liter Nalgene bottle, neatly labeled with orange tape. The tape stated precisely where to release the fish, captured from this very spot two days ago. The fish were processed and data recorded in the lab yesterday, and now the guppy population had been safely returned to the stream. Release days are far shorter than fishing or lab days; it was still early, with plenty of sunlight dappling through the canopy of enormous ferns and leaves, vines and trees: plenty of daylight left for adventure.

"Should we do the Gorge?"

"What's the gorge?" ask J- and I, the new girls, still only two weeks in to our time here.

"One of the best things you'll do in Trinidad," G- replies.

There is a short discussion about safety; it has been raining an unusual amount for the dry season, and water levels are a high. Deemed safe enough, we begin our trek.

Starting back up the trail toward the truck, we hike for a while, then take a turn downriver. Stashing our bags on the riverbank under huge hanging leaves, we load one pack with drinking water, granola bars, and pocket knives. This is not an adventure for lots of gear. K- carries a machete. I carry a coiled length of floating green rope. Splashing boots first into the stream, we wade, the water occasionally waist deep.

The entry to the Gorge is unmistakable. A huge pinkish quartz boulder is wedged between narrow dark rocks walls. The stream runs around and below and cascades over the boulder. This is it; the point of no return. G- walks right up to the top of the boulder and hops off. We go one at a time, J- capturing evidence with his waterproof camera. He jumps in to record from below. It's just A- and I left at the top. I step up and feel my heart quicken. It looks like a long way down to the pool of water below, where the water wells before streaming out into the long narrow gorge snaking beyond. I take a deep breath and jump.

Plunging feet first into cold water, the river closes over my head and I sink before bobbing back to the surface and kicking downstream. A- jumps behind me, and we all swim like wet rats in a line into the gorge, colorful bandanas and sleeves bobbing above the water. As the stream bed rises to meet our boots and falls away again, we wade and swim between high winding walls of stone and rock and muddy earth hard packed and held by greenery and roots, overhung with mosses and vines. We keep alert for fer de lance, the only poisonous snake we are likely to see in this part of the mountains. But mostly we laugh with delight and call jokes and songs to one another, filled with the feeling of this magical place.

The gorge is rife with life. The calling and twittering of tropical birds chases us through the forest floor as they sing in the trees above, while brilliant butterflies flutter overhead, ignoring these strange animals who look nothing like the fish and otters and crabs they know. The water itself feels alive too, carrying us along as we swim to speed it's winding way, wrapping around our ankles and knees and belts as its height waxes and wanes. It pushes us down natural rock slides, some so narrow we have to turn our hips to fit through. We scramble over boulders and tree falls, leap from ledges to ledge, and climb up stone walls where they impede our progress flowing with this stream, which is decidedly one way. We meet several further jumps, none so high as the first. During a long swim in a slow, wider part of the stream, J- climbs out and boulders up the left hand wall, finding new ledges to perch on and leap from, splashing back into the river. J- and I flip on our backs, floating with the current and staring starstruck at the tropical sky peeking through the trees above, throwing warm yellow light down between the high walls of the gorge. An enormous ancient tree has grown up here, roots thicker than my body wrapping the walls in an ancient embrace.

Turning to swim again, we make our way downstream until at last the water spills us out to a shallow beach. Dripping wet, water pouring from our boots, we wade onto land and, after some searching, pick up the overgrown trail again. Few people come out to "the bush"- it's us and the hunters who keep these trails open, boots and machetes claiming each footstep from the jungle that encroaches and swallows our footprints, daily growing over our tread.

Reaching the split in the trail we almost return to our packs. But... "Well, it's not too far..." G- and A- discuss. J- and I shrug happily. We don't know exactly what further adventure they have in mind, but if it is anything like the last, we're in!

Swimming back over a deep crossing, we head again into the heart of the jungle. Soon the riverbank narrows, and disappears. We walk upstream through shallow running water that laughes over the smooth-pebbled bed, brown and red stones flickering brightly through the sunlight water. The stream turns sharply uphill and the stone walls narrow to no more than a few feet apart. Climbing up over a big rock, stepping between the walls one at a time, we arrive at a deep pool, perhaps fifteen feet in diameter. Upstream, we see a small waterfall carving in a short s-shape in the rock.

The depth of the pool announces the history of this place. River right, the wall rises high and straight. From the side, an even rock face slopes steeply toward the top before it drops sheer away. Standing at the mouth of the pool, where the walls are cinched narrow, in single file we brace one foot on the wall behind, lift up out of the water and kick boldly forward onto the slope. Boot tread and sheer belief lever us over the stream and stick us to the slope. Hand over knee we climb up and soon can stand at the top. Teetering on a narrow ledge made slippery by rotting leaves and constant moisture, looking straight down at a well of clear water, it looks very far indeed.

"Cowabunga!" "Whooo!" "Aaaaaaaa!" We shout as we jump, calling encouragement to each other. One jump is not enough, and we swim back to scramble up and do it again.

At length afternoon begins to wane. We return to our packs, full of empty fish bottles, and begin the hike home.