Blue Mountain Pt. I

Today a group of us set off to hike to the highest elevation in all of Jamaica, Blue Mountain. Known more for its great coffee than for being Jamaica’s tallest peak, it is a climb which most people begin in the dead of night so as to summit before the sun peeks above the ocean’s horizon in the East. The mountain range sits on the Eastern side of the island which means before even considering an ascent, my group and I had to travel from our Western locale through the narrow roads of the island and into Kingston, Jamaica’s crime-infested capital.

After a quick drive to Mandeville, our nearest ‘big’ city, we were joined by the final members of our group and departed. In total there are six of us: Emmett, Larry, Margaret, Jason, Aaron and myself. Like me, Jason and Aaron are volunteers at St. Vincent Strambi, Margaret works with Catholic Relief Services, Emmett is a volunteer serving in a civil engineering role for the diocese and Larry works for a local Aluminum mining company. Exactly how our six paths converged to this moment is not important right now. What is important is that we have decided to take this physical challenge.

We left Mandeville around 12:30pm and headed East through towns such as Porus, Spanish Town and finally arrived in Kingston around 3:30pm. It was an easy drive punctuated only by a quick traffic stop where a police officer was checking papers and identities for reasons unclear to us. Having nothing to hide and having gone through a couple of these so far, our two drivers, Emmett and Larry, breezed through the checkpoints and we entered the outskirts of Kingston.

Entering Kingston is similar to riding into Chicago via Irving Park Blvd. It is two lanes of traffic on either side and it’s not uncommon to find vendors and random people roaming the crawling lanes of traffic. As we moved bit by bit closer to the downtown area we passed many a shack-ridden area. Rusted corrugated tin made up the walls and roofs of these houses and it was hard to tell where the rust stains caused by rain stopped and the stain of the red clay began on these houses. Add in some overgrown wild grass, junked cars, tattered laundry hanging on sagging clothes lines and I am left with another seared image of poverty on this island. And just like any other large city it has its more affluent areas to offset the poverty.

As we wove through the streets of Kingston I detected a slight gain in elevation which stood in contrast to the lower flatlands of Spanish Town through which we had recently passed. We turned a corner and from around a consulate building the Blue Mountains suddenly appeared. Looming tall and majestic over Kingston, I could not believe that I was able to see houses and buildings as high up as I did. Having learned that the quality (and sometimes existence) of roads in this country is horrible, I wondered how in the hell life in the places I was about to reach went on. I was about to find out.

We cleared the bustling avenues of Kingston and on the other side quickly found ourselves at the last town before really ascending the mountain, Gordon Town. Comprising no more than 12 or 15 buildings which house some restaurants, clothing shops and a hardware store (plus some various businesses which now escape me) it is a town exited as quickly as it is entered and here is where things started to get interesting.

As we exited the aforementioned Gordon Town the roads quickly narrowed and began zig zagging along the mountainsides. It was not uncommon for a tight turn to come out of nowhere and for us to find ourselves negotiating with another truck or van as we moved around the bend. It reminded me of times when I have moved a large couch through a doorway and had to negotiate with my fellow movers on how and when to turn so as to successfully move on. “Okay, now you drive forward a bit and turn your wheels left, I’ll move towards the spot you just came from and you head towards where I was and we’ll avoid rolling a thousand feet down a steep incline to our deaths. Sound good?”

We seemed to be driving at a constant ten degree angle for close to 40 minutes when we finally came around and bend and began descending the back side of the mountain we had just climbed. Towns such as Paraiso and Guava Ridge seemed to pop up out of nowhere and every once in a while, when we checked with locals to ensure we were headed in the right direction, a few of them would ask for a lift to the next town in exchange. Having plenty of room in the back of our trucks we obliged and pressed on towards a small town named Mavis Bank.

Please take note of the fact that I just said the word “trucks,” as in plural. The first truck is an older Nissan which rides fairly close to the ground; the other is a newer Toyota which has the clearance of most modern SUV’s. The Nissan, driven by Emmett, was the lead truck and the Toyota, driven by Larry, followed. Knowing that the roads we would take to get where we are now are treacherous, we planned to park the Nissan at a Police Station in Mavis Bank, transfer all gear and occupants into the Toyota and continue the journey. After roughly an hour of being out of Kingston we arrived at Mavis Bank, consolidated everything into the behemoth Toyota (4 in the cab and 2 in the back with all the gear) and pressed on.

We finished a descent of sorts into a valley at the base of the innards of the Blue Mountains and crossed the Yallahs River. Dusk had a firm grip on the landscape and everything was dimly lit as we crossed a concrete slab of a bridge over the narrow river. It was very easy to see that a heavy rain could easily wash out this road and bridge and leave the higher mountain locales stranded for days at a time and suddenly I found myself regretting that I had not checked the weather before leaving.

Once we had crossed to the other side of the river we began a 40 minute ascent which had me laughing in disbelief for nearly the entire ride. The incline of this road was similar to that of a roller coaster while it climbs; seriously, gravity was forcing me into the back of my seat from this point forward. To boot, some of these roads were nothing more than dirt with huge gaps and trenches carved out from rain water. Larry shifted our trusty truck in to 4 Wheel Low Drive after a while and negotiated not only the terrain but hairpin turns with oncoming traffic.

You read that correctly: oncoming traffic. I really have no idea how a late model Honda Civic hatchback or Toyota Minibus gets up and down these mountains without needing a new transmission every month but they do and we came across a few of them. We also came across many a vehicle that found its final resting place along the side of this path as well as a few natives leading donkeys in the night to which Aaron quipped, “Hey Mark, watch your ass.”

With night in full swing and no street lights of any kind, we finally arrived at our destination, Whitfield Hall. It’s a large bunk house which can house up to 40 people. Its main lounge is gloomy, if not all out creepy, with a large fireplace and a smoke-stained ceiling. We have arranged for the use of a separate private cabin located just down the road and like the main bunk house it has no electricity and no hot water. Kerosene lanterns and bottled water are in full swing as I write this. We have just finished a great baked chicken dinner up at the main bunk house complete with rice and peas (a staple at most Jamaican meals) and some juice. Now it is time to force myself to sleep for we will wake up and begin our trek at 2:00am which is a mere five hours from now.