| He
Came, He Saw, He Hiked, He Fell…Then He Rode a Mule
Caribbean Travel and Life
January 2000
by M. Timothy O’Keefe
On a quest to conquer four of the Caribbean’s
tallest mountains. Our intrepid pilgrim overcomes many an
obstacle on the path to peak experiences.
PICO DUARTE, Dominican Republic
Nor should people without good bottoms try ascending Pico
Duarte, I could not have guessed that my assault on the Caribbean’s
highest mountain would leave my pride hurting more than my
legs. And I definitely didn’t think it’d be such
a pain in the butt.
The first hint that I might be in trouble
on Pico Duarte comes when I meet my fellow hikers: a young,
amazingly fit couple who are members of the Norwegian armed
forces, and a marathon cyclist from the Virgin Islands. Carrying
cameras and a few more decades on my back, I prepare to be
our party’s rear guard.
Pico Duarte is part of the chain of mountains
known as the Cordillera Central or the "Dominican Alps,"
located in the Bermudez National Park. It soars 10, 197 feet
above sea level and the climb is an arduous one. According
to park officials, of the many thousands who attempt to summit
Pico Duarte every year, only a small percentage succeeded.
Most who give up are defeated by the altitude. And of those
who get to the top, only a few are tourists. Most are Dominicans,
for whom scaling Pico Duarte is a matter of national pride.
Our little group registers at the park office
at La Cienaga and arranges for a guide and pack mules. Then
we set out on the first leg of what will be a three-day hike.
It’s just a one-hour, very gradual 2.5-mile walk to
Los Tablones, one of two shelters on the trail. The second
shelter is considerably farther along, nine miles from the
first but just three mile from the summit of Pico Duarte.
The uneven distances make the first day’s hike a breeze,
but the second is a real bitch if you’re spending only
two nights on the trail.
Near sunset, as we sit in the smoke of our
campfire to avoid the thick clouds of mosquitoes, the pack
mules of another, much larger, group start clomping into our
tiny camp. We rush to the cabin to claim the best sleeping
spot, a room with a door that closes. All 16 people in the
other group are welcomed to sleep in the dining room.
The next day, we leave early, hoping to arrive
first at the next shelter and once again secure the prime
accommodations. As we begin the marathon walk, I notice a
boy about 11 years old trailing me on a mule. As it turns
out, the mule is for me. Why anyone should expect me to need
it I didn’t know. I had no trouble the day before. But
the summit is 12 miles and 6,000 vertical miles away. Our
schedule calls for making it by late afternoon, then descending
another three miles to overnight at the second shelter. Definitely
a demanding hike, but I fully intend to walk the entire way.
I start to reconsider when my climbing companions
decide they want to climb Pico Duarte in record time and set
off in a cloud of dust and youthful adrenaline. Between stops
to take pictures and stops to let my age catch up with where
my misguided mind is taking me, I fall farther and farther
behind. My pride eventually takes a back seat, and so do I.
The boy who is trailing me graciously dismounts his steed
and gives me a boost.
Oh, sure, I am a wee bit embarrassed to be
riding atop the mule when I intended to be afoot. On the bright
side, I can now stop to take photos without worrying that
I’ll never see the summit. Plus, it is an altogether
pleasant mule. We make a good team.
The weather is postcard perfect until after
lunch, when we make the final assault on Pico Duarte. In minutes
we are covered in clouds. The sharp, clean smell of the mountain
fog arrives just ahead of the sound distant thunder. As the
rain starts and the sky rumbles around us, I come across two
grisly scenes- the skeleton of a mule and the carcass of a
horse. No one is sure what happened to the mule but the horse
apparently died from lung problems the day before. Altitude
sickness? No one talks about it much, but people have also
died, usually of heart attacks, while attempting this climb.
The thunder subsides, but it’s still drizzling at the
summit. The peak is marked by a statue and tattered Dominican
flags flapping in the mountain breeze. A metal pole hums with
the sound of enough electricity to power a small village.
Lightning is crackling all around us, and we decide not to
stay for long, especially with the clouds obscuring the view
of almost everything.
Returning to the shelter, we find the other
hiking group has just arrived. They are drenched and exhausted,
and although it is only 6 o’clock, several are already
sacked out in their sleeping bags. They don’t plan to
seek the summit until morning, when the peak is often sunny
and cloudless. After making the peak, they will go only part
of the way back, spending three nights on the trail instead
of just two. Many of these hikers are close to my age, and
I envy their opportunity to hike at their own pace.
My younger companions make fun of the other
group’s slow progress. Then the marathon cyclist realizes
he never noticed the two dead animals near the summit. Slow
and mule-driven I may have been, but at least I always knew
and appreciated where I was. And yes, it was worth every bruise
on my sore butt.
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