Peak of Perfection - The Australian

WE start with an unscheduled stop. “The alternator broke,” explains my driver, Martin. He closes the bonnet and gives me a look of good-natured resignation. I roll down the window and look around. Below us lie verdant valleys, above us are precipitous mountains; and water, water everywhere.

The lush, mountainous flanks of Dominica, an island roughly the size of Manhattan, stream with water. It’s as if this section of the Lesser Antilles — a speck in the West Indies closer to Venezuela than Florida — just recently burst forth from the sea. (As one of the youngest islands in the Caribbean, at a youthful 26 million years, that’s pretty much true.)

There’s an ominous antediluvian undercurrent to the landscape, with its dark forests inhabited by strange creatures that slither and crawl, and steaming fissures that penetrate deep into the earth’s core. I’ve only just arrived, but already I’m spellbound by this disquieting place.

As we wait by the car, it soon becomes clear that everyone knows everyone on this island nation of just 70,000 people. Or at least Martin knows everyone. He hands the alternator to a passerby, and an hour later a new one arrives, ferried by many hands along mountain passes. We head into the hot, dark night.

 …When Martin picks me up for my hike the following morning, he is eating what appear to be eyeballs. “Kenep,” he offers. I take one and, peeling back the thin skin, am rewarded with a sweet, tart, tropical fruit. I pocket a few for my hike. The sky has been washed blue after the overnight rain and the road into the hinterland is lined with glossy leaves embossed with crimson veins.

We climb ever higher, dodging rockfalls and “mountain chicken” (otherwise known as bullfrogs) as we go. Few people venture where I’m going. To reach Boiling Lake takes 7 1/2 hours of challenging hiking, a time-frame seared, no doubt, into the minds of the many cruise passengers who’ve apparently seen their ship sail without them after attempting the climb on a shore excursion. As a result, the hike to Boiling Lake has become an unofficial race (the record: a group of US Navy SEALS did it in well under five hours.)

Leaving Martin to chill in the van with Celine Dion playing at full volume (just how far does one need to travel to escape the Titanic soundtrack?), I start on the trail and quickly begin my ascent. I climb out of the valley on steps cut from ferns: in the wet they are the only wood that can provide grip. Sticks grow legs and scurry into the leaf litter to camouflage themselves once more. In the valley below, a fat hydroelectric pipe weaves through the jungle, a patina of rust and moss lending it the appearance of this forest’s most famous resident, the boa constrictor. My heart quickens.

As I traverse a ridge, a cloud of hummingbirds follows me. More than 167 species of birds have been recorded in this dense forest. Some, like the large green and purple sisserou parrot (which resides largely in the north), are so important that helicopter joy-flights have been banned on Dominica to avoid ruffling their feathers. At the summit I gulp down the entire contents of my water bottle and look out across the mosaic of Portsmouth and Roseau, the island’s main cities.

Christopher Columbus discovered Dominica in 1493 on a Sunday (hence the name) and thereafter — as in the case of much of the Caribbean — it was fought over by the British and French until rum and slaves were no longer the currency of the region. In 1978 it achieved independence, only to be flattened by a hurricane a year later. Since then it has remained largely ignored, which for adventure-seekers is precisely its appeal. The 500km of hiking trails woven through Morne Trois Pitons National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage site, are barely used.

From the ridgeline the trail descends steeply into the Valley of Desolation, a place well-suited to that biblical-sounding name. I gingerly pick my way through sulphurous cinder cones and bubbling earth until I reach a river flowing with hot water. The volcanic furnace at the heart of Dominica gives rise to some very strange landscapes.

The riverbed is coated with a white crust of minerals. Here, some rivers run blood-red; others are pungent with sulphur. The oceans are also filled with oddities. Dominica is popular with scuba divers for its year-round population of sperm whales and outstanding underwater photography opportunities (the granite reef gives rare species fewer places to hide from view), and some diving sites have to be seen to be believed. At Champagne on the west coast, for example, a constant effervescence is released from underground vents.

Finally I reach the rim of what appears to be a vast cauldron, the mist carrying with it a hauntingly rancid smell, like boiled laundry. The steam clears from Boiling Lake and I gaze into a deep crater-lake simmering away like a pot of beans. Exhausted but exhilarated, I perch on a rock and stare into the engine room of Dominica.

Then the rain starts. On the way back, water cascades down the muddy switchbacks, flecking my face with red dots. The relentless upward slog has become a never-ending downward spiral and my knees are jelly.

I hear the music before I see the car. When I finally reach the trail-head, the sun is out and Martin is dozing on the front seat. He looks me up and down, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. I am covered in mud and soaked through. Even the contents of my wallet have become papier mache. “Good time?” he asks, handing me a kenep.

“The best,” I reply with a grin.

Words and image by Adam McCulloch. Originally published in The Australian. The format has been altered to suit Tumblr. To view the original click here.