One of the best parts about waking up every morning in Kingston was looking out the window toward the hills of upper St. Andrew, and in the deep distance, the peaks of the Blue Mountain range.
Eleven years ago today, Jeanie and I hiked Blue Mountain Peak in Jamaica, and that is where we squat, smiling, in the picture above. On a clear day, you can see Cuba from this spot. I must tell you, a breezy 50 degrees felt like heaven, after months of relentless, hellish heat in the dusty asphalt jungle that is the city.
The peak is a seven mile hike (an ascent of 3000 feet through a stunningly fertile and dense forest) from where we stayed the night before--a quaint cottage among giant eucalyptus trees called Whitfield Hall with our friends the Allens and their three children.
The walking was easy compared to the drive from Mavis Bank to Whitfield Hall--another seven miles of one-lane dirt, carved into the side of a mountain.
Trying to turn around on that road I nearly drove the pick-up off a sheer cliff to an inglorious end. For some reason, my heart still races and I twitch nervously when I think about how close a call that was. But I have not the words to describe it well.
When people ask me what is one thing not to be missed on their Jamaican vacation I always say Blue Mountain Peak. I don't think anyone I've ever said that to has bothered to make this trek.
2 comments:
we never made the trek, but then, we never asked for your advice before going either. they say that the peak gets snow on it on rare occasion--the only snow the island ever sees.
I remember sitting on the floor of the van, refusing to look out of the windows on a particularly narrow drive up a mountain in New Zealand.
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