Pico Duarte – Paso a Paso

My ancestors first came to the Caribbean as pirates. Not our noblest chapter. I first came here on impossibly massive cruise ships. In a way, those floating cities felt akin to their criminal predecessors: Arriving to take what you want and then leave; little deference to history, geography, anthropology, people.

This stay, however long it lasts, is different. It’s a chance to live on the land rather than slide past it. Definite plans are a luxury these days, but we figure to explore the Dominican Republic for about three months. Enough time to thread back and forth from beaches to central highlands, knitting ourselves in, even if only a little bit, to the social fabric here.

Mountains! The highest peak in the Caribbean is Pico Duarte.

And what a mountain: a stretch of slope so steep it’s nicknamed “The Repentance.” Chasms of sand lined in vivid green moss and dusky pink ferns, drinkable water issuing from springs enfolded in palm fronds, bromeliads sprouting from the spindly trunks of fragrant pines. Beautiful!

It was the burros that sold the boys on the idea of climbing to the summit of Pico Duarte. That, or the possibility of breaking four family records in one hike. A 3,098-meter summit, 32.5 miles of distance roundtrip, 8,000-foot elevation gain, three nights camping; to do all this on Pico Duarte, a requisite park guide would show us the way and pack our supplies by burro.

Our guide didn’t think the boys could handle it. It’s dangerous! He wanted to charge us for three extra burros for them to ride their way to the top. I assured him that we came to walk our way (and secretly hoped I was right about the boys’ abilities). Sometimes parenting is about wielding wisdom; sometimes it’s about guessing and crossing your fingers. 

Here, I’ll take you there as best I can with memories set alight in words:

Mud. Deep red and textured with hundreds of hoofprints. We walk heel-to-toe along the edges embroidered with palm frond patterns, holding onto trunks of trees that lean over the trail. A bridge gone cattywampus, nature turning man’s vision into an illusion. A funhouse. The water swift and crystalline blue, bending around boulder islands of ancient red reefs worn soft. Undersea holes now home to miniature gardens. 

Hot. Shirts come off, and sleeves roll up. Four kilometers up, we pause to talk to other hikers. A group of students and friends from Santiago. How old are your boys? Where are you from? I used to live with my Aunt in Maryland. No me digas! They carry on, and we follow soon after.

Burro traffic. Coming down, going up. Circles. Confusion. The whips crack it all straight. Mira! Always go to the high side of the trail when a burro is passing. You wouldn’t want to fall down that slope.

Lichen trails like an old man’s beard from the branches of the pines. We walk with stories. We walk in silence. Along the ridges of sand and over the stones. Sea beds tipped skywards. Steep now. We sweat through all our clothes. They said it would be cold at the top of the mountain. I brought my winter hat to the Caribbean.

Lunch stop. Peanut butter and jelly, ham and cheese, fresh pineapple. Horses like to eat pineapple rinds. This time we pass the university students. One of them has a hurt knee. Another has a migraine. How old are your kids again? They truly walked the whole way? The youngest girl ever to come up here was four, but she was riding. The oldest to walk was eighty-two.

Hour after hour, one foot in front of the other. Paso a Paso. Working to breathe, to find the air in the air. We sit to rest. Ay! Something stings Leo’s hand. We are out of the benadryl; we apply hemorrhoid cream from our first aid kit and tell him it will help. Maybe it will.

The kids ask me to remind them why they wanted to climb.

We talk about presidents and dictators with our guide. Those were his kids that my boys played with at base camp. His mom made our dinner of arroz, frijoles, y aguacate fresco. He broke his femur in a car accident three years ago. His wife left him. No need to find another woman for company. All they do is chat to each other, no good for anything, really.

The boys count their progress on the markers. Six kilometers to go. They say the final four kilometers to la comparticion campsite are all downhill. Fog erases the valley, erases perception. We are in the clouds. We could be anywhere.

People still walk this trail to get to the big city to trade. Easier than going around the mountain. En serio? This is the part where they regret their decision. La arrepenticion. Loose rock on steep grades. Every step forward is half a step back.

More guides ask ours—did those kids really walk all this way?

Almost there. Chris balances on a small stone to fill our water bottles in a pool the color of the Caribbean shallows. I wonder if we can see the ocean from up here, so far from the beaches and the resorts and their mojitos. What’s for dinner?

Camp! We made it! Luxurious, a huge rustic cabin with fireplaces at both ends, our tent set up inside for privacy. First, a stretch. Then, a chat with fellow hikers. A robotics engineer from Italy. An insurance agent from Spain. Her boyfriend from the D.R. Everyone has his or her covid story. Have you heard what is happening in your country?

Dinner is cooked over wood in a concrete bank of forty crucibles. Dominican stew. Yuca, plantain, corn on the cob. A hot meal by a bonfire edges away the chill of the mountain air.

Leo’s hand still hurts him. It swells until he can’t make a fist. Pringamosa say the guides, a type of stinging plant. It will be better by tomorrow. We fall asleep before our books are closed.

Someone’s alarm goes off at 3 AM.

At 3:10.

And again at 3:20.

At 3:30, the university students get up to pack their things before hiking to the next site.

Ours goes off at 4:15. At 4:30, we are walking by starlight and flashlight toward the summit. Another family record: earliest start. The goal is to see the sunrise from the zenith. Leo’s hand hurts more. His fear paralyzes him. We are wearing all the clothes we brought, but Seth is cold, and he stumbles. We carry them. Slow going. The guide’s horse breathes on my back. Horses can find their way best in the dark, he says.

We reach a valley before the peak. The German company that built these campsites back in the seventies insisted on putting one here, but the locals knew better. It’s too windy. Nobody ever uses it. How can there still be one more kilometer to go?

My feet are fine. My kids are tired. Chris carries Leo a bit farther, and I take their packs.

The sun swells like a slow, deep breath over the clouds and we walk with our heads turned sideways, trying not to miss a fraction. Chocolate and oranges come out of the packs at the top. The wind nearly blows us away. Would the next peak over catch us in its piney net?

Down is easy. Daylight is a good friend. We’ve been to the top of Pico Duarte and back before breakfast!

Adults nap. Kids play cards. Leo soaks his hand in hot saltwater. The cold hurts it the worst, he says. I wander into the woods with Seth and Jack to build a fort clad with branches, topped with russet pine needles. Dull thuds sound and echo; the guides are cutting down a tree for tonight’s bonfire. Twenty-seven more people make the climb to camp with us that night.

Back down the mountain today. Leo can move his hand again, at last.

Some people run down. We take our time. What about the burros, I wonder? Our guide assures me that they are treated well. But I saw some open sores on their backs and bellies and under their tails. Those will get to rest until they are healed. He assures me that guides who do not follow the rules will lose their license. They train to work with us, with the animals, with the trail.

He sneaks off at the end to surprise us with a bag full of tayota (chayote), the vegetable that looks like the face of a green granny who’s lost her specs and her dentures both. The hills at the base of the mountain are covered in them. (The vegetable, not the dentures.) Thanks for taking care of us, my friend.

Clear, rushing river to soothe swollen knees at the end, and we dip one last time into the vastness of the experience.

Challenging Your Kids to Climb to the Next Level