The incident with dreadlocks and his victim was extremely alarming , and had left us shaken. We were already “bust”, tired, dehydrated, overheated. Now we were also dispirited. Should we have done more to intervene? That was the unspoken question that I am sure we were all pondering as we trudged silently the last of the way to Whitfield Hall. We were the outsiders, trying to pass quietly through a remote mountain communty, unwittingly employed as human shields, and suddenly involved in a murderous drug dispute where the only option to pacifism seemed to be to partipate in unrestrained violence. I did not know the answer then, and I don’t know it now.
Gloomy and exhausted, we finally arrived in the late afternoon at Whitfield Hall. The Hall is a coffee plantation Great House, converted to a hostel for hikers to Blue Mountain Peak. Situated at 4000 ft, it is close to the start of the trail that ascends to the peak, 3402 feet higher. Had we been doing this trip the “proper” way, we would have reservations for a snug bunk in the lodge, and a place before a roaring fire. As it was, we had a small tent and a grassy spot on which to pitch it. We intended to cook dinner, go to bed early and start our hike up the trail at 4:00 the following morning, in time to see the sun rise, if the weather held.
In the fading evening light, we noticed that clouds were begining to gather, and the sound of thunder in the distance grew louder and more peristent. Then the heavens opened and the rain came down, at first only torrential, but building to a true deluge. Still, there should not be a problem, this tent had a built-in waterproof ground sheet with a raised lip, so it could handle water. Trouble was, this was no ordinary flood and soon the inside of the tent was like a shallow padling pool. We hung our rucksack from a ceiling pole and did what we could to stay dry, but it was evident that we needed to get moving. There was dry lodging at the top of the trail.
We donned our raincoats, long, dark green ones that hung below our knees, and set out into the night. For the next half hour or so we trudged up the trail in heavy rain, cold, miserable , but reasonably dry. For those of you who are not familiar with this hike, there is a long section at the lower end that traverses an extreemly steep, treeless mountainside. It is here that the lightening became almost continuous, and the wind really got going, roaring up the slope at perhaps 40 or 50 mph, and carrying with it the rain, now assaulting us from underneath our raincoats, rather than from above. The Tropical Storm had arrived. Needless to say, we were soon totally soaked and, despite our exersions, very cold.
Finally we got to the tree-line and out of the vertically rising rain. We needed to rest, to eat, to get warm and, as far as possible, dry. At Portland Gap, a relatively level area between two mountains at an elevation of 5,600 ft., there is a small cabin, which we found to be open and empty. We immediately started a small fire in the fireplace, using a candle to get a few small pieces of wood alight. We needed more wood and went out in the dark to look for some. The only thing we could find was an entire tree that had been blown over by the storm. It was tall, about 5 inches in diameter with very few branches. We needed to burn the tree itself if we were going to get warm, but we had no tools to cut it up. Lying on the ground, outside the cabin was a large boulder, weighing perhaps 150 pounds. This gave me an idea! The floor of the cabin was raised several feet above the ground, and had a set of steps up to the entrance. We dragged the tree to the base of the steps, set it on a couple smaller rocks, then rolled and dragged the boulder up the steps. With many hands assisting we managed to get the boulder raised in the air above our heads, then sent it crashing down on the fallen tree below. It worked! the tree cracked in two. The process was repeated again and again until we had a decent supply of firewood. Back inside we got a small fire going, then “drafted” it by covering the all but the bottom with a wet towel, causing the inrushing air to create a blast furnace effect. Soon we had a roaring flame and were able to start warming up and getting dry.
We took turns, alternitely taking naps and keeping the fire going while the storm raged on outside. Gradually, as the night passed, the rain seemed to ease up and the wind howled less violently. By about three in the morning, the last of our wood was thrown on the fire. We had burnt the entire tree! We were no longer soaked, but still damp, and as the fire dwindled we again decided it was time to get moving to keep warm. And we still wanted to get to the Peak in time to see the dawn.
This final section of the trail, climbs nearly another 2000 ft, mostly through heavy virgin mist forest. It is muddy, slippery, rocky, steep and seems to go on forever. As the elevation increases, the temperature continues to fall, approximately 3 degrees per thousand feet. I did not have a thermometer on this trip, but I can tell you it was cold bad, probably in the mid 50s. That might not sound so cold to some, but throw in a serious wind chill factor, and to a damp, tired, hungry yardie, that was plenty cold.
We finally made it to the peak, where there is a large main cabin, with a fireplace and glass block windows. There is also a drafty smaller cabin without a fireplace, affectionately known as “The Fridge”, though charing on the floorboards is evidence of someone’s efforts at an indoor bonfire. Neither cabin had any furniture, and legend has it that any furniture soon ends up as firewood.
It was still a long way until dawn when we pushed open the door to the main cabin. By the light of our flashlights, we were astounded to find it already ram full of people, in blankets, sleeping bags and anoraks, trying to sleep on the cold wooden floor. There must have been forty people in there! A voice told us they were full, we would have to go sleep in the Fridge. No way! Anyway, everyone rolled and “smalled up” so we each found a little piece of floor to lie on. Turns out that a large group from a Kingston church youth club had choosen this holiday weekend for their hike. The good news is that it was so “ram” that body heat made it noticably warmer than outside, and it was fairly windproof. The bad news was that several of their party had been unable to keep up and had still not arrived.
Flashlights went out, whispering ceased and everyone settled down to make an effort at sleep. Other than the sound of the wind sucking on the chimney, silence. Then, a voice in the dark, “wait, a weh dis big Cyat come from?” (where did this big cat come from), followed by the noise of someone rummaging for a flashlight. Click……….”IS A RAT”! All hell broke loose, girls screaming, jumping up, then trying to climb on guys to get off the floor, and every flashlight in the place searching wildly in that crowded cabin. I never saw the rat, at least not then, but next morning I certainly saw several that changed my perception of what size a rat should be. ”Big cat” did not do them justice.
That was the end of any serious efforts at sleep and several flashlights remained on for the remainder of the night. Several more times before dawn, a tap at the door signaled another small group had arrived. Eventually there really was no more space, and the door could not be opened as someone was lying up against it. For those unfortunate stragglers, the Fridge was the only option.
A cold, grey, blustery dawn finally arrived, and with it, the last of the stragglers. This small group included two guys, who had between them a girl who was making little or no effort to walk on her own. She was overweight, out of shape and had spent the entire night and the better part of the previous day out in the open. I learnt that the youth group had also stared at Mavis Bank, though they had walked up the long meandering dirt road to Whitfield Hall, rather than the steep trail we had followed. We got her in the cabin, wrapped in blankets and tried to get her to eat, but she was too far out of it. A couple hours later, she was no better. Her pupils were dilated, and she was semi-conscious. I am no doctor, but it did not look good to me.
As the morning progressed, we heard the familiar sound of a helicopter approaching. Rescuers! A large group of us went outside and waved frantically as the JDF helicopter flew over, looked set to land, then dissappered into the swirling mist. Perhaps it was still too windy and dangerous to attempt a landing. Perhaps he was just doing reconnaissance to see if anyone had been caught on the mountain by the storm. Perhaps the pilot was afraid of landing and being overwhelmed by a large group all wanting to be rescued, I guess I will never know. All we wanted was to secure a safe passage down the mountain for the delerious girl.
Well, no happy ending. Later on that morning, we left the youth club with their casualty and slowly made our way back down to civilization. I never heard a news story about the incident, so I assume they made it safely home.
I have been to Blue Mountain Peak seven times in total. Each time has been its own adventure. The first time was supposed to be a school field trip, but it was cancelled at the last minute, and a group of us went anyway, without the benefit of teacher chaparons. Once during a really dry spell, I drank water from a rain guage, and sifted leeches from a tiny stream to stay alive. Twice I have been by trailbike, once with a pillion rider. Before you assume that is the easy way, you need to see the trail after it has been gullied by torrential rains! In all those trips, only once did I get asked for money for staying in the cabin. An old man on a donkey appeared one morning, complete with official receipt book and demanded perhaps $8 per head. We pointed out that we had only arrived at about 5:30 in the morning, so had not overnighted, but he knew his “rule book” and quoted us ”per night, or part thereoff”! He got his money!
If you get a chance, go!
