How Many Times Can A Person Almost Die?

Seven? Because that’s how many times I almost died this past week.

It began Monday morning. My friend and I were traveling out of civilization (ie: where there are paved roads and cell phone signal) and in order to do this we had to cram our bodies onto the back of an over-stuffed pick-up truck. The man told us there was no more room for 2 other people (let alone room for our 2 friends who would be joining us in a town along the highway later on) and he had a point. When we got on the truck had tons of food in the form of rice sacks and giant oil cans, as well as us and all of our bags. We told the driver to go slow because we didn’t want to die. He agreed but made little effort to live up to his promise once we were on our way. Every time it got bad I yelled at my friend to grab me (I was positioned between her legs) and I reached for some stranger (who I then deemed as my boyfriend). He told me not to worry, just to grab on as much as I needed. I wondered why he wouldn’t make my job easier by moving his arm so I could hold it instead of his pant leg. Then my friend made me reconsider what it was I was even wondering. Of course the creepy Dominican man would want me to grab on to his pant leg every time I got scared.

Along the way we had two episodes which could have been much worse: my backpack (filled, luckily with fluffy items and not with my two, expensive cameras) and a shopping bag belonging to my friend (filled with granola bars and toilet paper) fell off the truck and rolled away from us down the hill. Both times we stopped and the driver sent a young man to get our stuff back. I didn’t realize it right away, but both bags took the drop and roll quite difficultly; unsurprisingly the shopping bag ripped (thank goodness for double-bagging) and my backpack got a tear in it and my water bottle, which was safely attached to the backpack with a cheap karabiner, got a few scrapes. But it could have been much worse. Thinking about the sound my backpack made as it rolled away still sort of makes me laugh. Haha.

We picked up our friends who miraculously were able to mount the truck in some fashion, and even managed to position themselves better than we’d been positioned. Figures.

We made it to the base of Pico Duarte, the point from which we would begin our ascent of the largest mountain in the Caribbean. It was cold, but I knew the worse was to come.

Tuesday morning we awoke to the same sound we’d fallen asleep: river. We ate quickly at our guides’ house and then packed the mules and began our hike. The first hour and a half went quite well. We made this part of the trek in record-breaking time. Little did we know how inaccurate the signs were in terms of their predictions about how long the trails would take, and little did we know how much harder it would get. I’d stretched before we began but I soon found out it hadn’t been enough, or maybe it’d just been the wrong parts. After just a few hours my groin muscle started screaming at me to stop so I decided there was no harm in getting up on the horse. It’d been a while since I’d ridden a horse but I found out when I mounted him without a single problem that I still had it. His name was Sebastian and he was a jerk. He couldn’t handle the downhill parts for the life of him, so after just 15 minutes I got down. I got back up on him for about an half-hour later in the day. But the last stop I was dead tired, both my lungs and my groin muscle were begging me to slow down and take some advil (which I realized I’d left at home). Luckily my friend gave me some of hers and I hit a second wind like no one has ever seen. Two of us were incredibly in shape and another friend and I were not so much. But with this second wind I was able to keep up with the faster two. It didn’t hurt that we passed the time playing movie games, during which I kicked everyone’s ass.

We got to our first cabin after an eleven and a half hour hike. We were so exhausted and I honestly thought that our guide was trying to pull our legs when he told us at dinner (our only real meal that day) that we’d be getting back on the trail at 3:30 the next morning.

Unfortunately for me, he was not joking and we had to do that very thing. Well let me just tell you know I HATED hiking in the dark. Everyone else had remembered to bring their headlamps but I had of course left my in good use at home. The idea was that we’d hike up to the top (the last 4 kilometers of ascent) before dawn to be able to watch the sunrise from the top. Me and my slower friend were never going to make it by dawn, even when she decided to get on a mule. But, it was pretty cool to watch the sun rise as we climbed. (I also did enjoy the pre-dawn hike a few times when I turned off my flashlight to look at the stars and listen to the absolute stillness. But it was freezing to stop, and so sweaty when I went, so it made more sense just to keep going.) Even though it was just 4 kilometers up on that second day, I honestly considered repeatedly not going up. I was SO sore and my lungs just hated the atmosphere up there and the fact that I’d been so busy with stoves before this trip that I did absolutely no preparation of myself for the trip.

When I made it up, I almost cried. Our other two friends were already up there and had been for some time. They were frozen to the bone, but waited for us to take some photos and enjoy the view for a little while. We’d hiked all of this with the dog of our guides’ and he amazingly came all the way up as well.

The trip down was almost worse than the trip up. This time instead of my groin muscle and lungs hating me, it was my feet, ankles and knees hating me. Oh and my fingers swelled up to at least twice their normal size. I went so slow, while my other slow party member was off on the mule. The worst part was when I could finally see our camp again. Once I realized we’d made it I slowed way down. When I got there I discovered another problem: blisters. I couldn’t move for a while, even to get the breakfast/dinner we ate more than anything on the trip: hot chocolate with oatmeal.

We leveled with the guides: it would not be possible to hike any more that day after the longest day of our lives and just 4 hours of sleep. They were hesitant but finally agreed (at which point I again almost cried): we’d set out again the next morning. So we all took naps. That night we hung out around the fire making marshmallows and pigging out.

Thursday we woke up at dawn to begin our third day of hiking. We’d been warned that this trail would be dangerous if it rained, and guess what, it rained. We had to hike up and out of a valley to hike back down into another one. My slower friend and I rode the mules all the way up and just before getting to the top, my friend got thrown off of hers. We were all so scared for her, but luckily she wasn’t hurt too bad. After that, and considering the temperature and the rain I thought everyone was insane to want to keep going away from our base. The guide had said we could get stuck down in this new valley if it continued to rain because the mules wouldn’t be able to make the hike. Still, it was supposed to be beautiful down there and I wasn’t about to lose my group so when I was outnumbered, even by my friend who’d gotten thrown from her mule, I went along. Again it was a slow day, but luckily it was mostly down hill; that is, luckily for my groin and lungs. It was rather unfortunate for my feet, ankles and knees and just disgusting for my blisters. (One even began to discharge green puss!) But we made it, and it was beautiful.

When we got there we went straight to a waterfall in a river to bathe our gross bodies. I managed to get the least submerged in the frigid water, but I was able to wash my hair, which was my biggest concern. It started to rain so we went back to camp and ate and ate and ate. I read my friend’s New Yorker (I’d forgotten what culture was like) and then slept like a baby.

Friday morning was another early one. Once again my friend and I would be mule-bound. She would again get on Moreno, the mule who threw her the day before and I would again be on Morena, the wonder-mule who could carry me, my bag, my friend’s bag and a few gallons of water. I was not using a saddle or stirrups, but had once again decided that it would be easier just to go with it and try not to picture my own death. Sitting up there was a little precarious, what with my legs just sort of dangling by the mule’s face, but we made a good pair. I know this because I never did fall off. And neither did my other friend. One of the guides never left her side and when I realized that he’d run straight into a giant mud puddle on the trail with one arm on the mule and one hand reaching for her back, it dawned on me that his entire responsibility for that day was to make sure she didn’t fall off of her mule again. It worked. We both came close, far too many times, but we didn’t fall once! Success! We did have to get down a few times where the trail was just too bad, and so we did get quite muddy. We left the mules for the last 2/3 of the trip as well. It was mostly downhill at that point (even though my main concern on the last day was simply the blisters from hell) so we were able to move faster. We continued to play movie games with the other two and before too long (much later after our guides predicted, but exactly when I’d predicted) we got back to base and were all still alive!

We showered, some drank the beer they thought they’d earned and I drank the coke I knew I’d earned. We sat around shooting the shit with our guides and their family and were entertained for a while by a neighbor who was quite drunk. He started his interaction by calling me “Hey blondie!” (Why is it, I wondered, that I am getting so much attention on this trip when I’ve never looked or felt worse!) He kept calling to me, even though I ignored him, and finally came over, offering to sell me his cabbage for just 2 pesos. I took a photo which only egged him on more. He stuck his whiskey bottle to his two teeth and begged me to keep taking his photo. He finally left us, greeting each flower as “hello mother, how is your daughter? And you daughter, how is your father?” as he walked away.

The next morning we rode the very truck we came in on out to the city, and back into civilization. Again it was driven far too fast, but again we didn’t die, although we did get a little car sick. I got back to my site on Sunday, after spending one night in Santiago. I am nearly completely physically recovered at this point. The only things left are the blisters which were a couple of layers deep so I don’t expect them to go away right away. I’ll let you know when they do though.