Dornoch Head Blue Hole, source of the Rio Bueno River. - Andrew Smith /Staff Photographer A hike in Cockpit Country left Lifestyle Reporter Nashauna Drummond puzzled, disappointed and yearning for more.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 11. It's just after 6:00 and the morning is yet to be kissed by the sun's rays. Still, a group of eager hikers are gathering in front of the Sun Venture Tours office on Balmoral Avenue in Kingston for a trek to the Cockpit Country.
I was intrigued by the thought of going to bush, and not just any bush, the Cockpit Country. In the days leading up to this I had been thinking about the Cockpit Country, a place with a memorable and colourful role in Jamaican history. Thoughts of the Accompong Maroons, led by the fearless Cudjoe romped through my mind. I imagined incomprehensible instructions being shouted over the sound of barking dogs as sweating but determined slaves made their dash for freedom. In the background a mansion burned.
Just think, I would be trodding along paths that I imagined my ancestors walked centuries ago my African ancestors running to freedom as the European ones try in vain to recapture their bodies and souls.
OFF TO BUSH
Fascinating stuff. However, I had to stifle the occasional yawn struggling to get out and ignore other signs of exhaustion as I mentally prepared for the journey.
It turned out to be a small group of hikers. I didn't mind. Although I was looking forward to toughing it out, it was, after all, my first time going to bush (as my fellow hikers refer to it).
I breathed a sigh of relief I didn't know I was holding when I saw our guide, Robert Kerr of Sun Venture Tours. Tall, well toned and wearing an adventurer's hat, he looked like he could handle himself in the wild. I soon discovered that he really knew his stuff. Before we even got close to bush he began spilling stories about the Maroons and the Juan de Bolas Mountains in St. Catherine.
Travelling through St. Catherine, Clarendon, Williamsfield and Christiana in Manchester, we drove into Albert Town, Trelawny, where our adventure began. The first leg of our hike took off at Freeman Hall, outside of Albert Town. Saddled with water, hard hats, flashlights, rope, insect and mosquito spray, we trotted down the road to tackle Quashi's River Sink. Quashi is African for a day of the week and it is reportedly named after the Maroon Quashi who hid there.
I was so disappointed. Quashi's River Sink wasn't in the mood for us nor will it be for other adventurers in the near future. What used to be a fairly well used and visible track leading down to the edge of the sink has been covered up by thick, unruly bush.
At first we thought it was just a bit overgrown so our ever prepared tour guide, armed with a cutlass, began hacking away. He hacked and he hacked, but to no avail. It was just impossible, we were actually creating a new track, not to mention the mosquito nest we were in. Although the buzzing insects were not actually extracting bits of flesh, they were so concentrated that they were physical obstacles. Then there were the thorns no, these were 'makka' that scratched bare flesh, grabbing and getting entangled in the least bit of fabric it came in contact with.
THE CLIFFS AND SIGNS OF LIFE
IN THE COCKPIT
We eventually gave up on Quashi's River Sink and began our trek across Cockpit Country. It soon became obvious, especially around Burnt Hill where we started our hike, that this area is a haven for mosquitoes. I did pause briefly to wonder how the runaway slaves and their trackers managed without mosquito repellent although I must say that the one we used was of little help at this point because we were sweating so profusely.
The road was completely silent except for the squashing sounds of the stones beneath our feet. I was treading a road built hundreds of years ago which was still in excellent condition.
The limestone edges of the cliff through which this road was blasted seemed to stare at us as we wandered into their realm. The faces of some of the cliffs have been made so smooth over the years by Mother Nature I could not resist the urge to caress them.
Most intriguing, however, was Horse Head Rock the face of a horse shaped in the cliff, although it took some time for some people in our group to stretch their imagination to get it.
Butterflies of varying hues, shapes, sizes and species danced across our paths. For the first time in my life I saw a tody a beautiful bird slightly larger than a humming bird.
Along the way we met Ralph Watson who was leaving his farm on his trusty donkey, attempting to make his way home before the rain. I wished him all the best. As the rain approached and our path darkened, we also met Val and Phyllis Daley loading corn from their farm onto their donkey. So there were other forms of life in the Cockpits besides the spirits of our ancestors.
TAKE MY BREATH AWAY AT
BARBECUE BOTTOM
We were heading for Barbecue Bottom when it started to rain. An uncontrollable gasp escaped my lips as I took in the view. As far as the eyes could see the mist, awakened by the rain, lightly powdered the rolls and rolls of beautiful mountain tops. Mere words cannot do justice in describing the view. In the far distance, nestled in a mountain crevice, you could see a distant town. If you throw a stone down the mountain you would never hear it hit the bottom. Hidden by the green carpet of the forest it's difficult to judge the depth. The British definitely did not stand a chance against fleet-footed Maroons in such terrain.
After the rain Barbecue Bottom and the entire Cockpit Country came alive as a winged orchestra started rehearsal as the birds started chirping.
The sun was now going down, thanks to the rain it was their time.
Our hike turned into a bird-watching expedition that confirmed two things I really love birds and I have very little patience. The birds kept teasing us. You would hear their beautiful songs but could not figure out where they were as they would not grace you with their magnificent
presence. Such a tease.
By the time we got to Dornoch Head Blue Hole, the rain was over. The blue hole is the source of the Rio Bueno river but when I saw it I stopped in my tracks puzzled. The 'blue' hole was chocolatey brown. There were constant murmurs of dismay from my fellow hikers who have seen the hole when it lived up to its name. A fairly large pond, about 25 feet wide, was served by a constant trickle from a rock in the far corner.
We walked back to the van in silence. Blue hole was blue no more.
