In general, this column is a mirror of local color and adventure – a place for me to remind us all about what great stuff there is to do right here at home. And, while there is seemingly no end to the parks, restaurants, bars, festivals and outdoor fun in the St. Petersburg area, it serves, on occasion, to get the heck out of town. So today I bring you a distraction of a different sort.
Being a full-time student, I have very little opportunity to remove myself from the area. Having just finished my spring semester, however, I had two weeks before the whole grueling thing started all over again. But what, you ask, did I do with all that time?
Puerto Rico, baby!
Without going into too much detail about the archaic colonialism of this situation, I will tell you something that surprisingly few people know: Puerto Rico is not an independent country. While it is home to millions of proud Latinos, the island itself is actually a part of the United States. That means that, without having to deal with the hassle of customs, passports, or terrifyingly small airplanes – and, I might add, in far less time than you could drive to the Keys - you could be in a beautiful, tropical paradise, sipping daiquiris made with the finest rum in the world. Why, oh why, would you even think of going to Hawaii?
I am in love with this island. In approximately 4000 square miles, there are mountains, beaches of unparalleled brilliance, 400-year-old architecture, amazing food at every stop, and an exotic, yet unfailingly friendly Latin culture to welcome you.
Of course, to them – the Boricuas - we are all “gringos,” but that’s part of the adventure. They laugh at our pitiful attempts at Spanish, our pasty white bodies, and our dance moves, while we wonder how they survive the daily assault of psychotic drivers on the confluence of swiss-cheese that they call “roads.” Isn’t culture fun?
This was actually my third trip to Puerto Rico. Because my partner, Maria, is a native, La Isla del Encanto has become a sort of second home to me. In the last few visits, I have meandered down the blue-cobbled streets of Old San Juan – the oldest city in the New World – filling my camera with “casitas” and the imposing fortress of El Morro. I have spent long, blissfully lazy hours in a hammock by the crystalline waters of Isabela. I have stood on the rocky and desolate cliffs of Cabo Rojo, imagining Blackbeard, or perhaps Johnny Depp, sailing somewhere on the horizon.
But it’s easy to be romantic about trips past. This year, however, there was none of that. This year, I almost died.
If you have lived most of your life in the near-level flatness that is Florida, and are guilty, as I am, of taking a somewhat “casual” approach to your cardiovascular fitness, then you may understand the harrowing tale I shall now recall.
Puerto Rico is home to the only rainforest in the US parks system – part of the Caribbean National Forest. El Yunque, as it is called, is also the name of its highest peak, some 3,500 feet above sea level. I am certain that in the Taino Indian language, it means “Acute myocardial infarction.”
Now, I know 3,500 feet is hardly Mt. Everest, but, likewise, I am no mountaineer. I was set for a “day-hike” to observe native flora and perhaps even some fauna. I did not bring my grappling hooks.
It was 95 degrees in Puerto Rico when we set out on the El Yunque trail. At first, though, it was charming, with giant forests of bamboo and banana trees shielding us from the sun. The temperature dropped considerably as we ascended, which was good, because I was by then sweating like a poor fat man in a high-stakes poker tournament.
At some point, I paused to take a picture of the tiny speck that was a Spanish-style guard house atop an impossibly high summit. “Wow,” I thought. “Who would ever climb that thing?”
Who, indeed.
After nearly two hours spent clamoring over mud and boulders in my woefully inadequate sneakers - and with frequent moments of alarm at my unprecedented heart-rate - I reached the point of no return. That is to say, the point at which one’s animal instinct to “conquer this godforsaken mountain” overtakes the more human element of reason and that little voice in your head that says, “Hey, I can’t feel my legs anymore.”
The last mile or so was an approximate 65 degree incline. Never mind, I said to my legs. I was a woman on the edge of greatness. I envisioned only brilliant pictures from the top, swimming in a succession of screen-savers, to immortalize my moment – the day I conquered El Yunque.
I can not tell you how disappointed I was, then, to finally reach the summit: a small clearing with a Spanish-style guard house, completely surrounded by the same lush foliage I had just emerged from. There was no view!
In a mildly embarrassing moment of hysteria, I ran around the guard house, trying in vain to push my camera through the bushes. This could not possibly be what I had risked life and limb for! Yet, nearly rabid in my determination at this point, I crawled through a mess of banana trees, ignoring the enormous hairy spiders poised to jump – I was sure – onto my shirt collar. Holding a clump of grass, I dangled my body as far out over the 3,000 foot drop as was possible, furiously snapping pictures of a prize I could not see.
It was just then that I felt a tapping on my shoulder. “What are you doing?” Maria asked, looking at me as one looks at a small child. “There’s a much better view from the top of the guard house.”
Oh. Yes of course. I was just checking out these spiders here…
Well, in all it took us three hours to reach the top, which, I learned later, was not even the highest peak. That would have been another back-breaking mile above our little guard house.
But, I was satisfied. I was as pleased with myself as any who have scaled Mt. Everest. How could I not be? I conquered El Yunque. I have the pictures to prove it.
And our next stop was the Bacardi rum factory.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 5/24/07
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