Pic Paradis. Or, if you prefer to say it in English, Paradise Peak. This was the beautiful beginning.

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Couple days ago we heard the following on the morning net.

"This Saturday we'll be doing a Hike" came the announcement from Mark on SV Sea Life "I call it The Hike from Hell. We'll be taking the bus up to Pic Paradis, and follow the ridges back down to Marigot".

He continued to brief any would be hikers that it would last about four hours, to bring at least 2 litres of water, a lunch perhaps, long pants to avoid the scratches and stinging nettles, and sensible shoes, and he did repeat the Hell word a couple more times.

"Let's do it!!" says the Capt'N and I in excited unison as we radioed Mark with our reservations.

The morning of we had our sandwiches ready, our Camelbak's filled with water, and misc other "just in case" type of supplies tucked away.



Introductions all around as the first bus group gathered,



and the drive up was short, a scant 25 minutes or so, before the driver dropped us off at a dead-end. We paid our $6 U.S. pp as we disembarked, eager to start our adventuring and found the signpost indicating "Pic Paradis" with an arrow pointing up, that-a-way.

Up and up it was and before long, just a little out of breath, we were at Paradise Peak, enjoying the view.



Beautiful,



the tall grasses everywhere,



and we even had a celebrity with us. Chris Doyle, author of the Cruising Guide Publications was the Guest of Honour.



We chatted with everyone while we waited for the next busload of adventurers to arrive and then walked around a bit,



checking out the various viewpoints at the Observation Deck, got hungry and ate half of our lunch.

A couple of hours later we had all assembled and Mark gave us a brief intro of what lay ahead of us,



and armed with smiles off we went.

A few minutes into our hike, Mark exclaimed, "Wow, you have to see this" as he offered me the lead, and I ventured forth in a total awe moment, as the multitudes of butterflies flitted and fluttered all around me, like snowflakes on a cold wintery Canadian Snowstorm,



It all felt surreal, almost as if I was entering another world,



just me, myself and I, surrounded by total green-ness, butterflies.

Pretty.



Soon however "the barely visible path" disappeared into the depths of the taller than me grasses,



and thus the descent began.

This trail winds itself along the mountain peak ridges, linking them on a downward spiral,



and after a few false starts,



we finally located the right path to follow,



stopping for a photo-op every now and then.

The bush was so thick and overgrown that even the butterflies had stopped flitting about, but we did spot one of these brightly coloured creatures resting on a leaf nearby,



Shortly thereafter though the bushwhacking began, the scramble to make our way through the dense and tangled vegetation suddenly very serious.



There was no path that we could see. We were surrounded on all sides by a canopy of green and brown, larger than life leaves and a mess of tangled vines, fallen tree trunks laying atop of moss covered rocks and boulders, and we had no clue to guide us as to where to go.

"Find the ribbons" was the resounding outcry, and all eyes were now tasked with scanning behind every leaf, branch or trunk to try and locate a plastic ribbon tied around a tree.

Looks like this might have been a proper signpost at one time or another but today it offered no sense of direction,



and no visible semblance of what might once have been a well-trod path. The ribbons were so hard to find, some laying on downed branches and dead tree trunks, others still fluttering in the wind at eye level.

At one point, one member of the group had come across a couple of locals, tending to their garden, and they confirmed what we had been discussing among ourselves.

Hurricane damage a couple months ago had totally destroyed a lot, but more importantly to us, what was once the path was now gone. They didn't quite think any of it was passable.

A group meeting was held, and two options were offered out. The locals indicated that there was a path out of their garden that eventually led to a road where we might be able to grab a bus that would bring us back. Or keep going. We all opted to keep going.

Oftentimes a few of us went ahead in separate directions, instantly disappearing behind larger than life shrubbery and it would be a few moments before cries of "this way" or "that way" were heard, and the group once again began moving in the direction of the positive voices, singing the way ahead.

Not only did we have to find the ribbons that would confirm we were on the right path,



but in order to follow one ribbon to the next, we had to fight the obstacles in our way. From thorny bushes that grew everywhere just blowing precariously in the wind, pricking you with their pointy ends to remind you of their presence. Or forcing us to scramble on all fours to go under their dense coverage to avoid them. Or getting our feet caught in vines that wrapped themselves around our ankles if we didn't lift our feet high enough off the ground. To clamber over tree trunks that might break if stepped on or contort under them at incrementally awkward angles.

At one point we climbed up and on what could best be described as a ten foot trampoline of intervowen vines, branches and leaves, that somehow miraculously held us suspended five feet above the ground, as we sought out the ever elusive path underneath, to the eventual ThankGod cries of "I've got a ribbon".

Hours later, there was some clear direction of where to go,



but only on the tree trunk. Nowhere was the path visible or easy to trace.

Sometimes we zigged, sometimes we zagged and all the time we searched for what could possibly be an opening large enough to allow the group of us on and through to the next cluster of what might be impassable growth, to find that elusive ribbon on a branch.

As with all hard tasks, we all sighed and worried and fretted, hoping we would not really be lost, hoping we would make it out, and home, before darkness fell. We had gone too far to turn back, indeed at this point, there was no turning back. Jokes of B-rate horror movies were thrown back and forth, as was the idea of a new Survival Series, anything to keep our minds off the bloody ouchie-bits.



And on and on we went.

During all this time there were exclamations of the four letter kind, as yet another forearm, or thigh became a bloody victim to the razor grass, or the thorns that lay hidden behind some leaf or branch, or ankle got yanked back by a vine that wouldn't give way.

Eventually, as we reached the Mont Saint Peters Antenna, the confidence of the group returned as the trail became much easier to follow, and we all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Perhaps the sigh was sighed a bit too early, as what looked like an easier to follow trail,



soon became evident that it might be even worse than the one we just came front. The taller than me grasses had been replaced by taller than me cactii,



that grew like tall armed soldiers lining the very narrow ledge we were on, where we all carefully aligned our already weary and shaky feet, one in front of the other, on a downhill descent.



Keeping your balance was paramount, your total being focused on testing each rock and pebble and boulder before the entire weight of your body gingerly stepped on it. Should you trip, as you tried to safely side-step a mess of dead (but still very spikey) cactii laying on the ground, covering the rocks like a carpet of the thorny kind, you knew you could certainly not put your hands out to steady yourself on either side.

A stop as one group member did step on some thorns that went through his shoes, and the shoes and socks came off to remove the offending intrusion.

Finally a level path to follow,



until a few more short scrambles through the woods, and we emerged,



having successfully scrambled through a mess of a mountainside. In the photo you can barely see the Antenna that is Mont Saint Peters, and somewhere in the unseen background is the height of Pic Paradis.



We were hoping this would be the final exit, onto a certainty of a paved road,



that eventually led us back to our dinghy in Marigot.

This is us, BEFORE the start.



Four and a half hours later, I certainly didn't have any energy to grab an "after" photo-op as we all sat at Spinnaker's for a refreshing Cold One.

Our legs were sore, our thighs screaming at us and it felt good to just sit, although we knew if we did sit, for too long, we wouldn't easily get up. Our thighs and arms scratched and bloody. Our clothes soaked with sweat. Many memories made, shaky smiles of relief and yet an exhilarated wonder and adrenaline charged excitement at having done it!

A hot shower later had us Peroxiding all the cuts and using some Nutmeg Cream to offer up some relief on our achey muscles. Although we both drank lots of water during the hike, neither one of us had used the washroom at any point during the day which shows how much we sweated and how quickly you can get dehydrated (how important it is to bring, and drink, LOTS of water).

We cleaned out our Camelbaks, put our first-aid medical pack away (grateful it hadn't required using), washed our running shoes, and picked the last few thorns off our stinky sweaty clothes before they went into the laundry bag. And we sat back in Banyan's cockpit with yet another glass of lime-water to hydrate, thinking we hadn't quite been to paradise at any point after standing on the tip of Pic Paradis, or Paradise Peak, but we had come through one Hell of a Hike.