Iguana Mama - Mountain Biking, Hiking & Ecological Adventures

By Elaine Snell From the river, I heard what sounded like gun shots. Clambering up the bank, I found the noise was made by a young lad practicing his skills with a long whip. A few feet away, totally unperturbed, four mules waited patiently to be loaded up with provisions for the hike through the jungle. It was early morning, a time of cool clarity just before the sun began to heat the lush terrain of the Dominican Republic.

This was day two of a trek to the summit of Pico Duarte, the highest peak in the Caribbean at 3,175 meters (10,425ft). Our group was made up of three Americans, the Dominican guide, Alex, three muleteers from a nearby village and me (from London).

Our arrival at the starting point, La Cienaga, had caused some consternation because a forest fire was blocking part of the route. Without technology in the area to help us find out more details, we would have to rely on the equivalent of the bush telegraph. We decided to stick to the plan and see whether the fire had subsided by the time we attempted the climb to the summit.

The first day was a short walk of 2 1/2 miles to Los Tablones on a well-used trail through dense tropical broad-leaf forest, interrupted by areas of wild cane with elegant stems that created an archway of greenery high above us.

At Los Tablones, the wooden cabin in which we stayed was bare apart from a ludicrously high table and benches. Bedding was to be a sleeping bag on the concrete floor behind a windowless partition. Next to the cabin was the kitchen, with a random selection of iron pots on a stone slab that served as an oven once the fire was lit. Quite how Alex managed to cook a good meal of pork and rice in the dark is beyond me - he made it seem as easy as popping a packet of something into the microwave.

A dog hovered nearby and a hen and her chicks scuttled around in the hope of a few crumbs. Around a camp fire, we toasted marshmallows.

Studded with millions of stars, the clear, black night sky was the sort that you simply do not see in towns or cities. This is a remote and peaceful part of the world but the range of noises "off-stage" of a squillion unseen creatures was extraordinary. It rained hard during the night, which explained why it was more sensible to sleep on unyielding concrete than outside.

I was surprised in the morning to see that all seven of the tiny chicks had survived the stormy night, as they emerged from under the hen's protective wings.

The following day, the word was that the forest fire prevailed, so we would have to revise our route. We could climb 2,200m to La Cruce then descend into Valle Tetero.

The rough ground helped us to grip the steep incline. The vegetation changed to mixed broadleaf and pine forest, almonds, sierra palms and thick ferns. Above us, air plants sprouted from the trees. Occasionally, there was a break in the forest where we could survey the vast landscape.It was also gratifying to see how far we had come in a fairly short time. It was hot and very beautiful.

The mules, three of them laden with our baggage and the fourth carrying one of our party, passed those of us on foot and headed upwards with ease to points along the way where we would rendezvous for a break and a snack. The bleached skeleton of a dead tree marked El Cruce. The last third of a mile was the most arduous. The pitted single track snaked up and the midday sun beat down.

On a steep bend were scattered the bones of a mule that had died only a week ago, eaten by dogs who dashed up from the villages for the feast. Alex told me that if a mule is sick far from home, it is unloaded and left to make it's own way back. If it makes it, it is treated.

At El Cruce, we reestablished that we could go no further up. From there we headed down (bliss!) along a wider path towards Valle Tertero. There were spectacular views of the neighboring mountains and we descended into large open meadows. The surrounding trees were draped with long grey skeins of old man's beard which gave a spooky impression of rooms unoccupied for many years, thick with dust and cobwebs.

Our cabin, in a meadow, had the river nearby and we took a much-needed swim and wash in its fresh swirling pools.

We were told we would be sharing the cabin with 20 forest fighters, men who had gone up from the villages to do what they could with no equipment. At dusk, great whoops and hollering were exchanged between the men coming down the mountain and our muleteers. A large camp fire had been lit under a sheet of corrugated iron propped up by four branches which served as a shelter from the torrential rain.

The men arrived drenched. Far from coming back from a hard day's work to a shower, dry clothes, a few beers and a hearty meal, they attempted to dry off in front of the fire, peeling off one layer at a time. They ate a scrappy meal of rice from an assortment of cut down plastic containers and old tins. They talked animatedly, presumably about the day's events, while the Americans and I sat to one side and simply watched - for hours. We were totally absorbed in the scene.

When the men departed before dawn, smoke rose from the mountain in the distance, indicating there was still work to be done.

We had to retrace our steps and make our way back to El Cruce. There I decided to ride a mule. Having not ridden for 30 years, perhaps it was not the best idea to have a go at that particular point. In any case, as I recall, riding a horse is not a lot like riding a mule. The saddle was a hotchpotch of padding, rope and leather. I couldn't reach the stirrups and the reins were to be held loose. A muleteer gave me instructions in Spanish on how to ride the mule, but I don't speak Spanish - and, anyway, what was I supposed to tell it to do? There was only one path and we were homeward bound. Wasn't that enough?

From my perch on top of the mule, the downward slope looked almost vertical, perilous with rocks, crevices and potholes. Falling off was not an option. At best I would have fallen into the thick mud on parts of the trail saturated by last night's rain storm: at worst I would have fallen on to rocks or just be tipped off the outer edge of the path... so I hung on.

My lack of riding ability at least provided some entertainment for the two young muleteers. Although I did not understand their banter, I was clearly the butt of their jokes. And there were times when they egged my mule on, urging it to go faster, knowing I did not know how to take control myself.

The company that organised our trek, Iguana Mama, was started by Tricia Suriel, an ebullient American woman now resident in the Dominican Republic. She is passionate about the country and its people and is committed to the need for education - 20 per cent of Iguana Mama's income goes towards local schools and parks. It is estimated that only one in ten children receives a proper secondary education.

Ms Suriel is also conscious of the need to preserve the environment. By arranging tours for people who want to gain a little more insight into the colour and culture of this remarkable country, her team is setting up eco-guidelines and donating clothes and shoes to local people.