By Christina Fields

I stand at the edge of the rainforest, in a patch of Guinea grass, wondering if he’s joking. He isn’t.

Earlier that morning, O’Neil Mulraine, a local tour guide, picked me up at my hotel along with 5 other people for a day hike to the top of Mt. Liamuiga (pronounced Lee-ah-mwee-gah). We drove through one seaside village after another along the western coast of St. Kitts for 45-minutes before arriving in a grassy clearing at the base of the dormant volcano.

“Grab a walking stick. It will help with balance. Remember, we aren’t going shopping,” O’Neil says as he collects a bundle of sticks from underneath the back seat of his black Land Rover.

I reluctantly take one wondering if it will be more of a liability than a help.

O’Neil leads the group through waist-high grass to the trailhead.

“Watch this,” O’Neil gently touches his stick to a plant that looks like a fern. It quickly withers as if it were dead. I touch it too. I’m fascinated by the way it shrivels at the lightest touch.

“It will come back. That’s its self defense,” he says in a Kittitian accent. “It’s a mimosa plant.”

O’Neil was born and raised in St. Kitts. He’s in his mid 50s with a shiny bald head and a grey beard tied in a knot. He’s proficient in “bush medicine” and the healing properties of herbs, something that was handed down to him from his ancestors. He’s been hiking to the top of Mt. Liamuiga up to 6 times per week for 30 years. And he does so without drinking any water.

“35% of St. Kitts is rainforest,” O’Neil says as we move further into the woods.

“Where you see more light coming through, that’s where storms destroyed some of the forest.”

O’Neil squawks and barks, calling to green vervet monkeys. A nibbled fruit, which looks like a tiny mango, lays in the trail. O’Neil points at the ground and pauses mid-step, breaking the pace.

“Watch the monkey shit,” he says. I laugh and step to the side, continuing in the single-file line. I look intently among the hanging bright green and dark brown vines for a glimpse of the hiding monkeys. No luck.

The French introduced the African vervet monkeys to St. Kitts in the 17th century. They were originally imported for food and as pets. Now, there are more monkeys on the island than people. They are mischievous little devils, stealing fruits and vegetables from gardens and sneaking sips of brightly colored cocktails from unsuspecting tourists at beachside bars.

The first quarter of the hike is a gradual incline. We make a short stop to gawk at the some of the flora; blueish mushrooms the size of pancakes and a delicate hot pink vine. I forget to pick up my stick and start to walk on without it but O’Neil notices before we get too far. I go back for it still questioning my decision to bring it along.

The terrain changes as we trek deeper into the rainforest. We walk down the center of a 6-foot deep trench that was cut by the deluge of the rainy season. I duck under a fallen tree and maneuver over large, bumpy tree roots across the path. The forest floor is muddy and the trail is slippery.

We make it to the half way mark. It’s been an hour.

“Just ahead is Hill 1, then Hill 2 and then 20 more minutes to the top from there,” O’Neil sits on the curved handle of his walking stick as if it were a chair while he waits for the rest of us to catch our breath.

“I thought we’ve been climbing hills for the past hour,” says one girl in the group.

“This one will make you breathe the breath of life a little harder,” O’Neil responds as he stands up and motions onward.

The path becomes an obstacle course of boulders and roots that look like a web of veins stretched out on the forest floor. I brace myself with a sturdy vine and the next rock in front of me. My quads burn with each step that becomes further apart and my knees nearly touch my chest as I hoist myself onto rocks that are half my height. Now, I’m glad I didn’t leave the walking stick behind at the start.

“Simmer down, simmer down,” O’Neil stops for a rest. “We’re almost to three quarters.”

I’m surprised by the lack of bugs in the rainforest. Aside from a few spider webs hanging between leaves and branches, there are no mosquitoes, gnats or biting flies buzzing around. I’m not complaining.

“Smell that but don’t let your nose touch it,” O’Neil says as we pass in front of a large tree trunk with white paste oozing from it. The smell reminds me of eucalyptus; strong but not foul.

“Does anyone have a lighter?”

No one does.

“If you light the gum on fire, it burns like a torch,” O’Neil says as he takes the lead once again.

“Six more minutes and we at the top.”

Six minutes is more like fifteen. There’s more boulders to navigate on the face of the steepest hill so far. The dirt has eroded between them and I use my walking stick to avoid slipping into the deep crevasses.

O’Neil announces, “We are at the top!”

The trail is still covered by low-hanging trees. I wring out the bottom of my shirt like a wet towel; I’m drenched in sweat.

“Leave your walking sticks here,” O’Neil climbs on a rock that’s taller than my 5 foot 6 inch frame.

One by one, each person shimmies up the rock to a small, viewing spot barely large enough for three people at once.

I look over the top of the rainforest canopy that I just spent 3 hours underneath. The sky is cloudy but past the forest, is the turquoise water of Caribbean Sea and the island of Stacia shrouded in haze.

Behind me is the volcano’s crater, the salad bowl, as O’Neil calls it. A small sulfuric pond is at the bottom of the 1,000-foot hole and every few minutes, a hot-spot breathes a puff of smoke. The volcano hasn’t erupted for 400 years but it seems to be saying it isn’t dead. After we make it back down the mountain, O’Neil shares two stories of people who underestimated the great volcano; one was lost in the dark for hours, the other one died. And that’s no joke.

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About the Author

Christina Fields is one part country-gal and two parts city-girl with an equal love of the beach and the mountains. Read more about her travels at Connecting Coordinates http://connectingcoordinates.com/ and follow her on Twitter @ChristinasInk