The problem with boys

* Since writing this blog, I have found out that Pico Duarte is not only the largest mountain in the Dominican Republic, but the Caribbean as well.

The last three days have been devoted to arranging and attempting a climb up Pico Duarte, the largest mountain in the DR. At 3000 meters, it actually takes a climb up Pico Yaque, a smaller mountain, and then a trek through the range up to the windy, cold, and cloudy Pico Duarte. Normal and sane tourists attempt the climb in 3-4 days, while larger groups do it in a week. We wanted to do it in two. And thus began the problems.

Who exactly is this ¨we¨that I speak of? Well, of course, the ever tranquilo Joe, our resident surfer boy fom Cabarete, Francis, and our guide, Julio. We ended up taking our friend Francis because it seemed like a good way to repay him for free lessons and an introduction for Joe, and a reintroduction for me, to Cabarete´s night life. Plus, he´s quite simply a 16 year old trapped in a 19 year old´s body, and a whole ton of fun.

So, the people are all people who I consider friends. Good people makes for good times, right? Well, the trip was

HORRIBLE.

HORRIBLE.

HORRIBLE.

It was probably the worst experience of my life. Maybe second to the first time that I visited the burning clothes in the DR... but it was pretty high up on the list.

Now, I consider myself to be a relatively fit person. I can run a 7 minute mile, I work out at home, and I used to take pride in my dedication to working out 4-6 times a week. Well, after 72 hours of not eating when we got sick, and the subsequent 1 meal of day that Joe and I were able to stomach, I was definitely not at my best.

The boys, however, were Joe, the triathlete who mid mountain declared that he would like to return and run a marathon after this trip, Francis, a surfing, windsurfing, and kite surfing champion against world competitors with a six pack I could do my laundry on, and our guide, Julio, who makes the trip up the mountain five times a month.

The hike was straight up. Needless to say, I was the last one, and not only on the hiking up parts. At times I was jogging to keep up with the long legged pace of the others, even when we encountered rare moments of level land. Literally for every step they took, I took two on the rocky and muddy terrain. After the first two hours, I was tired, breathless, and my knees hurt. After the third, I was cursing in Korean every fourth step. After the fourth, I was cursing in Korean every fourth step, and leaking tears on every fifth. Tears which I discreetly hid under the pretext of wiping my glasses (God knows why in retrospect as the others were long, long, LONG out of sight). When we approached 1500 meters and 5 hours of hiking on Pico Yaque, I could not go further. Although the others wanted to continue on, I put my foot down. We had two options: to descend Pico Yaque and spend the night in the valley with a river to bathe in, a waterfall, and an indigenous Taino rock, or, to go up into the cold, cloudy, Pico Duarte which was another mountain climb up. We ended up going down and spending the night in this gorgeous valley with a flat plain that I will dream about in subsequent months. When we arrived, I promptly laid down for a nap, and wished that I would die.

The next day was better. I only have about four new, bloody scratches from times I fell, and I was only cursing about every tenth step. Mainly because I ran out of words to say in Korean.

Now, to the title of this blog. The problem with boys. While the boys were racing ahead of me, I got a chance to contemplate a few things. Such as the fact that even before we climbed, the boys were talking about how oh, 8 hours to get up Pico Yaque is NOTHING. We can do it in six. Three days? Psssh, we can do it in two. Two mules? We only need one. Five gallons of water? We only need three. I too thought that two days would be enough, but, the boys were... such BOYS! Since they were barreling ahead, nobody got a chance to actually stop and see, wow, what agreat view, or oh man, what is that bird song I hear? While behind the group, I saw not one but two solitaires (extremely rare birds), Palm Chats, a some white necked crows, and some other unidentifiable, but no less impressive birds. When we stopped, the chatter was about who was a bigger pansy, and I did not appreciate the sign on the side of the mountain that read Sara´s Crazy, or the lizard in the drinking water. On the entire trip both ways, barely a smile was cracked, much less a legit conversation.

On the way down on the second day, after the others had long passed out of my eyesight, I came to a fork in the road. While the boys had time to write ¨Sara´s Crazy¨on the side of the mountain, they could not have possibly had time to leave a marker telling me which road to take. Oh no. One road led up, one led down. I took the one that led down, which I discovered later was the wrong fork. It led to a river with fresh footprints in the mud around some stones, so I assumed that everybody had crossed earlier across the rocks. Midway through, one o fthe rocks overturned and I fell into the river. Bam, another cut on my leg, not to mention the fact that I was soaking from sneaker to mid chest for the rest of the hike. I kept on going through the river to another fork, where I made another wrong turn. The thing is, by the time I realized my mistake and retraced my steps, there was not a word about the wet clothes, fresh bloody scratch on my leg, or furious face. Wordless, like they were for the rest of the trip, the boys just turned and walked on. BOYS!! My feet grew soggy, then blistered blood because of the little fall in the river.

I will get more fit, and I will climb Pico Duarte... someday. But, the next time I do it, I will be with a GIRL. Boys just don´t get it.