Hiking the Central Mountain Range of the Dominican Republic. Part III. (Loma de la Sal to el Arroyazo)

“The rain fills the woods with immense and confusing sounds. It covers the roof of the cabin with its insistent rhythms. And I listen, for it reminds me again and again that the whole world runs by rhythms I’ve yet to learn to recognize; rhythms that are not those of the engineer or the scientist nor those of the business person. They are the rhythms of the universe.” — Thomas Merton.

A Mindful Morning.

As I shake out my quilt, the first light of dawn spills through the forest canopy, revealing a world soaked in serenity. The rain has been a constant companion throughout the night, and now, a gentle drizzle continues to dance upon the ferns and conifers surrounding me. Time has a languid quality in the reserve, stretching moments into an eternal embrace. I decide to wait for a break in the weather and settle into my routine. Today marks the final leg of my hiking journey, and I feel no rush.

I unfurl my sleep pad on the cabin’s terrace, breathing in the fresh, earthy scent of the rain-kissed woods. As I flow through my hatha yoga poses, the gentle cadence of my breath merges effortlessly with the symphony of the forest. Each movement becomes an expression born from mindfulness, an instinctive response to the world around me. As I tune in deeper, intricate patterns emerge from the cacophony of nature—a complex, highly choreographed dance inviting me to bear witness. The soothing sound of a nearby stream serves as the conductor, guiding the journey of the raindrops as they embark on their voyage to the ocean.

I envision these drops cascading from the majestic mountains, trickling through rivulets, and joining rivers that wind through verdant valleys. They nourish the crops that flourish in the fertile soil, invigorate serene ponds, and sustain humble villages nestled in the landscape. Ultimately, they merge into the vastness of the oceans. I reflect on the cycles that have permeated this planet since its birth, recognizing that from these waters, life itself took form. I bow to this ancient ritual and to the ancestors who thrived on this cycle of life and death, pondering whether they, too, found wonder in the beauty of these ancient mountain ranges.

Time to get going.

As the rain transforms into a gentle mist, I feel a call to action. Gathering my gear, I prepare for a final stretch of 10 kilometers (about six miles) to El Arroyazo, my destination. By the time I set foot on the trail, the clock approaches 11 AM. The ranger’s warnings echo in my mind: this trail, rarely traversed, is in dire need of maintenance, especially after the relentless rain, which has left the ground saturated and muddy.

The visitor center at Loma de la Sal marks the beginning of my ascent at 3,280 feet. From here, I must tackle an old trail that climbs an additional 2,000 feet through the heart of the reserve, eventually leading me to another visitor center at El Arroyazo.

Soon, I begin to understand the ranger’s caution. The path becomes a treacherous mishmash of slippery mud, forcing me into a slow, deliberate crawl. As I navigate this gooey terrain, I can’t help but chuckle at my earlier ambition to keep my feet dry; less than half a mile in, my hiking shoes are already waterlogged and squelching with every step.

 An hour into my climb, I glance at my GPS, dismayed that I’ve covered barely 1.5 kilometers. At this rate, I will spend the entirety of the day trekking to my next campsite. Ferns often obscure the trail, making it hard to distinguish my path. After fording a bubbling creek, the greenery becomes so dense that unease creeps in, and I fear I might be lost. As I reach for my GPS to retrace my steps, I spot horse manure, a sign that others have navigated this route. Mustering my resolve, I return to a visible section of the trail.

By 2 PM, my legs strain, and exhaustion seeps into my bones. I take a much-needed break, relishing a snack while sprawling on my sleeping pad. The temptation to linger here and explore this tranquil spot tugs at me. Yet, practicality prevails as I force myself to rise, feeling my quads and calves protest against the unaccustomed strain.

Finally, I reach the summit, where a modest shelter signals the end of my uphill battle and the beginning of my descent to el Arroyazo. However, what lies ahead proves to be even trickier than the climb. Each step feels precarious, as though I’m gliding on ice, leading to several comical tumbles that elicit chuckles from deep within me. Yet, the seriousness of avoiding an ankle twist or knee injury remains ever-present, and so I crawl downward, embracing the gentle mountain breezes.

By now, the rain has dissipated, and warm rays of sunlight kiss my face and body. As I glimpse the valley below, dotted with greenhouses nurturing vibrant vegetables, a melody of joy escapes my lips—I am close to my camp.

Yet, another hour of cautious descent awaits before I reach the campsite. The laughter of children bathing in the creek below draws me in, momentarily distracting me, and I miss a sharp turn in the trail. Realizing my mistake, I retrace my steps and soon spot the trail again, maneuvering through the ferns to continue my journey downward.

Arriving at El Arroyazo (The Great Creek)

El Arroyazo finally comes into view—a stunning pond of glistening water that flows so cold that I dare to linger only briefly before my extremities plead for warmth.

The ranger at the visitor center greets me warmly, his smile widening as he takes in my muddy clothes, evidencing my adventure. “You picked quite a day to hike from La Sal,” he chuckles, his eyes twinkling. “Are you hungry?” He hands me a plate brimming with fragrant rice, hearty beans, and a succulent chicken drumstick. The first bite is pure bliss, a delightful contrast to my damp, tiring trek.

While setting up my tent, I accidentally snapped one of the poles. Panic rises within me until I remember the spare part with the tent, a piece I had never used before. I fit it in with a sense of relief, and it works perfectly, securing the tent against another night of relentless downpours. When morning arrives, I awaken to find the grass beneath me transformed into a squishy, muddy bed, yet miraculously, not a single drop of rain has breached my shelter. My Big Agnes UV2 has proven its worth once again.

Later, I encountered two nature photographers. Their excitement was palpable as we discussed the diverse bird species that inhabit the reserve. They shared stories of their adventures and showed me recordings of bird songs they use to attract these feathered creatures for photographs. The joy on their faces was infectious—it struck me as a lovely, fulfilling hobby. I yearn to learn more about the island’s birds on my next visit.

As my time came to an end, the ranger kindly offered me a ride to a nearby crossing where I could catch public transport back home. A few hours later, I finally arrived, exhausted yet invigorated, carrying with me the contagious energy of the stunning nature that enveloped me for three magnificent days.