The Gentlemanly Farmer has always enjoyed a nice holiday. You know the kind: warm Caribbean seas, warm Caribbean air, warm Caribbean sands, warm Caribbean food, warm Caribbean people…warm everything.
My nice big American wife, however, likes to do nice big American things. Soaking up the local culture, soaking up the local hideaways, soaking up the local natural trails…soaking up everything.
It was therefore with much trepidation and unwillingness that I decided to accompany her on our ascent of the higher of the two mountains on our idyllic Caribbean isle. Paradoxically (or was that ironically?) the shorter of these two mountains was apparently harder to climb given that you needed to scale it, literally. Whereas the higher mountain was an easier walk to the top. How something higher was meant to be easier escaped my meagre grasp of reasoning, but given how little mental effort I was exerting in semi-retirement, perhaps this was to be expected.
In any case, on a beautiful warm Caribbean day, when the beautiful warm Caribbean seas looked particularly inviting, my nice big American wife and I set out to scale a nice big Caribbean mountain.
Our first stop was the small village that served as the Base Camp. It was a protected settlement, and we were required to take a guide with us on our ascent. Naturally I was opposed to paying for what I believed was a redundant service, but NBAW insisted on following the rules and supporting the local population so I acquiesced. We met our Polite But Stern Guide who took one look at me and informed us politely, but ever-so slightly sternly, that many tourists did not make it all the way to the top and that I should not feel disappointed or emasculated in case I was unable to complete this journey. I was ready to give up right there and then. I knew that the journey of a thousand miles always began with a single step, it was just that I was not necessarily inclined to, you know, actually walk those thousand miles.
NBAW would have none of it.
So we set out in the early morning hours, as I took another tentative step in that journey of self-improvement that was to be such a major thrust of my semi-retirement. Those first steps were relatively flat as if the Earth itself was providing me with a false sense of self-confidence, because the trail became much steeper shortly thereafter. Again, this Earth provided just enough visual stimulation in the form of lush green flora to keep one’s mind off the burning that was beginning to stealthily build up in one’s calves.
Perhaps my semi-retired eyes were playing tricks on me, or perhaps it was the burning that was stealthily beginning to play tricks with my mind, but it looked to me as if there was a strange rustling in that lush green flora that the Earth was providing to keep us distracted from the task at hand. The rustling re-appeared, and before I could investigate the cause of these hallucinations a beast sprang forth, let loose from the very depths of H*ll, and stood in front of us, its eyes glowing with the fire…
…it was a dog.
A brown mutt. A white stripe along its chest was matched by some white “socks” around its toes (very fashion-forward). Brown eyes, a strong face, alert ears, muscular haunches, and perhaps most importantly, kind eyes.
I am by nature a fearful man. Failure, success, heights, murky depths, sharks, ghosts, snakes, even cats at one time, I feared them all. But I have never, ever, feared dogs. In fact, I had envisaged much of my semi-retirement would be spent in front of the hearth, pipe at the ready, loyal hound at my feet (hopefully having fetched the slippers that all of his training had taught him to do). Sans pipe, hearth, and slippers at the moment I decided that the dog was, in fact, a sign from the very same Earth, and that it was my destiny to scale this mountain.
Brownie. That was the dog’s name according to PBSG. He lived in the village and often accompanied those wretched souls who dared attempt this ascent. PBSG said that she could shoo Brownie away if he bothered us. No, I said, that’s quite all right, we shall make this climb together.
And thus we set off with renewed purpose and with some of that vim and vigour that had begun to desert my burning calves. Brownie would scurry on ahead and then would double back, all the way back, and walk behind me (I was bringing up the rear of our little group).
Finally, we stopped for a rest to catch our literal breaths. PBSG informed us that we had just completed the easy part. The easy part!
Every step was becoming that much more difficult. The sun shone through, the lush greenery gave way to the “dry forest” and we were surrounded by cactus and the kind of brown, thorny, muddled surroundings that perfectly reflected the state of my wretched soul. Over the edge I could see a river drunkenly make its way to the ocean, which was good because it was called the Drunken River and it, too, perfectly reflected the state of my wretched calves and hamstrings (the Achilles tendons were next). I stopped for drinks of water from my canteen, being careful to take small sips (a survival technique gleaned from a childhood of devouring Commando Comics). Every time Brownie would look expectantly at me and every time I would pour a little bit into my palm from which he would lap it up. Every time PBSG would disapprove (he’s a dog, he can find his own water), but every time I would defy her, accepting the fact that if I were to perish in these desert climes, it would be with Brownie by my side.
PBSG and NBAW walked on ahead, and I straggled behind with Brownie. He was not the talkative kind, which suited me just fine given that every ounce of expelled air was better used for operating those burning calves, hamstrings, quadriceps, Achilles tendons than for chit-chat.
My heart stopped, perhaps figuratively, perhaps literally (at this point it really was impossible to tell), when I saw what awaited me after the next turn.
An almost vertical trail (again, it really was impossible to tell just how vertical the trail truly was, but considering that my knee ligaments had now joined the conversation, it certainly felt as vertical as a trail could possibly be) disappeared into what appeared to be an Amazonian rainforest. This was the Cloud Forest.
This was the hardest part of the climb. PBSG and NBAW told me that if I wanted to I could wait for them here as they continued their ascent. There was no shame in defeat. I had fought valiantly, but it was foolish to carry on in the face of such literally insurmountable odds. Perhaps it was the light-headedness, perhaps it was the fool-hardiness that seems to come with semi-retirement, or perhaps it was the edifying presence of Brownie, but whatever the reason, I to decided to make my way into the Cloud Forest.
It was agony.
My knowledge of anatomy (much like everything else) is rudimentary at best. All I did know is that every single muscle, tendon, tissue, and whatever-else had not only joined in the delightful back-and-forth between myself and my surrounding, but they were screaming bloody murder at every single step. Breathing had become exceedingly difficult and the tropical rainforest that had sprung up without any regard to logic or decency impeded my progress at every opportunity.
Brownie, bless his little heart, never left my side. I stumbled onwards, and ever-so slightly upwards, fighting against this frightening spectre of semi-retired atrophy. And then, I could go no further.
I sat down heavily, sadly even, right in the middle of the trail. Brownie cocked his ears and looked quizzically at me. Then he stepped around and took his first tentative steps without me. I was thoroughly defeated. I did not blame the poor chap. He had kindly accompanied me this far, and how could I in good conscience hold him back from achieving his own personal goals? Go on, I whispered, and may G*d himself lift you up as you…
…but it was useless. Brownie just stood there and looked back me, the eyebrows raised, the ears cocked. In my life up until that moment I had managed to disappoint everyone and everything, but d*mned if I would not allow myself to disappoint Brownie.
With one final push, I raised myself up, shook my fist at the cosmic forces that had conspired to defeat me, and set off boldly to conquer all that lay in front of me.
Which, as it turned out, really was right in front of me. A few more steps and the Cloud Forest gave way to the summit. PBSG and NBAW were sitting there chatting, nibbling on some snacks, taking the kinds of big gulps of water that Commando frowned upon, looking sceptically at me as I stood on the precipice, my trusty Brownie by my side, grandly surveying the world below. I looked out at the warm Caribbean green valley off to one side, the warm Caribbean beaches off to the other, the expanse of the warm Caribbean seas extending to the horizon.
Fair enough, so I was not technically the master of all that I surveyed, but after all that I had been through I was due a few delusions of grandeur. I am sure Brownie agreed with me and I looked down at him to see if he understood my point of view.
My heart sank. Brownie wasn’t there.
Ever-so briefly I panicked, thinking that perhaps like those stories one hears, Brownie wasn’t real at all, but PBSG just shrugged and assured that me Brownie was real, and was probably on his way down the mountain, looking for other tourists.
I sighed. It really was not the same without Brownie, and a melancholy descended upon our, um, descent. PBSG and NBAW had struck up what seemed like a fast friendship, engaged in excited conversations about all manner of things, the exertions of the day apparently not affecting their air intake in the slightest. I, on the other hand, was still feeling the effects of the climb, and without my trusty hound by my side, my mind was no longer reaping the euphoric benefits of the adrenaline rush that my feeling of accomplishment had triggered moments earlier.
It was then that the ground gave way from under my feet. Quite literally this time, and while I felt my ragged body tumbling through time, space and memory, I apparently skidded down the trail a few feet. I realised that I was going to leave a piece of myself behind in this warm Caribbean isle, a rather long piece of skin along the front of my right shin.
Both PBSG and NBAW tried to comfort me. I was bleeding, well if not profusely, then just enough to make me feel a little light-headed. After PBSG (who really, was not quite as S anymore) assured me that my death was not quite as imminent as I had initially feared, I saw some of that familiar rustling in the flora.
Out sprang the familiar brown mutt, my faithful hound, Brownie. He had come back for me!
I set off with all of that familiar vim and vigour. I raced down the mountain towards Base Camp, seeking out the First Aid Kit that I had been informed lay there. Brownie was now jumping by my side, excited at this new-found pace. I am not sure if it is physically possible for dogs to smile, but it sure looked like Brownie had a big smile on his face all the way down.
The rest of the warm Caribbean descent passed in a blur. There are very few things in life as satisfying as a semi-retired old man and his trusty hound bounding down mountains, and for as long and torturous the ascent had been, the descent was mercilessly quick.
We came upon the Base Camp and I told Brownie to wait for me as I went in search of this all-important First Aid Kit. There was some urgency in my quest as I did not want to give Brownie a longer window of time within which to disappear again. I managed to search and procure the FAK with surprising efficiency and my heart rose to see him sitting outside as I had instructed. I sat down and dressed my wound (which I was disappointed to see was not terribly impressive once the thin film of blood had been wiped away) and then felt a weight on my left leg.
Brownie was resting his head. I patted his head. Good boy. This warm Caribbean adventure really was turning into something else. I turned to get some water for Brownie.
And just like that he was gone.
I called out a few times, but he was nowhere to be found. PBSG and NBAW came by and assisted me in my search. We walked through the village, but Brownie had disappeared (and once again PBSG assured me that I was not in the middle of one of those stories). It was no use. Brownie had returned to the warm Caribbean Earth from whence he had sprung.
We said our good-byes to PBSG, who really had turned into the Chatty And Friendly Guide by now. I left some biscuits behind for Brownie so he would know just how much he had assisted me long after NBAW and I made our way home.
As I sit here half a world away I know that I will never see Brownie again. But there is no sadness in that realisation, for I also know that somewhere out there, on a warm Caribbean island, some poor, wretched semi-retired soul is conquering his limits on that mountain with a trusty hound by his side.
And that is quite enough to make me happy.