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Published: August 25th 2015
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My photo doesn’t adequately show the red mucky paths in Humboldt. (Climbing, it took all my focus to stay upright and this low path is the only pic I took.) Seeking Salto Fino
Red clay slurps as I lift my muck-encased boot out of the narrow gully. It is the rainy season in the mountainous rainforest near Baracoa, Cuba, a part of the larger Cuchillas del Toa Biosphere Reserve (Knives of the Rio Toa). On one of Toa’s tributaries, we seek Salto Fino.
Salto Fino is the tallest cascade in the Caribbean (305 meters) and ranks the 20
th among the longest water chute in the world. Isolated by mountains and the lack roads, it is known to a few scientists and locals, but generally Salto Fino remains unexplored. James Archbold and I turned up some research before our first visit to Baracoa, but we could not arrange a trek at that time. Now, a year later (January 3, 2015), we are determined to make a stab at seeing the falls that have haunted our dreams.
Before tackling Salto Fino deep in the biosphere reserve, we walked a nature trail near the entrance of Alejandro de Humboldt National Park. (Please see the previous blog.) The park is a UNESCO World Heritage Site that occupies more than 700 square kilometers within the larger Cuchillas del Toa
James and Yamile on the lower reaches of the trek.Biosphere Reserve, James and I – along with our friend Alber and Dutch and German tourists – trekked a small area. We were focussed on experiencing the endemic flora and fauna of the Oriente or Este of Cuba. Now we face a more gruelling trek that will take us across fast-moving rivers and up and over three mountain ridges.
After crossing a small open field, where fruit trees drape their branches above the remains of rows of rotting leaves, we span a tributary of Rio Toa twice, each time my feet seek flat-topped rocks among the countless rounded, tippy ones. We made our way diagonally across fast-moving water as anxious to reach the Atlantic Ocean as I am to reach the opposite shore. Once clear of the river, we begin the ascent of the first mountain that lies between us and Salto Fino.
The path of grey, shale-infused earth soon gives way to a red claylike mush that feels like quicksand. The first footfall finds fear leaping out of my mouth in an elongated “Oh.” The sound drops over the sharp precipice to sink into the valley below. I tug and, as my right
Yamile motions for us to rest before disappearing around a jutting rock. She returns with Leodonis who carries a bouquet of oranges that soon moisten our dry lips. It is Leo who will lead us onward and upward.foot sucks noisily upward, the left plunges deeper. Meanwhile Yamile, our barefoot guide, stands ahead on the next rise with a hand resting on her hip, waiting. By now, my feet move upward at a forty-five degree angle, while on either side of the narrow, sludgy gully the path drops steeply.
Yamile sets a steady, quick pace. We climb. The terrain eventually levels. She motions for us to sit while she disappears around a bend returning shortly with Leo, her smiling husband. He wears green fatigues and a faded military hat. Rubber boots cover his feet. In his hands is a bouquet of oranges, which we quickly bite into, sweet juice running down our chins.
We cross three peaks, making switchback turns, rising ever-higher. Wearing our boots (except for amazing Yamile in bare feet), we cross the winding tributary six times during our ascent. The fast-paced river washes the red muck from our boots and legs. Our shorts dry on our bodies; then rain falls gently. With the ascent my breath becomes shallow; my legs begin to throb. As we climb, river crossings become more challenging. Water rushes faster and deeper reaching my thighs. Often we hear the
The three amigos. Leo (guide), Alber (friend and translator), and a Leo’s friend who joins us for a bit.thunder of rapids long before we see their white froth. Leo cuts walking sticks with the machete that hangs from his hip; they provide James and me with some stability whether we trudge through the canyon of muck, balance on a precipice, or angle across the river.
At times, my legs find a magical rhythm and I feel one with the river and the path such as it is. At other times, every fibre is wary and on edge. I glory in the charmed spaces.
Alber has moved ahead with Leo and Yamile. I am steady, but lagging. James takes up the rear position. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Alber’s voice rises with each exclamation. James and I round the shrubs that block our view. There, from high on the peak across the valley, falls Salto Fino. We are all grinning like Cheshire cats, and I feel like Alice in Wonderland. Alber says, “I thought it was impossible. It is possible. There is Salto Fino.” We laugh aloud; we take photographs; we congratulate each other. Then we begin the trek down to the village.
Leo is more talkative on the downhill trudge. He
During our trek we are overtaken by caballero and laden mules.tells us that four years ago he guided a scientist had made the journey to Salto Fino and two months ago his granddaughter came with twenty-one biologists, anthropologists, and such but, “You,” he says looking at us, “are the first non-Cubans. Next time, we reach the Inferno.” The Devil’s Inferno is the whirlpool at the bottom of the falls whose water feeds the tributary of Rio Toa that we have been crossing.
As we clamber down, we meet a couple pack mules, forcing us to squeeze into branches along the precipice or risk earning a mule’s kick. We cling precariously because the trail stretches along ridges that drop steeply into valleys below. My feet are the smallest, and yet at times, I am challenged to find secure footfall when I attempt to walk the dryer rim. I hear a crash and the sound of James’ yelp. I’m almost afraid to turn to see if he rests in the muck or if he rolls down the steep slope toward the river. He is safe, but the seat of his pants and back of his shirt are rusty-hued. We continue downward, eventually reaching the bank of the river and our first
Alber points the way.crossing becomes our last. We crouch at the river’s edge to rub the red mud from our boots. The sun has lost its heat and shadows lengthen.
In the future, we will return and camp and allow three days to reach the falls and return (but not in the rainy season). Exhilarated barely begins to cover the emotion.
Today we have travelled through a portal of hope, expectation, endurance, and success. My companions and I have experienced magical moments bracketed by trepidation and sometimes even fear. I am left with a sense of gratitude and wonder, not just for the magnificence of Salto Fino, but for the strength, grace and wisdom of the people who journeyed with me. I tuck into the borrowed bed at the casa particulare in Baracoa and listen to horns blast and dogs bark, and retreat silently into rainforest dreams.
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