Just Sing A Song And Bring The Sunny Weather... Happy Trails to You.

It is 9:18 PM as I sit typing this, deliriously tired. Why, you ask, is this island girl tuckered out before an eight-year-old’s bedtime on a school night? Because I decided to hike today. I heard that snicker come from you; that’s not very nice.

Now, when Kate asked me if I wanted to join them on this hike, I was not in any way anticipating the enormity and complexity of this trail. No. I was foolishly expecting maybe a mile/mile and a half total, reaching a small beach where we could have a few beers, lay out, snorkel and take in the scenery for the afternoon. Ha!

Six of us (Doug, Chris, Kate, Kate’s dad, Kate’s stepmom and I) piled into Doug’s car and we took the car ferry from Red Hook, St. Thomas to Cruz Bay, St. John. We made a pit stop at the ATM, and then headed on our way up one of the three roads on St. John.

AHHHH! SIDE BAR! I’m starting to see a lot of what Kenny sings about on his Be As You Are album – today I saw the sign for The Quiet Mon and had to hold in my excitement, as bouncing around in the car squeezing 6 people in it was not in my best interest. IT EXISTS! These places really do exist!

OK, back to the story. We got to the Reef Bay Trail sign, packed four backpacks and headed down the trail. At least it started down. Then up, then over, then up again, and down, past the “Wandering Jew” tree (which I so badly wanted a picture of so I could tag it as myself on Facebook), then down, past the Mango tree, through the swarms of bugs, past the termite mound, down some more, through some rocks, over a fallen tree, over the soldier crabs, and down to the rocks. We then came to a fork in the road, so we took it. (Did anyone notice the Berra reference? Or am I just trying too hard to be funny?)

I remembered that according to the map on the sign at the beginning, this point meant we were at the 2.2 mile mark. That’s already more than I do at the gym, so I was thinking about the dreaded trip back. The fork in the path meant we got to see a gorgeous little waterfall and some ancient petroglyphs. The petroglyphs were representative of my smiley face sketches in my fifth-grade math notebook, but I later learned they are thought to be inscribed by the Taino Indians about four-thousand years ago. Which is pretty freakin’ awesome.

We backtracked on that path and came back to the fork in the road. We took the other side down, a little bit up, through some rocks, trekked through a quarter mile of mud and muck, around the sugar plantation ruins, through the overgrown grass and onto – SAND! We were finally at the beach!

The sand, however, did not continue very far. No, the sand turned to rock, and we were met with a slightly disappointing beach. But the water refreshed us; we ate our sandwiches, and then decided to trek back. We noted that others who had taken this hike with a park ranger were taking a dinghy to a boat that would take them back to Cruz Bay. We scoffed at this idea.
Now, the thing is, on the way down, Kate’s dad and I had a conversation about whether going down was worse than going up. We decided down would be more difficult, as gravity was quite a factor, and you had to look everywhere you were stepping. That general consensus was completely, scientifically, physically and absolutely inaccurate in every way possible, as we were about to find out.

So we went through the overgrown grass, back around the sugar mill ruins, trekked through another quarter mile (that seemed like a half mile at least going back), through some rocks, a little bit down, and a bit up. Then the pack separated: Doug, Chris and Kate were convinced that if you moved faster, the trail would be shorter. And then Kate’s parents and I decided to take our time and try not to kill ourselves. We decided that neither plan was necessarily better, as it was the same trail we were hiking.

After what seemed like forever, we got to the fork in the road, which meant 2.2 miles left. WHAT?! I was ready to sit down and yell for the park ranger right then and there. But there were bugs swarming everywhere, so I figured it was best to forge ahead.

Up the rocks, over the soldier crabs, over the fallen tree, through some more rocks, up a little, past the termite mound, through more swarms of bugs, past the Mango tree, and then… no, not the Wandering Jew. That was in my head the whole time: if I can make it to the Wandering Jew, I’ve got this. No, the trail seemed to go up and up and up forever. I swear there were three termite mounds on the way back as opposed to the one on the way down. Were we taking the right trail back?

We came to three large rocks in the middle of the trail. We decided it was necessary if we wanted to finish the hike alive that we sit and let our heart rates slow a little. I sat and noticed something I have never noticed on myself before: sweat. I was drenched in it. It was dripping from my eyebrows, into my eyes. My Banana Republic 1x1 ribbed tank top that I love so dearly was soaked in this excess fluid I didn’t even know my body could produce.

We contemplated yelling for help so that Doug, Chris and Kate would have to travel back down the trail to help us, just to make them walk up the rest of the trail again. We then got up and carried on the grueling trail.

And then, there it was. The Wandering Jew.

HALLELUJIA! It was like the Gods (Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Taino, all of them, who cares!) were smiling down upon us. The Wandering Jew was a beacon of light. We had reached the point where I knew I could make it out of this alive.

Still, the end was a lot longer than we all expected, but when we saw those stairs, the three of us lit up and felt absolutely relieved. I was crossing the street to get to the car, when all of a sudden, like a bat out of hell, a truck flew by on the left side of the road (which is still foreign to me) and pretty much almost killed me. It’s amazing what adrenaline can do to get you to the other side of the road. That would have been a big letdown after such a big accomplishment.
The six of us, beat red from being just shy of a heart attack after our trek, were a sorry sight. But we decided to go to the bar.

The bartender laughed when we all ordered water, but I think after all six of us shooting him a look that could kill, he obliged. After calming our heart rates and replenishing fluids, I looked and saw the most amazing view of St. John and the surrounding islands. And hey, wouldn’t you know, the bar was named Viewpoint. I wonder why…

Then we decided to go to “a pretty beach,” in Kate’s words. We ended up at Cinnamon Bay, which I knew Kenny sang about. As we walked out onto the pristine white sand and saw the sparkling, still cerulean water rolling in, Doug pulled me over.

“Hey, Ryann. You know what’s over there?” He pointed to the left. I shrugged, not thinking of anything. “Kenny’s house.”

This was a time when I was not enclosed in a vehicle with one too many passengers, where I could raise my arms up in celebration and scream and shout in excitement like an obsessed fan would. I was just too exhausted. The only words I could say were, “Best. Day. Ever.”

I am now one step closer to marry Kenny Chesney, everyone. Either that, or one step closer to a restraining order.

We didn’t stay at Cinnamon Beach long, but I was sold. This was by far the most beautiful beach I have ever been to in my life. My brother even asked, “Better than Seven Mile Beach in Grand Cayman?” It didn’t matter that there was a run-down shack or lockers situated oddly between the trees and the beach. It didn’t matter that there were only two other people there. It didn’t matter that the beach really wasn’t that big.

It was that cerulean blue gradient in the water. It was the pristine, fine sand on the floor that carried up onto the beach. It was the palm trees on the corner, just in the perfect spot for a scenic picture including the islands fading away at the horizon. And I did not notice one single fish! It was like a wave pool in Walt Disney World, only better!

We decided to move on and headed down to Mongoose Junction to grab a beer while waiting for a taxi. I, however, noticed there was wine on the menu and immediately ordered a Chardonnay. Here I was, in the middle of a bar in St. John after a five-point-whoever-the-hell-really-knows mile hike uphill in my Victoria’s Secret rhinestoned skull-and-crossbones bikini, black gym shorts and a Banana Republic tank worthy of winning a wet t-shirt contest, ordering a glass of Chardonnay. Dammit, I deserved it.

I realized that this isn’t an extended vacation; it’s a learning experience. Or, like I’ve said before: it’s the study abroad without the actual studying from a book. What I’ve been studying is the people, the culture and the lifestyle. Wikipedia states that method acting is “an acting technique in which actors try to replicate real life emotional conditions under which the character operates, in an effort to create a life-like, realistic performance.” Fashion designers create a concept and intimately study it by dressing in a certain manner, eating certain foods, listening to certain music, and enveloping themselves in their next storyboard so their next collection has a sense of truth. Not all research is in books, just like not all treasure is gold.

We all made our way back onto the car barge and then back to Red Hook. The car ride back was quiet, as we were all famished, exhausted and elated. And now, I will be headed to bed before midnight for the first time since arriving on island.

Let my heart take me where it wants to go; that’s the soul of a sailor.
XOXO
-Island Girl

P.S. – I had to take down some pictures because they weren’t working properly. I want to figure out how to load pictures so you all can see them, so if anyone has any better suggestions than photobucket.com, please let me know! c.r.schwartz3@comcast.net