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(Editor's note: ISLANDS photographer Jon Whittle recently returned from a hopscotch trip across the Caribbean, where he photographed some of our favorite spots for the ISLANDS "Best of the Caribbean Now" Guide, coming this fall. Here is his account of one of his most memorable adventures on the trip, trekking to the waterfalls of Grenada.)
Stand anywhere at sea level on the island of Grenada, and Grand Etang National Park is invisible. The center of the
island remains constantly cloaked in clouds and on each morning of my shoot I would awaken to look across the bay beyond the town of St. George knowing that, sun or shower, I would eventually need to go there.
I was tasked with exploring the hiking trails of the park, more specifically to see the Seven Sisters Waterfalls…no easy task during the rainy season. After being told time and time again that the trails were impassible in inclement weather, I took matters into my own hands and hitched a ride skyward to complete the assignment.
It actually started out as a pleasant morning, but the skies grew darker with each curve of the serpentine roads en route to the summit. Eventually the rain began as a shy sprinkling but upon arrival at the head of the trail, it was a pounding summer storm. Before my departure I had secured a large garbage bag for my camera pack and wrapped it tightly to protect against the moisture. The same was done for the head of my tripod, which doubled as a walking stick to maintain balance on the slippery red clay and rocks that make up the hiking trail.
As the path begins on private property, any hiker is required to go with a guide, and mine for the day was a wiry Rasta named David Noel who nodded toward my ragtag gear.
“You ready to go?” he asked me and I answered that I was. He followed with a second question: “You ready to jump off the waterfalls?”
“Hell, yes!” I said earnestly, and he responded with simple and quiet: “Yeah, mon.”
We set off on a paved hill that changed quickly to a grassy road. Along the way Dave, assisted by his machete, chipped bark from a cinnamon tree for me to sample, along with lemongrass and guava as we came across them. We stopped at a small concrete bridge that spanned a lazy stream feeding the fields of Callaloo and other more suspicious plants that grew nearby. Sitting on the bridge was an older man with a bucket of water. ”For your feet” he offered as we approached. ”For the mud, when you get back.”
The path wound up over a hill and came to a vista where, for the first time, I could see the expanse that is Grand Etang. There will never be enough names for the many shades of green that paint the layered hills of the foliage as they stretch to the horizon. The precipitation that feeds the rainforest in a perpetual downpour had left the colors vividly saturated and the scene left me breathless. In the valley below the vague hint of a river peeked through the canopy—our destination.
Dave motioned me onward with a forward swing of his machete and down the path we went. I suppose that on a dry and sunny day it might not have been a challenging start to the hike, but the slick footing made for a slow and cautious descent. Well, at least it was challenging for me but you wouldn’t know it to watch Dave stroll carelessly down the path, a blur of red, green and yellow as he hopped casually from stone to stone. He would occasionally break into song, loud and sure against the staccato raindrops snapping into the greenery around us. Jah was well praised that day in every tune he shared.
As we made our way steadily toward the valley the hiking trail rambled in and out of green walls and tunnels that seemed anxious to reclaim the clearing. Occasionally the clay slope would give way to a rocky staircase that dropped suddenly downward. In those spots I sidestepped carefully between them, trusty tripod bracing my weight against the open air. We eventually came to the first of the waterfalls—Honeymoon Falls—that required a full commitment to the river and a climb up the bottom of the waterfall itself. The white cascade dropped from the green above into a heart-shaped pool from which tiny rainbows shimmered against the black rock. The constant onslaught of mist made a close shot impossible, but thank goodness we photographers can still occasionally rely on memory alone to preserve a moment.
The best was yet to come though, as we backtracked toward the bottom of the Seven Sisters. At the base of the falls the rain had momentarily subsided, allowing me to grab the photographs I had come for. Dave watched me patiently as I unwrapped my gear and set the coverings aside. Seeing that my makeshift dry-bag had done as I had hoped, I brought a perfectly untouched camera into the open air, snapped it into place on the tripod, and went to work.
After exhausting every angle I could fathom, I repacked. Upon finishing another song, Dave asked again if I was ready. “Gear up, gear up.” He said quickly and dashed off to change. He returned shirtless, dreads hanging against his shoulders and took my camera bag from me. For a moment he vanished into the underbrush and safely hid everything in a spot only he knew.
With the goodies stashed, he led me up a near-vertical climb to the top of the falls. Soaked to the bone from sweat and rain I now began to become fully immersed in the colored clay. The trail wound rapidly upward across roots and vines that acted first as handholds and second as footing. The thought suddenly came to me that I was in no physical shape to make the ascent on such slick terrain but I shelved in the back of my mind and continued upward.
After a handful of near slips, we came to the top of the first waterfall and made our way across the wet mossy rocks to the precipice. With a handful of pebbles tossed into the pond below, he showed me where I would need to land and at what angle to prevent an unpleasant end to the jump. Over the roar of the falling water, he gave me a few final instructions and leapt away from the ledge. A second later he emerged from the brown water below and motioned me to follow. My bare feet gripped the rock beneath as firmly as possible and I fell forward, springing upward at the last possible moment.
For a second there was nothing but the sound of the water and the rush of wind as I plummeted downward—a pale cannonball shattering the dark surface as I landed. My shins barely brushed against the rocks below before I emerged into the humid air again, exhilarated.
The next four drops were smaller but no less interesting as they required shallow dives to avoid a painful introduction with the stones lurking under the surface. I could hear the sound of the rushing water intensifying around the next curve and we pushed forward into a narrow chute that tumbled around several curves like a natural waterslide.
The current there was strong and Dave showed me how to brace my arms against the narrow walls and take large, balanced steps from side to side. “Be strong in your legs,” he shouted above the din, and we carefully tracked the curves to the sixth of the Seven Sisters.
It was there, standing some thirty-five feet above the falls landing that I realized exactly what I had gotten myself into. Excited and nervous, I moved toward the edge and looked over at where I would shortly be leaping. Dave nodded, smiling broadly as he saw the recognition in my eyes at what was about to come. “Yeah, Mon!” He shouted, and broke again into song as he took a basketball leap and fell for several seconds before splashing into the river.
When it came to my turn to take the plunge I maneuvered gingerly into position in the middle of the rolling. The stones were slick and the current strong but with small cautious steps I found my place. Knowing that thinking about it would just prolong the trepidation; I took a breath and pushed away from the stone with all my might. The world became a green, vertical blur as I dropped into the rainforest basin trying to balance my fall by swinging my arms. Just before the water surface I tucked into a neat pencil shape and crashed into the turgid water.
As I continued to travel downward I half expected my feet to find footing but the pool was far too deep. Under the refreshingly chilly water the waterfall sounded like a freight train passing through a long tunnel and for a brief second I enjoyed the feeling of weightlessness. When I broke the surface, Dave was standing nearby, nodding solemnly and said once and finally again. “Yeah, Mon!”
During the trek back to the head of the trail the sun finally emerged and painted the green hills in a beautiful warmth. These are the types of moments a photographer lives for, and the day lives on in memory.
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