French Disconnex
By Michael H. Kew
This vexing young mademoiselle has just suggested that I join her and her sister for a hotly strenuous afternoon hike from Anatonu 1,400 feet straight up an overgrown trail to Mont Hiro, still hidden by orographic cloud. I found no point in slogging to the iconic summit if there were no vistas to behold. Anyway, I had planned to hike halfway up from a village on Ra’ivavae’s south coast to examine a primitive reef pass just east of a small motu.
I’d received another email from Thouard in Tahiti. He wanted to know if the swell had hit, a 10-foot southwest pulse online charts had ballyhooed for a week. The wind was gentle from the north and the swell was of an ideal angle to perhaps create a shapely right-hander off the motu or possibly in the pass itself. Being Sunday, locals were forbidden to enter the lagoon, so no fishermen were available for a canoe ride out and I was glad to have packed my hiking boots. The afternoon’s few hours of daylight were my one window and I still had to bicycle three bumpy miles around the east tip of the island to reach the unsigned trailhead.
“Sounds a bit stupid,” the mademoiselle said. “Hiking up a mountain to look for waves? What for? Can’t you see waves on this side of the island?”
“Not the kind I’m after.”
Soon, bushwhacking and drenched with sweat, I grunted and cursed up the vague buggy trail, so steep that there was, for much of it, a thick guide line some charitable soul had linked between ironwood trees. I wondered if I had in fact made the wrong choice. Nonsurfcentric trekking with two French boho-hippie chicks suddenly seemed fantastique.
Photo: Kew.
