Delightful Dominica, January 2026 (Part 2, Jungle Bay)

Even after being robbed of a day on the water thanks to the Caribbean airspace shutdown, we were happy with our second round of sperm whale encounters.

We’d been based in Portsmouth, near the northwest corner of the island.  Danny flew home and Cindi’s second group arrived and Steve, Greg and I were off to explore the southern part of the island, based at a resort called Jungle Bay, south of Roseau, the capital of Dominica. The resort’s Adventure Wellness package included daily activities (yoga, outings to Roseau, snorkeling excursions and guided hikes) and daily 1/2 hour treatments at the Bamboo Spa.

Friday, January 9, 2026

Our driver for the transfer to Jungle Bay arrived mid-day.  It was a 1.5 hour trip,  slowed by having to crawl through Roseau, clogged due to traffic generated by the huge cruise ship docked there.  The resort is a collection of nicely appointed and decorated villas on an elevated knoll with wonderful views of the ocean and Soufriere Scott’s Head Marine Reserve.

At the resort, we quickly signed up for offerings included in our package, including sunset yoga led by Nancy from 6-7 pm, in a beautiful dedicated studio with lovely breezes and views.  Greg and I swam in the shaded Garden pool, while Steve and I had vigorous half hour back massages after relaxing at yoga.

Saturday, January 10, 2026

We spent the morning on one of the resort’s organized excursions, walking first through Roseau market along the waterfront where the Roseau River meets the Caribbean.

Scenes from the Roseau market:

After checking out a few giant trees in the Botanical Garden (including one with a squashed school bus embedded in it, the victim of a hurricane in the past), we were driven up to Trois Piton National Park and the twin Trafalgar Falls.

Rain broke out while we were on the mostly level path to the falls overlook. We thought it might stop after 10 minutes or so so we sheltered under the dense vegetation. Intermittent cloud cover helped even out the exposures while shooting the twin falls by drone.

At lunch., we had a chance to chat with owner and developer Sam Raphael.   I indulged in the Saturday “broth”, a cabbage soup with root vegetables, accompanied by the curry vegetable wrap.

I was back in the van at 3:15 pm with Greg for the opening of Carnival.

Although it was a colorful procession, my enjoyment was definitely dampened by the noise level.  In short, it was an aural assault.  The stilt walkers and dancing paraders were costumed colorfully but I could hardly pry my fingers from my ears to shoot.  Greg, wearing noise-cancelling AirPods, was fine.

Scenes from the procession:

On the sidelines at Carnival:

 

An evening swim with Greg in the Garden pool was a delightful way to wash off the stickiness of the town and the sunny afternoon.

I had the chickpea patties appetizer and pork loin for dinner.  Our nightly pina coladas were perfected with the addition of 2 coffee beans in each drink, ground with the ice, balancing the drink’s sweetness. The beans had been acquired by Greg that morning for this purpose at the market in Roseau.

Sunday, January 11, 2026

Greg went off in the morning from the resort on the 3-hour Gallion loop hike. Steve’s knee wouldn’t permit much hiking and I wanted to save my legs for the ambitious Boiling Lake hike planned for the following day. I flew my drone towards Scott’s Head Point and afterwards, dawdled over a leisurely breakfast of curried chickpeas, salad with luciously ripe avocado, Dominican Johnny cake (a type of fried bread) and oranges, accompanied by a bracing ginger tea. I also managed to fit in a 1 hour massage at 11 am.

Afterwards, I went directly to the restaurant thinking Steve would already be there, but not finding him there, returned to the villa (an uphill slog).

We made it back to the restaurant by 12:30 pm and ordered but the food took so long that it had to be boxed up and sent in the second vehicle for the 1 pm snorkeling excursion to Champagne reef.  The island’s volcanic underpinnings can be well seen underwater, with veins of bubbles seeping up through the stone ocean floor. I took the GoPro. In addition to the fumaroles, our guide found two octopus, several eels and turtles and there were a variety of familiar tropical fish as well.

Monday, January 12, 2026

I should have heeded all of the abundant warnings about the Boiling Lake hike and its difficulty. The consensus from the web: Boiling Lake is generally considered challenging and can take up to a full day. The trail is over 8 miles round-trip, with a vertical gain of over 5,000 feet, and the highest point is just over 3,100 feet. Some say the hike is beautiful and interesting, but others say it’s too long and difficult. The trail has three or four parts: a jungle walk, a mountain climb, crossing the Valley of Desolation, and a visit to Titou Gorge. Some say the trail can be muddy and slippery, especially after rainfall, and others mention steep, rocky steps.

The only others to sign up were Greg and a young French couple from Aix-en-Provence. Camron drove us and led the hike. It quickly became apparent I was woefully mismatched in hiking speed to Greg, the couple and Camron.  I had had misgivings about this all day long hike, enough to spend some time on the web the night before reading reviews. Greg had done it with Rick 30 years before and said it was a very tough hike. The Jungle Bay description was “VERY CHALLENGING and often times slippery”. Cindi had warned against it, describing it as a “brutal hike”. We knew better than to attempt it before the sperm whale segment of our trip. A friend of Cindi’s who did the hike in that order had feet of “mincemeat”.

My description: a series of unending, extremely steep, muddy and uneven staircases climbing up and down. I found the terrain so treacherous that every step had potential for an ankle roll. Parts of the trail were soupy mud, threatening to suck my Sketchers right off my feet and pulling apart the segments of my collapsible hiking stick.  I could hardly believe Greg’s report that when he did the hike decades ago, 2 of their 3 guides were barefoot. Camron’s footwear looked barely more supportive, semi-translucent “Jelly” sandals that look like a child’s footwear.

One factor in our favor was that much of the hike was covered with lush vegetation and the temperature was cool and pleasant. My pace slowed us enough that we arrived at the Valley of Desolation at 12:30, which was too late to proceed on to the actual Boiling Lake and make it back out before dark. The Valley of Desolation is perforated with thermal vents that spew sulfurous gases, so we definitely experienced the olfactory aspect of volcanic activity. The gondola, which we had heard about on our prior trip, was visible, still under construction but progressing.

My heart sank when Camron said “NOW we start the difficult part.”  He did not exaggerate. This was not hiking, but climbing, using arms as much as legs.

Once we descended down into the Valley of Desolation, my troubles were not over. On a relatively level portion of the trail, I stepped on one edge of the trail, probably seeking out a narrow strip of grass as possibly offering better traction than the mud-soup trail itself. The edge collapsed and I found myself below the trail’s edge, facing away, hanging on to roots by one hand, with no footing. There was a dense mat of vegetation extending down a drop-off 20 feet or so.  I managed to maneuver the backpack containing the drone off of me, passing it up to the trail level and then with the guide’s help, managed to turn and face the trail and after finding a few meager footholds, pulled myself up, one handful of roots after another. I was shaken, with scratches on my right shin, but otherwise intact.

Camron and I made it back to the trailhead at 5 pm, when I was scheduled back at the resort, 50 minutes driving away, for a “sore muscle” massage. Camron made the trip downhill so fast, beeping in warning around hairpin curves and later, when the light started to fail, flashing his headlights, that we made it back to the resort in time for Greg’s 6:20 pm restorative massage. He was kind enough to let me take his slot, which was badly needed.

I went straight to the spa, covered with mud from sliding down unwalkable passages, and confirmed they were equipped for such a situation, with a shower and a robe behind the door. My one-hour massage with Tisha was heaven, and I felt relatively good after showering again back in the room and heading to the restaurant for dinner. Nothing prepared me for what was coming.  After a first course of green papaya soup (delicious) and sharing jerk chicken and peanut-crusted mahi-mahi with Greg, just as we were hearing that bananas flambé were on offer for dessert, I suddenly felt terrible and very light-headed.  I was so light-headed, I knew I couldn’t make it to the bathroom or the lounge area of the restaurant to lie down. I put my head between my knees and prayed the episode would pass.  It didn’t, but intensified despite cold compresses on my forehead and neck. Luckily, Steve and Greg had been in the habit of sharing a bottle of Mantua between them each night. The melted ice water receptacle served admirably as I vomited, again and again, into the container. I had had only my usual single cocktail, a pina colada (with 2 coffee beans ground up with the ice to balance the sweetness, of course!).

Somehow, I was transferred from my chair to one of the lounge chairs, which someone had pulled over next to our table. Joanne from the hotel had smelling salts at the ready. Anesthesiologists from another table materialized. One said I was still as gray as my hat and should lie down. The chaise from the lounge was pulled over and I laid down, with my legs propped up. Eventually, the light-headedness passed. For a change, we took the golf cart shuttle up the hill to our villa instead of plodding uphill.

Tuesday, January 13, 2026

At breakfast the next morning, Greg filled in part of the unfortunate evening’s story which I missed. Apparently, while leaning over me applying a cold compress on my neck, Steve’s dessert (fruit cake and vanilla ice cream) arrived.  According to Greg, it was a scene worthy of Larry David, with Steve attending me with one hand and glancing furtively and longingly over at his waiting dessert.

Greg went out for the morning on the resort’s kayaking and snorkeling excursion. Steve and I took it easy. Sunset yoga and using up my spa credits on a 1/2 hour massage were as far as my ambitions extended that day.

Wednesday, January 14, 2026

I had a manicure with Tisha (also my favorite masseuse), which was not so much needed based on the length of my nails, but by the dirt that seemed still embedded after the Boiling Lake hike. We’d discovered, passing it each day on the way to our villa (29A) that just opposite Greg’s (26A), there was a tree with white flowers and long brown pods which attracted hummingbirds. I’d been waiting for the right combination of light and not too much wind to photograph these flighty, lovely creatures.

We loved our stay at Jungle Bay, which was a wonderful complement to the sperm whale swimming component of our trip. I would gladly return to the island, although I definitely met my match in the Boiling Lake hike. By the next time we return, the gondola to Boiling Lake will make one-way hikes possible…or no hiking at all. On the one hand, I felt triumphant I was able to tackle the hike at all. I now understand the T-shirts on sale at the resort’s gift shop, which proclaim “I survived Boiling Lake!” On the other hand, it was at the far end of my ability level, which was not a happy realization. I will have to console myself with other, easier hikes and views.

After our prior trip, I was launched into a reading jag about sperm whales. Their biology is fascinating, but I covered much of that in my prior post. On the way home (2 flights, 3+hours to Miami and 5+ hours to San Diego), I managed to speed-listen to an interesting book which appeared on many “Best of 2025” lists with a sperm whale-related angle: A Marriage at Sea: A True Story of Love, Obsession and Shipwreck by Sophie Elmhirst.  It relates an incredible tale of a married couple’s survival on a raft at sea after their boat is sunk by a sperm whale strike in 1973. In defense of the sperm whale, it seems likely the whale was mortally injured by whalers and struck the boat in the throes of dying. And now, to finish the ultimate sperm whale-driven narrative, Moby Dick… and after that, there is a new feminist reimagining of Herman Melville’s classic, Call Me Ishmaelle, by Xiaolu Guo to take me back virtually to the warm waters of Dominica and the embrace of their most charismatic residents, the sperm whales.

-Marie