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:: Walking In Christian's Footsteps
June 4, 2000
Walking In Christian's Footsteps
Pitcairn Island, United Kingdom
Many a sage predicted we'd never make it to Pitcairn Island.
"Only one in 10 ships actually stops there."
"The swells at Pitcairn make those at Easter Island look tame."
"Since passengers fell out of the Zodiacs, we're not going to use them again."
Despite the ship's track record, deep down I knew I'd set foot on the island that is central to the most famous mutiny in history.
Fletcher Christian knew what he was doing when he selected Pitcairn as his hideout from the British empire. Making it past the legendary surf at Bounty Bay is one of several challenges to accessing the island's interior. Another is the aptly named "Hill of Difficulty," which rises 394 feet above the sea and brings you to the first set of signs including Christian's Cave, the personal shelter Fletcher claimed for prayer and coastal lookouts.
As I approached Adamstown, the central communal area on this island of 40 residents, I spotted a man who had been offering ATV rides up the hill. He distributed historical fliers and conducted a finger-pointing tour of the church, highlighting the Bounty Bible.
Christian's mother gave him this Bible and after his death just three short years following the mutiny, fellow mutineer John Adams used it to initiate the religious and social community that exists on the island today.
I asked if I could make it to Christian's Cave and back before 4:30 p.m., the last Zodiac to the ship. The man sized me up. "You could make it but you'll need a guide." Then he offered to spread the word to generate interest.
After taking pictures of the Bounty anchor I followed the dirt road past Adamstown toward John Adams' grave.
From the well-manicured gravesite colored with Morningglory, Hibiscus, Begonias and chrysanthemums, I sighted Christian's Cave. Against the mammoth rock I saw moving dots of color. Hikers had already arrived, and I was anxious to join them.
On my way to the school a young man riding an ATV called my name. He offered an island tour for $35. I had cave on the brain, but many highlights rested at steep hill tops I didn't think I could easily locate on foot. So I hopped on.
Jason and I introduced ourselves as we zoomed around the island. I learned that he is native to New Zealand and has spent the last two years on Pitcairn with this grandmother and has been disappointed by the dearth of residents his age.
A dwindling population that once was as high as 233 in 1937 has steadily plagued Pitcairn. In 1963 the population totaled 86 and by the end of 1999, 44 Pitcairners resided on the island.
This exodus began when the Panama Canal opened, placing Pitcairn on the route to New Zealand. Residents developed a yen to see the world and an opportunity to improve their economic status, which money and visiting ships made possible.
Today the majority of the younger population tends to leave the island at age 15 to attend secondary school in New Zealand.
Jason's tour was thorough. We visited Ship's Landing Point, which provided a clear shot of Bounty Bay and the Polynesian stone quarry of Tautama that predates the Bounty community. At St. Paul's Pool, a beautiful natural swimming area accessible only by cliff ladder, Jason asked me if I wanted to hike down. I flashed back to a recent hiking experience where I froze along a narrow, cliff-exposed section of a trail.
"Nah," I said, shaking my head and peeking down. "I'll pass."
After a stroll through the museum and school and making my Hartford guest book entry, Jason led me toward Christian's Cave.
We started along a reasonable trail that quickly turned into sheer rock face. And I could not keep pace with Jason who scurried up the dark mass like a manic goat.
"Hello, can you give me hand, here?" I yelled up to him.
Obviously impatient, he walked down to me, extended his hand. "You said you wanted to do this," he said. So I did, Mr. Whippersnapper.
I made three mistakes on that rock. The first was to look down. The second was to scrutinize my fellow travelers scratching down the mountain on their rears, and indulge their detailed descriptions of the terrain that lay ahead. My third mistake was to initiate this folly at all knowing that I am haunted by old hiking fears.
Ego and the desire to return to the United States alive, warred with one another until I finally said to Jason, "I can't do this."
At 2:30 p.m. Jason dropped me off at Adamstown. With two hours left before Zodiac time, I felt compelled to hike somewhere in the lush, wide open space since I hadn't made it to the cave and I had spent most of my time on an ATV. But a bell sounded in my head: Don't miss an experience by forcing one. So I switched gears and contented myself on a bench in Adamstown.
I watched Mavis, a lifelong resident, conduct postal transactions. I asked Viola, who was sitting next to me, about the function of the palm basket I saw her weaving that morning. She told me, "I use it to fetch the mail when the boat comes."
Mavis ferociously clamped mosquitoes between the palms of her hands and then disappeared into the post office. She emerged with a can of bug repellent and offered to spray me down. I passed, and so did Viola who boasted that she had already "gotten three of them just fine." I learned that despite the Seventh Day Adventist religious practice on the island, there are no vegetarians. Then, Viola pondered what to cook for dinner.
My shipboard curfew encroached. Mavis, Viola and I exchanged farewells. And I took my time back down the Hill of Difficulty.
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