Beyond the shack lay a field of bananas that were engaged in what appeared to be a losing battle with ever persistent creepers and weeds. The farm track came to an end and we began to weave our way through the plantation itself, heading towards the foot of a tall ridge where we would begin our ascent. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and a solitary cock crowed. I sensed a warning against this tomfoolery, but brushed it off with a somewhat unconvincing shrug, following the slight figure of Gurry, my guide, as he arrived at the edge of the field.

The original trailhead had disappeared under a massive landslide in the hurricane of 2004. Our plan was to climb this ridge, hopefully pick up the old trace once we reached the top, and then, with any luck, follow it to the summit of the mountain. Gurry had not been here since Ivan had struck, and everyone had told us the trail had been lost to the storm and the inevitable advance of nature. There were a lot of unknowns on this journey and plenty to be concerned about, but I had a book to write and that meant getting to the location of Fédon’s last stand. Gurry grinned, as if reading my mind and then set off up the hill.

Julien Fédon purchased the Belvidere Estate in 1791. His family hailed from Martinique and his wife was a ‘free coloured’ or mulatto woman. Influenced by the French Revolution of 1789, Fédon began a rebellion against British rule of Grenada and the oppressive regime of ultra protestant planters in the early hours of 3 March 1795. Over the next year he captured much of the island using a militia of mulattos and slaves, raiding and plundering British owned estates, capturing and killing their owners and managers. This very bloody and costly uprising eventually ended on 9 June 1796 in a battle on the summit of what is now known as Morne Fédon or Fédon’s Camp when he and his followers were finally defeated in a fearsome battle. Fédon’s body was never recovered and legend has it he escaped by throwing himself down the mountain and sailing to Trinidad. To many, including Gurry, Julien Fédon is a heroic figure, symbolizing the fight for freedom and independence and, though many lost their lives during this 15 month insurgency, he is often lauded for his liberation of island slaves.

The ascent of the ridge was steep and muddy, the bush dense and very unforgiving. Forging ahead, we cut narrow strips of brightly-coloured cloth and tied them to trees to mark our path, determined our return journey would be a little easier. Both of us carried machetes and we needed them. My arms and legs burned with the exertion of clearing and climbing and when we reached the crest of the ridge I flopped to the ground in a heap. Gurry wandered off and soon returned smiling; he had found the old trace.

Sadly, any hopes of our journey becoming easier were soon dashed by a wall of landslides, fallen trees, razor grass thickets and tangled undergrowth. Clearly, no-one had been along here since Hurricane Ivan and the climb to the summit was now a nightmarish prospect. Huge candlewood trees, torn from the earth by winds stronger than I could imagine, blocked what remained of the path. Sometimes we would clamber over them, nervously hoping our feet would find firm ground on the other side; other times we would crawl in the mud beneath them, not daring to think about how fast they were wedged. In several places the trail and ridge crest had fallen away completely and we found ourselves swinging precariously around the broken bases of trees, desperately grasping at roots and branches, anything that seemed tethered, with nothing below us but air and no-one but a stray dog and a cockerel to ever hear our final cries. Everything was wet; the saturated ground, the tree trunks, the branches, the leaves, and even the air around us as we approached the moist cloud forest environment of moss, ferns and mountain palm. We slipped and fell more times than we could count, pulling ourselves up again with all the strength we could muster, our bodies soaked through and covered in a layer of slime. Razor grass ripped exposed skin from ankle to face, adding blood to the unappetizing soup. Beneath our sodden clothes, red ants marauded and chiggers hitched a ride in our most sensitive regions. But we had reached that point when nothing mattered other than getting there. Wearily we trudged on.

It took about five hours to reach the summit; a small circle of grass and rock with a stone memorial to Fédon standing at its centre. Grinning from ear to ear, we shook hands and slumped against the stone, out of breath, hearts beating so fiercely they threatened to jump right out of our chests. After a short time Gurry turned and sat facing the memorial to his folk hero. I left him in peace for a while before he caught my eye and nodded. And then off we set again.