Dominica is a relatively little-known island nation in the Caribbean. Many people even confuse it with the Dominican Republic. Those who do know it tend to picture volcanic beaches, waterfalls and hot springs. The island is green, wet and wild. Few realise you can also do proper mountain hiking here—on terrain that can test even an experienced trekker.
My stay on Braňo’s catamaran was drawing to a close. It needed a proper finale. I’d been eyeing the island’s highest point on the map for a while: Morne Diablotins, at 1,447 metres. It isn’t the highest mountain in the entire Caribbean, but within the Lesser Antilles it’s one of the most prominent—and its very name suggests this would be anything but a walk in the park.
My proposal to go for it met—with suspiciously little resistance—the support of the whole crew. Decision made, we piled into the car the next morning and followed the west coast up to Portsmouth. Just before town we turned right at the correct turnoff and headed into the hills. The road climbed steadily; asphalt at first, then gravel, but still perfectly drivable. Before long we were at the start of the Morne Diablotin Trail.
The name
The mountain’s name comes from French: “morne” refers to a wooded hill or peak—a common term for volcanic hills in the Caribbean—and “diablotins” means “little devils.” Loosely translated, it would be the “Peak of the Little Devils.”
A devil of a climb
We suspected from the start it was going to be a proper devil of a climb. Even the sign at the trailhead advises starting with plenty of time in hand. The reality turned out tougher than we’d imagined.
Almost the entire ascent runs through dense, overgrown jungle. As if that weren’t enough, the trail was completely waterlogged and churned into endless mud. Within minutes we had mud everywhere—and by everywhere, I mean everywhere.
Every step felt uncertain. Each slip meant another coat of mud on trousers, hands or pack. And if you try to grab the surrounding plants to steady yourself, you quickly learn it’s a bad idea. Many look like ordinary trees, but their bark is studded with tiny, sharp spines. Proper gloves would have been very welcome.
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The higher we go, the better it gets
As we gained elevation, the mood shifted. The air turned noticeably cooler and the jungle slowly began to open up.
From time to time the trees parted for views worth all the effort. Below us the island stretched out—green, untamed, ringed by the Caribbean Sea.
A dog where you’d never expect one
Halfway up, as if to keep things interesting, a stray dog caught up with us. He appeared out of nowhere; none of us knew where he’d come from. He fell in step right away and trotted on with us, sticking close almost to the top. No hesitation, no complaints. Maybe he was more at home in this jungle than we were.
In the end he couldn’t manage one of the steeper, trickier sections. Not knowing what lay ahead, we didn’t want to carry him any farther. We said our goodbyes and each went our own way.
Summit in sight
Near the end of the trail things took a turn. First the weather shifted, and the next views were swallowed by thick fog. That was still manageable. The real problem was the trail itself—it gradually disappeared. The jungle was reclaiming what the British had probably built during their rule over the island.
To picture it: the vegetation up here is extremely dense, and the route pushes through low, scrubby trees resembling dwarf pines. No one has trimmed the branches for years; they’ve grown right over the track. Progress meant endless crawling and clambering over limbs.
Again and again we hit spots where the path vanished completely. We’d step onto mats of greenery that collapsed underfoot, sometimes by half a metre. My watch showed that some short sections—maybe 50 metres—were taking 10 to 15 minutes.
After a fairly long fight we reached a raised spot marked by a stone. The map suggests it’s likely a boundary marker separating the island’s parishes. For a moment we thought we’d also reached the summit, but the map said otherwise.
According to it, the summit lay about 100 metres away as the crow flies—and maybe ten metres higher. On paper, nothing. A gust of wind thinned the rolling fog and revealed a slightly higher spot, really just a stone’s throw from us. We understood we weren’t there yet: so close, and in this terrain, so far.
Going for the top would have meant another hour of forcing our way through brush with no clear trail. If we’d set off even an hour earlier, it might have made sense, but daylight was slipping away. Sunset was close and we had no desire to descend in the dark. We turned back.
Not quite a win, but not a loss either. Morne Diablotins made it clear who’s boss.
A small note to the locals: please give the trail a little love. You’ve got a beautiful mountain—it would be a shame to let it disappear under the thickets.
A drone over Dominica’s highest peak
Late in the day the sky cleared a little. I put the drone up and managed to frame the whole massif. From above it’s even clearer how wild and inaccessible this corner of the island is.
That bird’s-eye image felt like a fitting full stop to the climb. We may not have stood on the very highest point, but the experience was raw and real.
Back after dark
We reached the car after nightfall. We walked the last stretch in silence—tired, muddy, but content.
To illustrate just how muddy we were, we snapped a photo that could easily run in an ad for a heavy-duty laundry detergent.
This was the high point of my time on the island. Not a perfect summit, but a raw, real jungle adventure on Dominica.