Boiling Lake

Self-Portrait at Boiling Lake

Andrew Wilner, Newport RI
January 2003

Boiling Lake

It was my last day in Dominica, but I awoke before 7 am full of energy. I had already logged 13 great salt water dives, and now I would get to do a freshwater one. Today was going to be the best yet. Anna, Kay, Steve and I were going to dive Boiling Lake!

Last night at the bar, Big Dave told me Boiling Lake was the best dive on the island. Because of the long hike involved, few people took the trouble to dive there. Plus, hauling the equipment up the side of the volcano wasn't easy. But when I told Dave we were planning to go with his buddy Merwin, the 'Singing Ninja', Dave laughed and said Merwin would take care of everything. We didn't need to worry about carrying our dive gear, Merwin would have a few boys from his choir follow with our stuff, like Sherpas in the Himalayas. By the time we had lunch at the summit, all our equipment would be ready to go.

"Is it really worth the trip?" I asked.

"Of course," Dave insisted. "Dominica is the most beautiful island in the world. Your visit here wouldn't be complete if you never saw the interior. If you get sore from climbing, the heat of the water will soothe your muscles and you'll still enjoy the dive. You're in good shape for the climb?"

I'd never climbed a mountain before, but I was pretty good on the stairmaster. "Sure," I replied, sounding more confident than I felt.

I envied Dave who lived on this wonderful island where he could make the trip to Boiling Lake whenever he wanted. Why, he probably went every weekend when he had the day off! "How often do you go?" I asked.
Dave's face took on a pensive look. "To tell the truth," he confided, "I've only been once."

"Once!" I exclaimed.

"Well," Dave hunted for the right words, "It was such an overwhelming experience that I felt doing it again just wouldn't be right, somehow, you know, like marrying your third wife in the same church as the first two."

"Oh, I see," I nodded, sobered by his analogy.

"But wait until you see the fish!" Dave offered.

"There are fish in the crater?"

Dave grinned from ear to ear and his whole body seemed to inflate with a giant smile. Didn't I know about the rare fish that only lived in the solfatara? Isolated from the rest of the island and exposed to the harsh volcanic environment, they had taken their own course of evolution. Just as giant tube worms and other unusual creatures had evolved in the sulfur spewing hydrothermal vents of the deep sea, numerous unique species could be found in Boiling Lake.

"What kind of fish would I see?"

Dave munched on a big pretzel and had a faraway look in his eye. "I'll tell you what I've seen. Everyone's got a different view. Sometimes the visibility's so poor from all the dissolved minerals, the water's white like smoke. And the cold water running in from the waterfalls mixes with the hot water, and the water gets weird, like a bent mirror. But I know what I've seen. And I'm not the only one."

I moved to the edge of my barstool. "What did you see?"

"There are gurnards on the bottom, "Frying Gurnies" we call 'em, but you'll never see 'em, because it's too deep. Got to do a decompression dive, and Merwin won't let you your first time up."

"What else?"

Dave scratched his beard and took another gulp of the Kabuli. "Same's true of the sizzling scorpionfish, lives on the bottom."

"But I want to see something!" I exclaimed.

"Well, the most common one is the Boiling Big Eye Squirrelfish. It tends to hang in the cool water where it comes in under the waterfall. That's where you got to look."

"I can do that."

"Too bad I'm not going with you," Dave lamented. "I could find you a frogfish."

"What kind of frogfish lives in the crater?"

"We've got the Longlure Frogfish out off the dock, and I've seen Striated Frogfish over in Coral Gardens, and an Ocellated Frogfish at Point Guignard. But up in the crater, well, it's so rare it doesn't have an official name yet."

"What do you call it?"

"Me? I call it the 'Friggin Frogfish', 'cause all the divers come back and say they couldn't find the 'Friggin Frogfish'." Dave chuckled, "But I can find it."

"Anything else I should look for?"

"There's the Blistering Batfish, got special scales shaped like blisters. Lives alone near the wreck."

"There's a shipwreck on the bottom?" I asked, incredulous.

"That would be something, wouldn't it? Of course not. It's a helicopter. They were taking photos for the Rotary Club and a huge bubble erupted from the lake-dropped the whirlybird like a stone."

"The helicopter's still in there?"

"You want to get it out?"

"Oh." I suddenly realized how difficult a salvage operation would be in the mouth of the volcano. From what I'd heard, just hiking up the mountain was a challenge, carrying a helicopter down didn't seem very practical.
"Any other fish?"

"One," Dave said. "But it doesn't do well in the crater, so you might not see it. I've seen dead ones floating, juveniles."

"The young ones can't take the heat?" I suggested.

"That's right. It's a problem. That's why we call it the 'Toasted Tilefish'. It evolved with this protective armor all over its body, except its mouth, eyes and gills. But it doesn't work that well. When the water's really hot, you know, they're-"

"Toasted." I completed his sentence. I pondered this last species. Seemed a little unlikely. Did Big Dave think I'd just believe anything?

"Dave," I asked gently, "How come I've never seen any of these fish in Paul Humann's underwater identification books?"

"Of course you haven't. Them critters ain't in the books yet. Maybe someday," he sighed. "Hagan Daas, my friend on the other side of the island has been down there, he tried to photograph them. No luck yet."
"Couldn't find the fish?"

"No. He's good underwater, and he told me about the fish, but he couldn't get the photos."
"Why not?"

"He's been down an hour, just a few hundred psi left. Finally's found what he's looking for. Then guess what? Plastic housing melted right in his hands. Good thing he was wearing gloves. Camera flooded." Dave paused.
"You see, some days the water's just too hot. Not every day. But Hag picked a bad day."

I had planned to take my precious Nikonos V to the crater. Maybe next time, I decided.

"Is he going back?" I asked.

"He's saving up for a new camera and an aluminum housing. Then he goes back. I got to guide him to see the really good stuff." Dave motioned to his empty glass, and I hastily ordered Kabuli's for both of us in order to learn more about these rare species. We drank our beers and I tried to assimilate this new information. Something troubled me. "Hey Dave, you know, if Hagan's housing melted, what about my gauges and stuff?"
Dave tilted his glass to the ceiling and drained it.

"It was a bad day. If you dive there a lot, you need one of those neoprene suits with asbestos lining, to keep the heat out, you know, like the suits with the titanium lining to keep the heat in you folks use up north. There's gloves and booties made of the same stuff, gauges too."

"Uh huh, that makes sense. But what about tomorrow?"

"Don't worry. Merwin will get all your dive gear, and if the water's really hot, you can use his stuff."

Merwin was about my size, a little more slender and athletic, of course, but I guessed his suit would fit. "What about the rest of the group?"

"Don't worry. We do this all the time. Merwin will take care of it."

"Isn't that a lot of equipment to haul up the mountain?" I asked.

Dave frowned at me. "Of course we can do that. We grew up climbing the mountain." He motioned for me to lean closer. "I'll tell you a little secret. We only fill the cylinders to 2000 psi. Because of the heat, the air expands, and the tanks are lighter. It's easy."

Thus reassured, I thanked Dave for all his help. After all, who knew the island better? I went off to bed and dreamed of Frying Gurnards and Friggin Frogfish. The next morning, the four of us rushed through breakfast and waited on the edge of the road for Merwin. An hour or so later, just as we were about to hire another guide, Merwin arrived and we embarked on our expedition. We criss-crossed the little town of Roseau several times in an attempt to locate Merwin's friend Jean, who would drive us up the mountain. Merwin tried calling him several times, but never got an answer. Finally, Merwin spotted Jean parked in his van. A quick inspection of Jean's cell phone revealed the problem. Apparently, it had worked perfectly the day before, but now it only displayed Chinese characters, and Jean didn't read Chinese. No one could explain it, and despite our efforts, none of us could fix it. Then Merwin said goodbye and drove off. At first I thought it was strange that Merwin wasn't coming with us, but then I realized he had to go back to Castle Comfort to get our equipment. He probably needed a whole empty van for our stuff and all the special hot water diving gear.

A forty-five minute scenic drive brought us to the entrance of Morne Trois Pitons National Park. Just as we were about to enter, a guard stopped us. Some protracted negotiation and another $35 each got us Julian, a limber 24 year old "Official Guide." Julian led a quick pace up the mountain, and down the mountain, and up the mountain, through mud and more mud, pointing out indigenous flora and fauna along the way. Breakfast River came and went without so much as a pancake or French toast, and I wondered when we would stop to eat. The forest provided a thick canopy, leaving us in a grey twilight beneath the branches during the early part of the hike. Much of the native vegetation looked like regular house plants to me, except that they weren't in pots and were about ten times bigger.

On our way to the summit, we heard the local Amazon parrot and tripped over various exotic plants. The climb was steep, and although we attempted to avoid the mud at first, it became obvious that staying dry was not possible. I tried hanging on to some of the plants growing next to the slippery trail, but quickly discovered that the long slender fronds with serrated edges were better off avoiding. There was also a tree whose bark cut into my hand. After these painful experiences with the local greenery, I gave up trying to hold on to things and resorted to waving my arms wildly in the air when I lost balance.

As our group slowly advanced up the mountain, it rained intermittently. When we reached the high point of Morne Nicholls, named after the great British physician who discovered Boiling Lake in 1875, we stopped to catch our breath and take in the view. Despite the 3000 foot elevation, we couldn't see a thing, for the peak was engulfed in a thick, wet fog. As we trudged on towards our goal, I couldn't tell whether I was dripping from the rain or sweating from the heat. But no matter, we'd be underwater soon, so why worry about getting wet?

The Valley of Desolation was a welcome site, oddly enough, for it meant that our dive site was not far away. Julian discouraged me from straying from the path, as he pointed out that some of the steaming fumaroles I was inspecting had very fragile crusts and I could fall through into the molten depths of the volcano. Not wanting to miss the dive, I heeded his advice.

Finally, we arrived at the legendary Boiling Lake, the world's second largest solfatara. I took in the phenomenal site with tired eyes and looked for a flat rock to sit on. We were all worn out, but happy to see the bubbling cauldron just meters away. It was similar to Champagne, but with bigger bubbles. Really big, magnificent bubbles, the size of a house! I opened up my fanny pack and pulled out a wilted cheese sandwich. Too bad you couldn't get a good egg sandwich up here, I thought. I chewed slowly and tried to figure out where was the best point of entry for our upcoming dive. It was hard to see into the crater because of all the steam. Not only that, it was at least 100 feet down to the water, and there were no steps or ladders. I hoped we didn't have to make a giant stride entry. I'd never done one from this height before. I supposed Merwin would explain when he arrived with our equipment. Merwin never showed up. Not only was he an hour late picking us up from the hotel, he didn't follow through in getting our dive gear. While we waited patiently at the crater, Anna, Kay and Steve didn't even mention his name, hiding their disappointment well. We took a few pictures of each other standing on the edge of the crater and then trudged down the mountain.

We knew the path now and picked our way among the rocks and roots more quickly than on the way up. Slipping and sliding in the mud, my red Polo shirt turned into a brown rag. At the bottom, Jean and his buddies were still trying to restore English to his Chinese cell phone. I climbed out of my muddy boots and waded into the clear water of Titou Gorge, letting my body drift back and forth between the hot and cold water. Back on the winding road to Castle Comfort, I realized I'd have to plan another trip to Dominica if I was ever going to see any of the extraordinary creatures that lived in Boiling Lake. And next time, Big Dave was coming with me!