The (Not so) Golden Trail

After four days of rain in Paraty, we were determined to make the most of the next dry moment, potential impending weather be damned. We’d done about all we could inside, researching the next 6 weeks of our trip, getting laundry done, and darting out in the brief dry moments to see the old town and enjoy the local cuisine. We’d even Kayaked in the rain once we realised it wouldn’t let up. This morning we were heading to the Gold trail, a highway built by slaves to transport Gold out of Brazil from Minas Gerais.

Researching this hike had achieved mixed results, with different reviews and websites unable to agree on where it began nor where the best place to start was. Some also recommended tour guides as parts of the trail pass through private land. Our increased research time however, had yielded a blog from a local who was very familiar with the different parts of the trail and detailed how we could do the first quarter without the hassle (or expense) of a guide and we would be rewarded with 2 waterfalls along the way. ‘Get off the bus at Ponte Branca, cross the bridge and take the cobblestone path right in front of you through the jungle. This leads to a rope bridge and onto a dirt path that takes you past one breathtakingly beautiful waterfall and onto the next. It takes just over an hour to get there.’

Perfect. Just the right amount of time to avoid the rain that was due sporadically throughout the day, but if we did get wet, we wouldn’t be out long.

To expedite the process, we took an Uber to the bridge and received our first red flag. ‘Where are you going’? The driver inquired, about halfway to the bridge. I explained while pointing at the in-app map whereupon the driver, looking confused, pointed another 15 minute’s drive further north. Given that we’d been here a whole 6 days, I obviously knew best and reaffirmed my position by saying the bridge will be good enough. Regardless, I had secret local  knowledge and was not about to be hustled into a tourist trap by this brigand of a taxi driver.

We get out at the bridge, delighted to be outside and unmolested by the weather. We cross over and take a look around. No cobblestone path. We double back and look around but still nothing. A quick glance at the lack of bars on my phone tells me what kind of adventure this will be. I swallow my cynicism and we decide to make the best of it. We at least had the foresight to save the route as a screenshot and decide to follow the route north down a sideroad, eyes darting around in search of anything resembling a cobblestone path. 

Our optimism is at first rewarded, but then turned to confusion when we find a rope bridge, not dissimilar from the one described in the blog, leading to a half built housing estate. Even stranger, the bridge (along with the whole river crossing) can be ignored, as a much more stable dirt road passes over the river adjacent to the bridge. Our sense of adventure intact, we use the bridge but realise there is nowhere to go so we double back and take a much less interesting route uphill.

We have so far discovered that hills are inescapable in Brazil. You won’t find a hike without at least one and the inclines are both considerably steep and lengthy. 35 minutes into our ascent and we’d just about reached the part where you half seriously start to consider that this may in fact go on forever. My phone, which, despite the lack of internet, is graciously still trying to track our location and indicates the first waterfall, Cachoeira Poço dos Ingleses, should be somewhere right here.

We find the track and are immediately met with some 3-metre-tall locked gates barring entry. This doesn’t seem right at all. Out of habit, I check my phone again, but let it slip back in my pocket when I see the no entry sign over my signal. Not before catching the translation of the waterfall: Pit of the Englishman. Funny. Well, maybe I’ll appreciate it later. 

Not to be defeated so easily, we look for a way around. I can’t help but think someone has extended their driveway to keep the waterfall for themself. Before I can follow that slightly insane tangent any further, we find a sign above an overgrown path! Days inside have left us easily excited and we move through the brush with haste almost stumbling into a small stream, just slightly too wide to jump across. By the time I’ve collected my thoughts, Jay is already standing on the solitary, protruding rock part way across the stream. There are no further stepping stones but I spot a way around that will lead to a better vantage point. We make our way around to a sodden, moss-covered, fallen tree. I’m still taking in my surroundings when Jay grabs a very loose branch from above and ascends onto the fallen tree. I see her nearly slip but as she regains balance, my first thought is sadly not about her wellbeing, but instead the hope that she will decide to turn back. If not, I’m also going to have to make this crossing and I’m definitely ending up in the river. She makes it across without any further fuss except for a tiny, celebratory ‘woop!’. Any adulation I may have had was swallowed up by my own thoughts of self preservation. I step on the sodden log whilst grabbing the branch above, realising it does little more than take the edge off my 90 Kilos. I sidle across with all the grace of a toddler and the branch above extends out of reach. Jay offers her hands and I’m reminded of the first time I tried to ice skate, not managing any longer than 5 seconds on my feet without hanging on to someone for dear life.

After being emotionally (and somewhat physically) carried over what was actually a pretty small stream, we once again moved with excitement. It felt like we had been walking for some time when we stumbled across the end of the trail: A rope swing that sat out of reach and the sounds of a waterfall that we were unable to lay eyes on, regardless of how emphatically we stretched and leaned over the river. Foiled once again.

Despite this setback, we were enjoying the adventuring lifestyle and decided to turn around, tackle the crossing, and get onto the main event: A proper waterfall.

The rain has returned by the time we arrive back at the river but as usual, I’m still puzzling over how we’ll cross without the assistance of the overhanging branch when a loud ‘PLOP’ knocks me out of my stupor. Julia has already lifted a log from the river and chucked it further in. A second of calculation and she steps gracefully across but not before dislodging the aforementioned log so that it sinks into the sand and is no longer of use. Almost as if she’d planned it the whole time.

I was done with my own internal griping by this point so one wet foot later and we were back on the road, about 35 minutes from our destination. The rain steadily increased to a downpour and the hill would not stop climbing. At this point, I think most people knuckle down and have a process for pushing on. For me, I put my brain on autopilot and let my mind wander. I put myself in standby, blocking out the rain, the aches, and how much longer is left to travel, just taking one step at a time. If I can keep my patience in check, it’s a pretty meditative and therapeutic mindstate. 

After a short while, I’m reminded that Jay definitely does not operate this way. First came a loud ‘ARGHH’ followed quickly by ‘BLOODY WET FOOT… BLOODY… PUDDLES’. I turn to my right to see her in a half hop, half foot-shake combination. Her grumbles continued quietly and unintelligibly until finally we reached the top! Sign posted with an accompanying drinks counter, the waterfall is just one short climb further and today would be a success. All we had to do was pay the maintenance fee. Yes, a maintenance fee. We don’t have many waterfalls in the UK so I was not familiar with this type of tariff. My patience wearing thin and my scepticism leading the way, I checked my phone again only to be reminded of my lack of signal. I hand over the money, by this point I’m beyond caring, and we head to the top.

Perhaps it was naive of us. Maybe the day had knocked the adventure out of us. Having seen 275 waterfalls in one place at Foz, maybe we should have set our expectations a little lower. As we crested the rocks, we laid eyes upon a small, prosaic waterfall pouring into a fairly rudimentary river below. It was definitely a waterfall, just not one that left us leaving with a feeling of accomplishment, or that we had seen something worthwhile. After 10 minutes and feeling culturally starved, we set off on our return journey, skipping the uber and walking all the way home.