Following a strip of white sand sinuously stretching out of view, I can't say I had any complaints about the beach. The turquoise waters of the Caribbean lapped playfully around my ankles.

I was about to dive into the gentle waves when a voice behind me asked whether I wanted to buy a bracelet. I already had a bracelet or two for myself — and everyone I knew at home. Actually, I needed to make more friends just to get rid of the bracelets.

In fact, I was growing a bit weary of the constant parade of Negril’s touts, sellers, and courtesans.

So while the majority of tourists sought sun and sand on the beaches of Montego Bay or Negril, I took to the hills.

Up, up, and away

The Blue Mountains rise to 7,400 feet at their highest point, thus affording a dramatic backdrop to sprawling Kingston, Jamaica’s capital.

The mountains still seemed far away as I struggled to get my bearings in the bustling and hot city. I managed to reach the outskirts of town at Papine, where I wandered into a square literally flooded with minivans and taxis — the kind of place that could take you anywhere or nowhere. Drivers yelled out destinations, none fitting my plans.

I escaped the noise and took a lunch break in a fast food restaurant. Hoping my stomach wouldn’t begrudge me, I ordered curried goat, a Jamaican specialty, instead of the regular patties I had been subsisting on for the past month.

I eventually found a taxi heading for the mountains and squeezed into the back with three other people. The front passenger seat already held a woman and child. The road wound steeply into the mountains through scary hairpin turns, past spectacular drop-offs. The ride took longer than expected, and by the time the taxi wasn’t going any further, the sun was setting.

Holywell National Recreation Area, my goal for the night, was still a few miles uphill. Fortunately, I managed to hitch a ride with an older couple the rest of the way.

The Holywell land

Holywell lies near the highest point of the highway, crossing the mountains from south to north, and it’s one of the few official campgrounds in the whole country.

During the weeknight, the area was deserted. My attempts to rouse somebody — anybody — at the office were answered with silence, so I set up camp. The night air was refreshingly cool, with the sweltering heat of the lowlands thousands of feet below, and I had a clear view of Kingston. Even from miles away, the innumerable lights — red, orange, yellow — conveyed the crowded and restless streets of the capital.

The following day, a series of taxi rides interspersed with long walks got me near Blue Mountain Peak.

The last ride, a painfully slow affair as the truck heaved through enormous potholes along the steep dirt track, dropped me off at the end of the road. The driver tried to convince me to go into business with him and buy land to grow coffee. I could see slope after slope covered with plantations that apparently make some of the best brew in the world. I said I'd think about it when I paid, and jumped out at Whitfield Hall.

The house that coffee built

Set amongst massive eucalypts, this ancient house of graying, crooked walls is a destination in itself. Over 200 years old, the building and surrounding property are the sole remainders of a great house and large coffee estate. Travelers have been welcomed for over 100 years, and climbers were advised to spend the night here as early as the 1900s. Today, it still serves as a rustic hostel, but also allows campers to set up on a perfect lawn.

In the lounging area, old timber creaked underfoot, and books printed in the 19th century filled crooked shelves while the weak glow of Tilley lamps lit up delicious dinners. The women cooked up some of the best salt fish, ackee and dumplings in all of Jamaica.

I met the strangest groups of expats here: a curious mix of retired Europeans, who spent the majority of their days studying chemical botany and talking about the old country. I inadvertently listened to their talk and cackles late into the night, with my eyes sprung wide open from a delicious cup of Blue Mountain Coffee.

The summit of solitude

An early morning start got me to the trail leading up Blue Mountain Peak just after sunrise. Light slowly crept up the verdant valleys, and clouds rose from the lowlands. Dense coffee plantations gave way to cloud forest.

At these higher elevations, moist air and extensive rainfall feeds an abundance of plants, many of which are found nowhere else on earth.

Dozens of switchbacks later, I reached a ridge that climbed towards the peak. A large metal structure and abandoned building, which some people use for camping, marks the highest point on the island. I could make out a few blotches of ocean among tumbling clouds. To the east, the rugged John Crow Mountains rose to nearly the same elevations.

I had been the only person on the trail, and the summit was empty. Cloud forest brooded on the nearby slopes.

Far below, coffee beans, bathed by moist cool air, slowly ripened to perfection. I could make out a few clearings and houses at the mouth of a distant valley, and then nothing but dense cumulus.

Jamaica’s Blue Mountains rise from the Caribbean to over 7,000 feet in about 10 miles, one of the steepest rises in the world. It’s a dramatic example of how geography affects people, culture, and place. It’s possible to go in a single day from the hundreds of thousands of people in Kingston to being seemingly alone on a whole mountain.