With heavy hearts we abandon our dreams of climbing Mount Haba and in gorgeous sunshine we head off through meadows and pine forests for a new destination - the dreaded Black Lake.
At first we encounter women tending terraced vegetable fields, herds of goats, and regal Bai women in elaborate head dresses. But as the hours go by and we gradually climb higher and higher, the air grows thinner, the terrain steeper, the ground covered with snow, and the vegetation sparse and gnarly. As we approach the lake, like the Hobbits entering Mordor, we begin to sense the pervading gloom. The sun is blotted out by menacing clouds, and a fierce icy wind nearly blows us off our feet. Our guide grows increasingly uneasy as we crest a hill, and then suddenly we see it - the darkly mysterious Black Lake. I am drawn to lake's edge by some spooky, unseen force where I peer into the inky blackness.
It is a cold, windy, ugly place but I feel like I am under a spell and cannot leave. My trekmates grab me for a brief, celebratory picture and drag me away. But the curse of the lake stays with us. Isobel, the most strong and experienced mountaineer I have met, is beset by breathing problems. I lose a set of poles and gloves. Finally we stumble back into Haba Mountain Village, thankful to have survived the Black Lake.
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