Caribbean Travel Magazine

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Photo by: Steve Simonsen

The rough, rocky road climbs through thick forest to a grassy glade serenaded by frogs. A few wisps of cloud skirt by a full moon as fat and shiny as a silver dollar, backlighting an old plantation windmill. From somewhere in the shadows floats the slow, heartbeat thumping of a conga drum. This must be the place."I'm Bone,'' says the percussionist. "Nice to meet you, brother.''Soon other all-but-invisible forms trickle into this late-night party at Catherineberg, the ruins of a centuries-old sugar mill high atop the mountainous spine of St. John, the emerald jewel of the U.S. Virgin Islands chain. Some bring tom-toms, others beer. We're all awaiting the Pyros of the Caribbean, a local fire-dancing troupe headed by a guy called Fuego. That's it: one name, just like Sting or Bono or, uh, Bone.And Fuego rolls late. He'd indicated a 9-ish start time, but the Pyros are well into the "ish" phase. So these hilltop celebrants break into a cosmic bull session about phenomena like the green flash and the aurora borealis. A tub-thumping jam starts tentatively and then gathers pulsing, polyrhythmic steam while a warm wind rustles the trees and chases away the clouds to reveal the Big Dipper. The drummers aren't the only islanders in tune with the heavens. Elsewhere on St. John, West Indian farmers are out in their fields, picking vegetables that "swell up" during the lunar event. On the east side, dozens of locals have gathered at Miss Lucy's, a Coral Bay restaurant, for a moonrise beach party complete with a rock band.New Age, Old Caribbean or Classic Rocker, St. John happily marches to its own funky beat. The mesmerizing scenery and world-class boating attract both artists and active, outdoorsy free spirits who often share the same back story: They came here on holiday and then returned repeatedly as St. John's small-town vibe and slack pace worked their subtle, inexorable magic. In time, completely enchanted, they found a way to move here for good, damn the cost of living and the odd hurricane. We're all here, a local bumper sticker proclaims, 'cuz we're not all there. "Here" being an unconventional outpost of just 5,000 residents who practically revel in its lack of mass-tourism accoutrements: no airport, no all-inclusive resorts, no golf course, no casino. Here the good life is underwritten by a gorgeous national park, limpid blue waters and a near-perfect climate. Here the summer solstice is still cause for celebration. Even if Fuego and company have fizzled, this is some serious moonlight.For such a singular place, St. John has a history not unlike that of almost every other Caribbean island: a sighting by Columbus, an indigenous people quickly eradicated, marginal sugar and cotton plantations enabled by slavery. Less than 20 square miles of mountains and dry forest, St. John is distinguished by its quirky patrimony: It was settled by Denmark, a third-tier colonial power whose choicest overseas possession was Iceland. During World War I, the United States bought what became the U.S. Virgin Islands to keep them out of German hands and to secure sea lanes leading to the brand-new Panama Canal.With less than 1,000 residents at the time, St. John was an afterthought of an American territory. Bay-rum aftershave was its only industry, and the population dwindled. But the island's fortunes forever changed in 1952, when Laurance S. Rockefeller came calling aboard his sailboat, Dauntless. A philanthropist of the old school, the multimillionaire quickly bought up land and then donated more than 4,600 acres to help create Virgin Islands National Park in 1956. That put St. John on the map and in the American consciousness, while also neutering widespread development. Expanded several times in the ensuing decades, the park now occupies about two-thirds of the island. Offshore, almost 20 square miles of submerged reefs and sea-grass beds are preserved as Coral Reef National Monument. The protected lands and waters are the undisputed engine of the island's tourism-based economy, and the source of its unshakable serenity.An ecotourism visionary, Rockefeller also built Caneel Bay resort on a beach-scalloped peninsula, blending small clusters of rooms - just 166 in all - around the elegantly landscaped 170-acre property. To help his citified guests experience a natural sanctuary with perfect grooming, rooms contained no televisions or phones, a ban that endures to this day.The sonic fast is liberating. More than 50 years on, Rockefeller's resort still serves as a near-perfect portal to St. John's natural bounty, and an ideal place to recharge one's psychic batteries. When I arrive by boat from St. Thomas, the overwhelming Caneel chorus is the birdsong of grackles and pearly-eyed thrashers, not ring tones. And with seven different beaches on the property, who needs cable?Slipping into the Caneel ethos, I forgo the shuttle bus and traipse from sea-grape-draped Hawksnest Bay to the intimate sands of Paradise Beach, so seductive it graced the cover of this year's Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. As I walk the resort's broad, manicured grounds, with their just-so trees and flowers and grazing herds of white-tailed deer, I sense an English-estate aesthetic - though the feral donkeys and mongooses lend a distinctly Caribbean touch. The waters off Scott Beach are too enticing for me to pass up a snorkel session. Stingrays sweep across white-sand flats in the shallows. Stoplight parrotfish and schools of blue tang haunt the corals off the north-side point. Deadlines and to-do lists sink into the depths."Caneel gives you time to spend with yourself,'' says Jan Kinder, who began vacationing at the resort nearly 30 years ago. Hers is a familiar tale: Smitten by the park, the balmy climate and the island's laid-back culture, she ultimately ditched her New York City job and moved to St. John. In 2000 she opened the Self Centre at the classic resort, a quiet hillside retreat Kinder likens to an ashram, focusing on yoga, meditation and chi tuneups.That same low-key tropical allure prompted Brangelina to spend a paparazzi-free Christmas at Caneel Bay's Cottage 7, Rockefeller's original digs, in 2006. Over the years, bold-faced personalities as disparate as physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer, father of the atomic bomb, and country star Kenny Chesney have found St. John beguiling enough to keep a getaway home there. And green resort compounds such as Maho Bay Camps and Concordia Eco-Tents have made the island more affordable to more people, featuring solar-powered cottages with sweet water views, art classes and yoga. "Everybody thinks about how to get here more often,'' Kinder muses.Thanks to the National Park, which holds nearly every Caribbean habitat except rainforest, I discover within the space of a week that the island deals a full house of day-trip diversions - everything from flat-line loafing to full-on adventure. One day I beach-hop the north coast's lineup of bleach-white sands - Hawksnest, Trunk, Cinnamon and Maho Bays - each more dramatic than the last. On the way, I take a break to explore Annaberg, a 200-year-old sugar mill overlooking the rugged hills of Tortola, just across the narrow Sir Francis Drake Channel. To slake my thirst at the ruins, I buy a cup of bush tea from Miss Olivia, an islander hawking a local brew made with pungent "sweet scent'' leaves. A machete-toting farmer tending a nearby garden plot kicks up the flavor further by slicing me a stalk of lemon grass.On another morning, an open-air taxi locally known as a "safari" climbs up sinuous Centerline Road to deliver me to the start of the 2.2-mile Reef Bay Trail, one of the island's best-known hikes. From the trailhead I descend nearly 1,000 feet in elevation to the sea, down a narrow valley of moist tropical forest. Bananaquits flit along the steep, shaded track, an old cart road that passes the vine-choked stone ruins of several Danish-era plantations. At trail's end, the rusting machinery and moldering brickwork of the island's last great sugar mill stand like silent, forgotten sentinels near an empty, coral-rimmed bay. It's almost impossible to imagine that less than a century ago this jungle-cloaked valley held a thriving community.Along the trek I also make a quarter-mile detour to see pre-Columbian petroglyphs carved by Taino Indians. The abstract images cast cryptic reflections on a placid, waterfall-fed pool nearly swallowed by second-growth forest. One theory posits that the waterside carvings represent the connection between the natural and spirit worlds. Plenty of island residents subscribe to that yin-yang duality. Some, like Kinder, operate holistic day spas. Others bang a drum on full-moon nights.>>> Click to Continue