James and I haul ourselves up, and scoot after Meno. With the help of a sturdy fixed rope, we climb a 15-foot section of bare rock, then squeeze up and through a Stonehenge of huge boulders that Meno calls the "limbo hole." The trail eases. "Nothing will stop us now!" Meno shouts. A moment later, emerging from green brush onto a dry, windswept plateau circled by stunted bay trees and huge yucca, we're there. The world is ours. Looking north, the brown-green hills rise like the work of a giant mole. From up here Soufri¿re, a hot, close chaos of jumbled streets, appears as a tidy village of red and blue roofs. To the southeast, the hills flatten to the aqua Atlantic, and Gros Piton looms close enough to glide to. To the west there's nothing but empty blue, the horizon blending with the sky in a watercolor haze.