Flores Part 2:
Lagoas and Poças, On the Trail with Pierluigi

The vibrant lagoas—crater lakes—are a unique feature of several of the Azores islands. I'd been motivated to apply for the "Footpaths to Creativity Artist-in-Residence" after seeing a photo of one of the lakes surrounded by giant hydrangea bushes in full bloom. I'd never seen anything remotely like it!

Flores boasts seven caldera lakes, formed by volcanic eruptions that happened about half a million years ago. This was millions of years after the initial eruptions that upthrust the island above the sea. The lagoas on the high central massif are accessible from the roads, and there are trails that take you around several of them, starting from Funda (also called Negra), Comprida, Seca, and Branca, which has a bog ecosystem. Negra is the deepest, a huge reservoir of water that feeds the waterfalls on the west coast.

Lagoa Seca

Lagoas Funda and Rasa seen from above

On the southern half of Flores the central road to Lajes runs between two lagoas: Funda and Rasa are unforgettable seen from a distance, when the difference in their levels is most appreciable. On the eastern side, Lomba is quite small and shallow, its shores lined with hydrangeas.

I was dying to paint one of the lagoas, but sadly, the wind was so severe at these heights, it was impossible to find any sheltered spot, so I had to be content with photos. Many of Flores' native plant communities are found here, and some plants in bloom caught my eye: I recognized one as viburnum species, the others were unfamiliar. I collected some of the specimens to paint and look them up in my botanical books later.

Uva da serra

Folhado

Branch of Pittosporum tree

It would be hard to say which is the loveliest spot in Flores, this small island packs so many beautiful sights per square mile.

The Poça das Patas—the Duck's Pool—is my personal favorite. Hidden behind a sugar-loaf hill, I climb up through thick stands of Pittosporum trees on a path laid out so artistically every turn is a delightful surprise: arched bridges over small rivulets draped with mosses and ferns, watercress and ginger. As I ascend, the moisture increases, condensing on my skin. The melodious songs of birds are the only sounds over the dripping of the water.

The path to Poça das Patas

Near the top, tall, fir-like Cryptomeria (a New Zealand native imported for its straight wood trunks) give a deeper shade, and the path ends at the banks of a small lake bordered with hundreds of white calla lilies. Six or seven long, thin waterfalls drop into the pool from the high rock wall.

Poça Das Patas

My painting doesn't begin to capture the astonishing beauty of the place. While I painted, I could hear duck calls all around me, but I never saw a single duck or other bird. I wished there were a canoe or boat on hand to cross the pool to explore the far shore at the base of the waterfalls, but if there had been one, I probably would have crossed and never sat down to paint. It was hard to compose the painting to give a sense of the jagged topography of the place.

Poço Das Patas
Watercolor

There was a book at the house that turned out to be indispensable—Pier Luigi Bragaglia's Guide to the Trails of Lajes das Flores—in a French edition, of all things! My French is rudimentary at best, but I was able to get all kinds of fascinating information on the many trails in the southern part of Flores, how to find and follow them with small maps, the history and legends, geology and plant life. Inhabited for six centuries, the island is riddled with footpaths and stone walls. As I studied each chapter, I'd decide which trail to attempt next.

After a visit to the Posto de Turismo in Santa Cruz to get some trail pamphlets, I mentioned Pier Luigi and was told that he lives in Fajã Grande, where he owns a Bed & Breakfast called Argonauta. An Italian, he'd lived in Flores for seventeen years; he was so accessible that the lady at the Posto gave me his phone number. I tried to reach him by phone—no luck.

A few days later Marylee (my new housemate was another writer, working on a novel) and I decided to drive out to Fajã Grande and just drop by to see if we could find Argonauta. On the way there I pointed out to her the Moinho d'Alagoa—a water-driven mill dating from the 17th Century— where I'd stopped the day before on my way back from painting. Today the mill door was open. We stopped and seeing two elderly men inside, we greeted them. They were just about finished grinding some corn, but seeing our interest, they proceeded to grind more to demonstrate; they showed us the workings of everything from the sluice gates to the "inferno" below—the chamber with the water turning the paddles that drove the shaft of the grindstone.

We had no trouble finding Argonauta right on the main street, in a restored house painted yellow. A Nautilus shell logo was on the door. We knocked and Pier Luigi opened it, inviting us in. At first he thought we were the guests he was expecting, but after we cleared that up, he invited us into the living room upstairs, and we chatted—his English is quite good. Tall and lanky, with charm to spare, he was the consummate adventurer type—he'd come to Flores to explore, and finding it rugged enough for his liking, had settled here for the time being.

I asked if he had any copies of his Trail Guide available in the English edition—there were none and after having some tea, eventually got around to talking about hiring him as my guide for the Ponta Delgada to Fajã Grande hike. There are no roads over this part of the island, only footpaths, and it's about six kilometers from one end to the other over cliffs dropping off into the ocean—not a good place to get lost. He quoted us a price for two, but seeing Marylee was not up to the hike, he offered me a discount. He told me he'd decide on the day after checking the weather report. He wanted the least wind possible, or if not, then to have the wind at our back, since the ridge we'd be on was extremely exposed. He asked me to call him that evening after he had a detailed weather report, though he thought day after next might be the perfect day for our hike.

We agree to meet at Argonauta at ten AM on the appointed day. Pier Luigi had several German guests who wanted to hike the same trail, but since they were paying for transportation only, we would all drive over the mountain to the starting point, then let them get a head start. Krista, a retired German schoolteacher and friend of Pier Luigi's, went with us so she could drive the jeep back to Fajã Grande.

Pier Luigi didn't want the Germans to tap his expertise for free by hanging around with us, so we lingered over coffee at a local café‚ to let them get ahead, then Krista dropped us off near the top of a hill overlooking the Ponta Delgada lighthouse. This way we'd start hiking on a fairly level trail.

Pier Luigi on the trail

The day was as clear as it probably ever gets in Flores, and Corvo, the neighboring island to the north, could be seen on the horizon beyond the cows grazing on lush pastures enclosed in stone walls. A light breeze was at our backs, and Pier Luigi answered my questions about the local features, telling me some of the island's history as well. This trail had been for centuries, the only road from Ponta Delgada to Fajã Grande until the main paved road system was put in, in the 1960's. The airport had been built then too, ending much of Flores' centuries-old isolation. Even now the road over Morro Alto to Ponta Delgada on the north tip of the island, was gravel, not a paved road.

Elena with Ilhéu de Maria Vaz and Ponta Delgada
on the right

As we gained the ridge the views became more spectacular, with an islet, the Ilhéu de Maria Vaz to mark our passage as we headed south. Pier Luigi led us down several dry watercourses to the edge of the volcanic cliffs to what would have been high waterfalls, had they had flowing water.

Some climbs over the rocks were so precarious I couldn't negotiate them, and he was gentleman enough to desist. Eventually, he found a more accessible spot, and we sat on the rocks to have our lunch at the edge of the cliff. Looking down at a faj way below, known as Quebrada Nova, he explained it had been of recent origin, formed by a part of the cliff that collapsed back in the late 1700's, taking several villagers and their homes with it. All around us was the evidence of a bygone era when the island was much more densely populated: stone steps, terraces and enclosures, built up laboriously by hand to cultivate a few nhames (a local variety of white sweet potato) on the hillsides.

During the heyday of the whaling era, many Florentinos had shipped out on American whalers stopping here and then stayed on in Massachusetts, never to return. They would sneak out from Fajã Grande, where they boarded the ships to emigrate. Today there are large numbers of transplanted Azoreans living in Andover and Stoughton, MA, who maintain contact with their relatives on the islands. They celebrate the Feast of the Emigrant every year in mid-July.

Pier Luigi taking photos from our perch

As we continued our walk, the trail crossed several of the waterfalls but now we were on a steep descent. The Pittosporum and the occasional Pau Branco trees formed a dense tunnel over the trail carved into the cliff, giving us welcome shade as the afternoon heated up.

My knees had just about given out by then, but it was essential to be careful of every step, specially over the wet stones at the falls—one misstep could prove fatal.

As we rounded the next bend, I was glad to spot the village of Ponta da Fajã in the distance—at last, we were reaching the end of the trail.

The village of Ponta da Fajã, with Fajã Grande in back

Next:

Part THREE: THE FLORENTINOS