I rustle down a semi-trodden path of grass and ferns and heave myself atop a boulder carpeted with lichen. I feel strangely at home here in this climate, on this mountain wrapped in fog that makes the trees look like evergreens when I squint.

But I am not at home. I am atop the Gran Piedra, a windy peak that crouches in the foothills of the Sierra Maestra.