TRAVELOGUE

Well. Nine days into my year of living dangerously and things are going swimmingly cool. I am averaging $17 per day including hot showers, cable TV, all transport and cold beer. I have just returned from backpacking near Iryua. In two days I leave for Arica, Chile, and Lauca National Park.

Already my past life---the last ten years---seems as a dream. It was truly the most formative time I had ever had. This year of travel is a transition, perhaps---but to what? Only God knows, and He has not told me---yet. There will be surprises.

Credence Clearwater is playing on a CD at the internet cafe where I am typing. While in high school 33 years and one thousand summers ago I memorized every one of their songs for guitar. I still remember, and fantasize yet about playing Green River on my Parker Night Fly into a loud---a very loud---Fender amp. Ah...Heaven!

Which reminds me: I miss the guitar. I have not played for almost two years---planning this adventure, finishing up at Lincoln and designing my web site having taken up my time. Another reminder: playing the guitar, teaching, writing and bartending are the only things I do well. Seems to be enough. Oh...I cook a pretty mean tuna casserole.

Here I am in Arica, Chile, after a 21 hour bus ride from Jujuy. Imagine a being in a vehicle smaller than a classroom and filled with 50 persons breathing, sweating, snoring, eating, drinking and urinating for almost an entire day and you can get a picture of what it was like. Fun stuff! I much prefer buses to flying, though, as I get a chance to see the land over which I am traveling and to rub elbows with the locals.

The road followed and old Inca route across the dry and salty altiplano. There were ruins of an Inca tambo, which once functioned as a rest stop for the couriers that the Inca would send down to the coast. Often this was to procure fresh fish for the Inca. Runners could make the journey from the altiplano to the coast and back in four days and return with fish wrapped in ice. Not a bad deal if you were the Inca.

Tomorrow I leave for some days in the Chilean National Park of Lauca. Much of what I have seen of it reminds me of the backpacking I have done around Bariloche, Argentina. This park extends to the Bolivian border and is filled with lakes, high mountains and animals---including puma. (By the way, the word puma is a Quechua word.)

I will turn 50 while in my tent somewhere in Lauca National Park. One is supposed to be wise and experienced at that age. I cannot wait! That should be exciting!

I just spent the three coldest days of my life backpacking around the Chilean town of Putre, a place that provides access to Lauca National Park. My plan was to walk across the park, taking perhaps five days or so. Since I came from Arica on the Chilean coast, and Putre is 3500 meters above sea level, I needed to spend some time acclimatizing before walking around the park, most of which is at 4500 meters and higher.

I walked out of the town in a bright sun and soon was climbing through a valley that provided stunning views of two snow-capped peaks ahead and of Putre now far below me. I set my tent and prepared dinner. When the sun disappeared behind a rock face the air became at first chilly, then cold, then absolutely bone-breaking frozen. Inside the tent was not much better. My sleeping bag was good to 15 degrees Fahrenheit; the tent was only a three-season with a lot of netting. I was barely comfortable all night, and all the water I had collected had frozen solid. I was effectively trapped in the tent until the sun appeared the next morning. The next two days were similar.

My plans for walking through Lauca were put on hold until I could return with proper gear. A different bag---the Marmot Aiguille---for one, and a full-fledged mountain tent---the MSR Fury---for another. But return I shall, as this area of Chile is some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen---beautiful, and spectacularly cold, deadly cold.

I am not really bothered much, as this year-long expedition is mainly for jungles---anything below 3500 meters really. Some of my journeys involve crossing passes at 4500 meters, but camping far below this. This means that I will not be going to the Cordilleras Blanca and Huayhuash in Peru, as I am not going to risk freezing again. I am not, after all, a Canadian.

I leave tomorrow for Arequipa, Peru to hike the Cotahuasi Canyon. It will be warm there, praise God!

I must have sinned. As I was sitting in a restaurant in Putre early one morning awaiting breakfast, a swarm of Frenchmen entered. They were two families, both laden with children. The silence I was enjoying was broken by the chatter of the French tongue. I survived.

The next morning there they were again in my restaurant. Any thoughts of a peaceful breakfast were destroyed---again.

The bus back to Arica was French-free, thank you God. Alas! When I checked into my hotel, there they were in full force.

I can well understand any Frenchman who wishes to leave his homeland for any reason whatsoever, but why follow me around? Begone I say!

Anyway, I will be in Arequipa on Sunday. I will attend Mass and go to Confession and so expiate my sins. I pray that by then the French will have returned to their citadel on the Seine.

I am finally back in Peru, my favorite country outside of the USA. Why is this so? To begin...

The music: There is a style of guitar here called criolla. It is amazingly complex, and matched with the female voice is a stunning and moving thing to listen to. There is also much African and Andean influence as well. The guitar is king here, and rightfully so.

The land: There are four distinct regions, all of which were made for backpacking : coastal, altiplano, the ceja de la selva---literally, "the eyebrow of the jungle," that region between 3500 and 500 meters where the land begins its drop to the Amazon Basin---and the lowland jungle of the extreme north- and southeast. All has its magnificent charms, yet it is the ceja de la selva that is my main goal. Here are the many ruins of the Chachapoyan culture, most of which have not been excavated. This part of Peru has seen the greatest discovery of "lost cities" in the world. I will write more on the Chachapoyans when I return from the ceja de la selva.

The food: Argentina has the best beef in the world---there is really no competition---but that is all it has. Peru has a culinary tradition 500 years old, a mix of Spanish, Indigenous and Creole dishes that compares well with those of Mexico. Try aji de gallina when in Peru. If you do not like it, then go home.

The people: Peru is a mix of Indigenous, white and African. All of these contribute to Peruvian culture in ways more dramatic and impressive than in any other Latin American nation.

The history: Peru's pre-history begins 4000 years ago. All have heard of the Inca (and I have mentioned the Chachapoyan), but there is more, so much more: Chimu, Moche, Huari, Tiawanaku.

To state the matter simply: Peru is the capital of (Spanish) South America. You can never understand this continent unless you understand Peru.

Anyone who visits a Catholic Church here whose congregation is mainly Indigenous will immediately be struck by how Christ is represented. There is blood, and lots of it: it pours out of His head, His chest, His hands, His feet---and all of it dripping down the cross. The most shocking Christ I have seen in my life is in the church in Putre, Chile. He was in agony, with massive cuts dripping blood over His face. There was hardly any area of His body that was not crimson. A huge mass of tissue spilled forth from His side; His knees were exposed to the bone; His knees and hands seemed to twist around the nails driven through them.

Why this grim and grotesque Christ? Why such dramatic visual effects of the violence inflicted upon Him by the Romans? We in the West are used to seeing Christ on the cross in almost peaceful repose, with scarcely any blood coming from His five wounds. This is our Christ, and represents our view of His suffering.

But what of the suffering of the Latin American Indigenous? Their Christ must suffer more than they do in their own lives. Thus the blood, the pictures of torture, the very visible pain on His face. Now, here is a Christ they can relate to.

I returned yesterday from Cotahuasi, Peru, where the deepest canyon in the world lies. Eight days were spent walking as far as I could into the place. The trail follows an old Inca communication route. Ruins and ancient terraces abound, and the entire area is clustered with villages. Quechua is the first language spoken here, and Quechua-inflected Spanish takes a while to get accustomed to. There are no roads in the canyon---to say nothing of electricity---and no possibility of getting around unless you walk. And walk the Indians do: everywhere along the walls of the canyon are myriad trails going to myriad villages whose names echo their Inca heritage: Andamarca, Quechualla, Vellinga, Huña---this last being an extensive set of ruins. I stayed in them one night (how many times does one get to camp alone in pre-Colombian ruins?) and my imagination---at all times wild and fecund---ran rife. I conjured up the ghosts of Inca long dead.

In a few days I will head to Lima, and then on to the jungles of north-eastern Peru. There are rumors of lost cities buried somewhere near the Rio Marañon. This area saw some of the last Inca conquests, and was still in a rebellious state when Pizarro arrived. These rebels against Inca rule, called Chachapoya ("the people of the clouds") actually lent aid to the Spaniards, believing that they would therefore gain their freedom from the Inca. This they certainly did only to fall under the rule of the conquistadors. Which points out yet again that as soon as the first European arrived in the New World, all Indigenous civilizations were doomed. None have survived, yet the people remain, always recalling their past glory.

The phrase means "Earth Mother", and it is an integral part of much of the Indigenous belief system in the Peruvian and Bolivian Andes. Many Westerners come to the Andes and comment on what they believe is the love of the earth exhibited by the people here. They fancy that the locals have some higher understanding of the environment than is possible to Westerners. They delude themselves.

The worship of Pachamama---Westerners at times identify her with their own goofy idea of an "earth mother goddess", Gaea---offers no moral code, no sacred books, no salvation here or in the hereafter. What it is is a propitiatory form of worship, rather like the religions of Babylon and ancient Egypt. The ancient peoples of Peru and Bolivia saw their world as harsh, cruel, terrifying and beyond understanding. The earth they lived on served up death in large doses on a regular basis. There is scarcely any natural disaster outside of tornados, hurricanes and the Clintons that did not visit itself upon the Andean peoples.

The only hope as they saw it was to somehow curry favor with the earth, with Pachamama---which they identified with the female gender---in the hope that when she again decided to lay waste to some part of humanity, she might spare those who had performed services for her. And so an elaborate ritual system developed around propitiating the goddess to curb her impulse to wreak havoc. (This idea would be familiar to the characters in The Epic of Gilgamesh.)

And so the Andean Indian would perform all sorts of ceremonies on all sorts of occasions to this end. Every time the earth was to be plowed, every time a house was to be built upon her, he would attempt to pacify the earth-goddess. Today one can see at these ritual observances alcohol scattered about, llama fat smeared here and there and the skin of a dead cat tossed around. The usual Westerner who witnesses these events thus connects them with the childish environmental clap-trap he was force-fed in grammar school. He declaims, "Oh look how these Indians love the earth!"

Wrong. The Indians do not love the earth, they fear her, and for good reason. Case in point: In 1970 the town of Yungay was buried under millions of tons of mud, ice and rock. Twenty-thousand people were killed in a few seconds--Pachamama in action. (The only structure to show through the muck was the bell tower of the local Catholic Church---showing to all with eyes who the real God is. Those interested can visit this site today.) This type of thing is a regular occurrence in the Andes, as are earthquakes, floods, droughts, cholera, typhus, rabies---a veritable cornucopia of disaster on a Biblical scale.

I leave for Chiclayo Saturday, there to visit---again---the astounding ruins of Tucumé. From there on to Chachapoyas and the jungle---the magnificent jungles where lie what is left of the Chachapopyan civilization. I am bringing topographic maps of the region and using both GPS and compass. Getting lost there while alone is not something I would recommend. I plan at least three weeks there to do what I have wanted to do for years.

I returned yesterday from a 14-day walkabout through the jungles of northern Peru. Extraordinary it was. The internet connection here in Chachapoyas is absurdly slow, and more writing will have to wait until I am in Lima on Sunday.

It is clear that I will not have enough time to do all the backpacking I wanted here in Peru. The problem is the dry season---it ends sometime in October and I still have some jungles to traverse in Bolivia and Brazil. Stay tuned...

Backpacking at 50 years of age does take its toll, especially the type of solo experience I have chosen. For one thing I am thinner---skeletal, as a superintendent once described me when seeing me after I had done some rough traveling through the Andes. And I am sore all the time: shoulders, knees and back cry out for chiropractic care---or a whiskey sour, which has a similar effect. Right now I am recuperating from my Gran Vilaya trek and preparing for a ten-day solo hike through the Andes to the ruins of Choquequirao. (Do not try to pronounce it.) On this walk, unlike the one to Vilaya, there will be no charming little villages to rest in, no families with whom to stay and little in the way of human contact. I will be on my own---just me and my little old GPS.

More and more I think of Central America: the jungles, the ruins, and the rice and beans at every meal. And the distances are considerably shorter. Example: to get to and from the Vilaya region I had to spend two days on a bus, five hours in a truck, two hours in a taxi, five hours in a combi and another six hours in yet another bus---almost three days of travel just to get to one expedition, and all in a rather small part of Peru. And it will take two more days to and from Choquequirao, a day to La Paz, another to Santa Cruz, another to Paraguay---enough already!

In Guatemala it takes 10 hours to the jungles, and then it is all on foot if you desire. From San Jose, Costa Rica it is 3 hours to the jungle, and then on foot. And so on.

So after Choquequirao and Amboró in Bolivia, I will head for the Paraguayan Chaco and then Rio---and then to the USA for some R & R before landing in Guatemala City around December 1.

But what if there is some unexpected backpacking to be had in the Paraguayan Chaco? After all, no one---and I mean NO ONE---backpacks there. Rumor has it that in 1937, give or take some, a wild peccary was shot there by a farmer. The carcass looked a bit odd, so the farmer sent it to a university in Asunción. It seems that this species of peccary had been extinct for 35 million years. It is now called Wagner's Peccary (Catagonus wagneri). Just what the Hell is out there anyway?

And about those peccary...they travel in herds of between 20 and 1000 members. When numbering 50 or fewer they usually take off through the forest at the sight of man. But in greater numbers they stand their ground and grind their teeth---a set of formidable weaponry. Using your machete (you DID bring it, did you not?) stick the lead peccary hard---and I mean hard---in the snout. (No time for animal rights imbecilities now.) Stand your ground! Slowly back to a tree. If there is no tree to be had, hope for the best.

Once in Costa Rica I happened upon a jungle camp---what was left of it---of some prospectors who had had a nighttime visit by a herd of (probably) White-Lipped Peccary. There was not much to see: a scrap of bone, a ruined pot, some material from clothing.

I am back in Cuzco, my third visit. My first was in 1987 when I traveled overland from Lima to Huancayo, and then on to Ayacucho, Andahuaylas, Abancay and Cuzco. Then there was war in the mountains between Sendero Luminoso and the Peruvian army. No quarter was asked and none was given. The army won, as armies pitted against guerrilla groups usually do. Like virtually all such uprisings in Latin America---Uruguay, Argentina, Brazil and Chile come to mind---the leaders of these movements sprang from the upper middle classes, usually from professors and students at universities. Their minds addled by communism and fantasies of egalitarianism, their expeditions financed by Cuba, and their morality fueled by the goof-ball heresy of Liberation Theology, these self-styled Robin Hoods embarked upon a decade of political violence. Teachers, priests, mayors, soldiers, police---anyone who could be said to represent the "oppressor classes"---were murdered.

The hills are silent now, the guerrillas and their fellow-travelers dead, in prison or fled. Some would argue that the conditions that led to such civil wars are still present. Well, maybe. But the wretched condition of most of the world---the poverty, the inequality, the corruption---has been present since the beginnings of civilization in Sumer 5600 years ago. They will not be rectified until Christ returns, alas.

Cuzco is the center of South America as far as most are concerned. The place is full of foreigners planning a trip to the Inca Trail, returning from a trip to the Inca Trail, arranging some expedition or simply taking in the sites---and there are enough to go around. Cuzco was the absolute religious and political center of the Inca Empire (the word "Cuzco"---more properly Qosqo---means ´navel´.) From here I planned last year's 9-day solo expedition to the last Inca redoubt of Vilcabamba, and from here I am planning another such journey, one to the ruins of Choquequirao and then on through the Andes until the town of Huancacalle ten days later. I leave Monday, full of anticipation.

I returned today from the most extraordinary and difficult backpacking experience of my career---and I have walked the Darien Gap. Twelve days were spent backpacking alone through the Andes from the village of Cachora to the Inca ruins of Choquequirao and then on through the mountains to the road head at Huancacalle. The route I chose was 100 kilometers long. Several passes were crossed, one at 4200 meters and another at 4600. All told over 10,000 meters of ascent and descent were involved. Yes, I was worried at times, scared at others and delirious at others. At all times I was astounded at the sheer magnitude of what was all around me, surely God's creation in all its frightening magnificence. I am a bit thin now, my waist being what it was in college 25 years and 1000 summers ago.

Oh...did I say that was alone? Well, not exactly. At my every step walked Christ: encouraging, challenging and carrying me. Of miracles there were many. I live, that is one.

There is a tradition for young Israelis who have just finished their military service to do a four-month stint of travel either to Asia or to South America. I have seen hordes of them, usually in groups of four. They tend to be remarkably fit and do not care who knows it. When they backpack they are fast---very fast. Some years ago I was doing the entire circuit around Torres del Paine National Park in Chile. I ran into some Israelis---that is, I spoke to them briefly as they passed me on the trail. It took me nine days to walk the entire thing; they took four.

An entire group of businesses has arisen to meet the needs of these Israelis. Anyone in Peru can see laundromats, restaurants, clubs, hotels and bars with signs only in Hebrew. But why cannot these Israelis simply use the facilities that other tourists use? Some history please.

After the Diaspora during the time of the emperor Hadrian (117-138 AD) the surviving Jews were dispersed throughout the Roman Empire. They kept their Law, their ways, their language and their God. Every nation which sprang from the ruins of Rome viewed the Jews with suspicion. Often forced to live in ghettos, they were many times and many places simply expelled from wherever they were living---after being robbed, of course. Massacres, pogroms, expulsions: this was the norm for European Jews. Many occupations and professions and markets were closed to them. They fended as best as they could, usually by avoiding problems and trying to keep as low a profile as possible.

That is, until the Holocaust and its child, the state of Israel. Though no longer fearing the whims of arbitrary and suspicious government, the problem of being refused services overseas still existed. But not in Cuzco. Even local establishments now have signs in Hebrew.

I have decided to fly to Santa Cruz, Bolivia from Cuzco, and thus avoid La Paz. The Bolivians are having one of their all-too-common strikes, and all transport in the region has come to a halt. The route Cuzco - Puno - Lake Titicaca - La Paz is usually filled with tourists seeing the sites. Now, there are hundreds of them stuck somewhere along the way without transport in or out.

This is pure stupidity. What do the Bolivians hope to gain by denying their nation the hundreds of thousands of tourists dollars that would normally have poured in? I was originally going to go to La Paz and then bus to Santa Cruz and on to Amboró, but not now. Striking to make a political point is like cutting off your foot to lose weight. It works but there are unintended consequences. (Oh...the French strike all the time too.)

Besides, the Bolivian National Park of Amboró has become difficult for solo adventures to walk through, as it has acquired the "eco-tour" disease. What exactly is this one might ask? It happens when a formerly wild section of jungle is set aside for cabins with showers and full board, guides, and so on. In other words, what I do---solo backpacking---is frowned upon or downright impossible. All visitors are strongly encouraged to book through a travel agency, join a tour and be under the supervision of certified guides. Not exactly heroic or demanding, I should say. Environmentalists would be quite comfortable here. So scratch the place.

And: this leaves me more time for the northern Paraguayan Chaco, truly a wild and savage land. There are no tourists (there are no tours), no Ten Commandments and the place is as natural as it gets. Animals of all kinds and temperaments---puma, tapir, peccary---roam freely. Snakes slither about and hundreds of species of birds fly overhead. (Alas! I am without a shotgun!) It is difficult to get to and get out of. Temperatures can reach 45 degrees centigrade. There is only one road, and it is impassable after a rain. Oh, and there are no environmentalists.

Sitting at a computer terminal for hours a day in a foreign land is a bit disconcerting. Funny mouse, funny keyboard, funny letters, funny screen, funny people next to you at other machines. You read something comical in the news, and laugh, and everyone wants in on the joke. Sorry folks, it is a private joke. Go away.

Yet there is no other way for strangers in strange lands to keep a handle on their home far away. What did they do---what did I do when I traveled?---before the internet? Oh yes, they drank, I drank. Every capital city had its bar where foreigners would go to kill a thirst and to amble about trying to nose out some news about home.

During the wars and revolutions in Central America during the 1980s these bars---in Guatemala City, Tegucigalpa, Managua---saw Peace Corps workers, foreign mercenaries, State Department types, obvious CIA employees, local military, hard-boiled traveler types and the foreign curious---me, for example. Friday nights were really on-site Poly-Sci seminars as these tribes circled one another, distant yet willing to talk about their lives, such as they were. The bar in Tegucigalpa was called The Totem, that in Guatemala City was called Bar Europa, that in Managua was in the Hotel Intercontinental.

Now the guns have gone mostly silent, the mercenaries who still live are working in one of the -stans and the CIA is busy elsewhere. All is probably for the better, but then I am not sure about this.

One thing that I know: whatever went into me while walking beyond Choquequirao is begging to stay, and like an animal it needs to be fed. But not in Bolivia. Paraguay perhaps. Central America, most definitely. Already she calls, she beckons, she implores. I hear there is a lost city somewhere near the headwaters of the Rio Platano in Honduran Mosquitia. Gold miners once told me of a golden monkey god buried 500 years ago near a tributary of the Rio Sico.

Here in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, all is humid, tropical and impoverished---much more impoverished than Peru (if you can believe that). At the steps leading into the cathedral sit all manner of the crippled, the diseased, the blind, the limbless, the mutilated, the deaf, the paralytic---all of the myriad evils of life except the Clintons are on display as one walks into the house of God. How can one cure them all? Easy answer: one cannot. All will be rectified in Eternity. But good God, in the meantime!

Tomorrow I search for transport into the Paraguayan Chaco. Nothing here to detain. A nation-wide strike begins tomorrow. Already the guns are out---some dead, some fled. Bolivia has suffered a decline in its GDP for 20 years. There is less and less for more and more. Something has to break. Time to go.

Oh...Bolivia and France have some things in common. Both nations go on strike often. Both nations lose all their wars. (The people of Bolivia look a bit cleaner than the French, however, and their women shave their legs.)

There are two roads that lead from the Bolivian border to Filadelfia in the Paraguayan Chaco. My bus will take the newest one, though from all accounts it has nothing much to add to the old one. The difficulties concerning travel through the Chaco are isolation, heat and weather. After a rain this road becomes impassable, in which case all traffic must simply halt until the sun emerges to dry out the road. The bus company Yacyretá advises all passengers to take sufficient supplies of water on board. Temperatures along this trans-Chaco road at times exceed 45 degrees centigrade, and there is little shade. There are also many animals along the way, though they are mostly birds---I despise all birds except the saintly pollo frito de Kentucky (saintly because it feeds the hand that bites it)---and road kill.

The population density of the Paraguayan Chaco is less than one person per square mile; it is over 1000 per square mile in New Jersey by way of comparison. Empty it is.

Meanwhile...way back in Cuzco I got a fine surprise: Two ex-students of mine from Lincoln School were there as well. They were attending a conference the subject of which I do not pretend to understand. The young lady on the left is Miss Paula Avellaneda, on the right is Miss Giulia Rolandi. Both were members of my backpacking club at Lincoln School. Both are some of the finest kids I have ever met. They are now seniors, and when they leave the school it will be a lesser place because of it.

A man came into the hotel lobby with a bag in which he said was the skin of a cat. He took it out of the bag and there it was: the skin of a cat sure enough. A big cat. With stripes and claws and teeth---lots of them. He was selling it. Truth be told, it was beautiful. I did not ask how the creature met his demise. A pity, really. I have imagined a cat rather like this one tracking me in some jungle in Honduras---and myself tracking him. Not to kill (at least on my part) but just to see. Wild. Up close and personal. Alive. With all the savage vitality that nature put in it, not as some adornment before a fireplace. A damn shame.

NB: Tonight at 8 PM I get on the trans-Chaco bus. Thus there is little doubt but that I will not be able to make entries onto my web site. There is e-mail in the Chaco I understand. As always, please stay tuned.

Something I remembered about serious traveling and backpacking was something I had forgot: It takes a lot of time---on buses, in hotels, cleaning clothes, arranging transport, taking taxis, seeking out medicines, getting lost (this always happens), eating, drinking, shopping, finding internet access, writing, reading, researching and just generally recuperating until the next expedition. I knew all of this when I had my last long-term adventure 1986-87. But it all faded away only to be re-learned now. One thing that only increases the "down time" between expeditions is the vast distances involved in South America. I will be in Central America sometime in December, where everything is on a smaller scale---except the difficulties involved in what I plan. I would not have it---and it could not be---any other way.

I am in Rio, having just spent two weeks in the Paraguayan Chaco. That place is really the end of the earth, "from here nothing beyond." From the Bolivian border to the first real town in the Chaco the road is merely a crude track cut into the ground. Dust covered everything---every plant, every tree, every person on my bus. It was carried on the wind and breathed with the air. The heat was extraordinary, at times 45 degrees. The sweat it caused immediately mixed with the dust causing all of us to appear as if we were wearing cheap and badly applied makeup.

Filadelfia is the first town of consequence in the Chaco as one leaves Bolivia. It is one of several Mennonite colonies in the Chaco, all of which are havens of civilization in that benighted place. The story of these Mennonites---of their flight from Germany and the Soviet Union in the 1930s, of their settling in the Paraguayan wilderness with little more than their Bibles, of their making a life and bringing light to such an astoundingly inhospitable land---is a stirring one. The Jewish immigration to British Palestine, the Mormon exodus to Utah and the American settlement of the West all have their echoes in what the Mennonites have created, almost ex nihilo, in Paraguay.

It is hard to get transport to the Chaco's (even more) nether regions. I finally found a Mennonite who agreed to take me to his estancia five hours and 300 kilometers away. We drove on a road that can only be described as entertaining. I asked him if this track were passable in the wet. He said no. I then asked what would happen if he were at his estancia and it rained. He said he would be trapped there until the track dried. Had this ever happened? Yes. How long was he stuck? Well, his parents were once trapped three months when everything had flooded and turned to mud. How had they survived? He told me they had hunted wild pigs and deer. Were there still wild pigs there? "Oh yes, so many that they travel in packs on one hundred."

He dropped me with my backpack in the jungle about 50 kilometers from the Rio Paraguay. He would not let me go until I agreed to carry with me a shotgun and a pistol. I took them and he promised to return to get me in some days. He kept his word, a good thing. In my time alone there I had the previously unknown experience of traversing a jungle with more than my machete and luck. Now I was armed and lethal. I could kill---and would have killed---any animal that mistook me for lunch.

Soon I will be in the northern Guatemalan jungles. They are as inhospitable and as empty as the Paraguayan Chaco. I will miss that shotgun.

Here I am back in the USA---Portland, Oregon to be precise. My last few days before coming here were lived in Rio, a city that enjoys certainly the most visually stunning setting in the world.

It is difficult to believe that I just spent the last four months of my life backpacking alone through much of South America. Was it a dream? Some odd fantasy from which I will awake one day into the normal, the humdrum, the common? No. My body says as much. It is time to recuperate and to re-think the upcoming six months I will spend in the jungles of Central America. There is much yet to do, and (as always) miles to go before I sleep. I am not ready to return to the real world. Maybe in June---but God knows when

I have traversed jungles and mountains and plains and deserts and canyons and grasslands and valleys. I have used a huge variety of equipment---tents, sleeping bags, boots, clothing, backpacks. I have never felt---alas!---that what I was using at one particular time was the best gear for the terrain. Something was always amiss. The tent was too small, or it was cold, or it did not allow cooking during storms, or it was too heavy; the pack was too small or too large or too heavy or simply just uncomfortable; the boots were too hot or too cold or did not stop water from entering; the sleeping bag was too hot or not warm enough or too heavy. Complaints, complaints. I head for the jungle in a few weeks. What sort of gear will I take? Have I found the 'sweet setup'? Maybe.

Problems encountered while backpacking jungles are many and surely are a challenge not only for the backpacker, but for his gear. There is terrific heat and humidity during the day, cooler weather at night, myriad insects at all times---all of which see you as prey---a variety of unpleasant creatures and the occasional terrifying thunderstorm. To start with. what tent would be the best in these conditions? That is, what tent could be called 'the perfect jungle tent'? There was not one until the MSR Ventana shown below. Why is it different from my other tents, and why would it suit the jungles of Central America?

To start, without the rainfly it offers 180 degrees of viewing pleasure. All that mosquito netting also means lots of air coming in and all the bugs---some of whose bites cause particularly loathsome diseases---staying out. The rainfly has a vestibule of more than 20 square feet, which means that if I am---when I am---trapped in some tropical storm for days on end there is room in the vestibule to cook. The door of the rainfly, even when opened---a true necessity in humid jungle conditions---will not allow the water to enter. And this tent is only five pounds. (By way of comparison, a full scale mountain tent weighs in at nine pounds.) I have the Ventana set up right now in the living room, and it is roomy and strong. It is far superior to my other jungle tents, each of which had at least one flaw. Here is a review of the Ventana by Outside magazine.

How about the backpack? My other packs would serve, but not too well. The difficulty is that you sweat in the jungle---a lot. The sweat pours down your face, stings your eyes and drips from your nose, soaks your clothes and leaves salt crystals in hair and clothing at the end of the day. Internal frame packs are all the rage now (most packs you see today have internal frames) but external frame packs once ruled. One reason is that they are cooler, as they allow air to flow between the back of the pack and your own back. An internal frame hugs your back and becomes laden and dripping with sweat at the end of a hard day in the jungle. So my choice for Central America is the Kelty 50th Anniversary Pack, a true work of the backpacker's art.

How about boots? Normal hiking boots will not do: They are too hot, too low and impossible in the wet and mud. (Try walking in them for hours down a jungle river and you will see what I mean.) The solution? The US military has fought in jungles for...well, a long time. Here is what it uses:

High top to give greater protection against snakes than mere hiking boots. A sole that cannot be penetrated by the ever-present sharp bamboo shoots that stick up from the ground. Small holes on the side to let water out. Mainly canvas uppers which dry quickly. No cushion or insulation to hold in the heat and water and so encourage fungus. Do not travel far into the jungle wilderness without these boots. Period.

Alas! What I will miss, the Remington 870. Properly fitted she will bring down any land animal in the world.

A hat is quite necessary as it keeps sun and insects and sundry creatures off your head. Once while in the Costa Rican jungles a yellow and black mama scorpion the size of my hand landed on my hat and then fell to the ground. Perhaps a dozen baby scorpions then scattered from mama's back. Had I had no hat they would have scattered about on my head---with momentous results.

Take your pick. Do not venture into the bush without one of these babies. If you do, you are a fool. Practice using it first or you might chop into your leg. Bring suture material just in case.

Well. I am now into my second week of 'rest and relaxation' in the USA and it is exhausting me. I am rested---and quite relaxed, thank you. I read, work on my web page, answer all e-mails promptly and eat too much cereal and ice cream. Something is missing, and that 'something' is the reason I am away from teaching for one year: solo, extreme backpacking through the wildest parts of Latin America. What I accomplished in South America created (or perhaps only encouraged something already latent) a desire for longer and more difficult expeditions, a need to push my physical limits---and my emotional, spiritual and intellectual limits---yet further, a hunger---and that is the right word---to go 'where no man has gone before'---or at least where few men have gone. I pace the floors here, a terror to my step-father's three cats, my thoughts never far from the jungles of Central America.

But I must be here for now. All is preparation: new gear, new books, planning new and impossible expeditions. And there is more: getting dental work done, seeing old friends, spending time with family, coming closer to God---all of these are as vital as getting in fine shape. But I am not by nature a patient fellow, though I am receiving this gift in dribs and drabs, and it is enough.

Besides, there is no point in simply getting on a plane for Guatemala City just yet. The rains up in the jungle regions have only slowed, they have not yet stopped. All is still muddy and soggy and mosquito ridden---doable but not enjoyable. And so I am here waiting.

I really should be in no hurry, as the real test will begin soon enough. And most certainly, the jungle is patient.

I leave early in the morning for the next phase of my sabbatical, six months in the jungles of Central America. I have much enjoyed my time in Portland, but now my tent beckons. Tomorrow I dine in Antigua, Guatemala; three days after that I will be in the jungles to the north. My next writing will be...well, I really do not know, at least a week. There is internet all over Latin America but finding software to write to my site might take a bit of time. I use Office 2000, which is the standard and usually---but not always---has FrontPage (Microsoft's web editor) installed as well as Word and PowerPoint.

Thanksgiving was superb: great family, great friends, great people. Sure, I ate too much but soon begins six months of rice and beans. And beer---very cold beer.

Check the SABBATICAL ITINERARY to find out where I am between now and June. There is some very difficult solo jungle work coming up, and so pray for me! And while you are at it, pray for the world. God hears all prayers and will answer according to His will and the desires of your heart.

I am writing from Antigua, Guatemala (about which more in due course.) Now---today, this instant---begins the final six months of my expedition. While preparing here for the Tuesday bus to the jungles, all sorts of thoughts intrude. I will write of them as time and desire permit---and that, by the way, is the purpose of this web site.

I cannot say why high school teachers get into the profession. No question that some of them should find other work---and some of these are honest enough to admit this. And there is no question that some who are not teachers should become teachers. What I can say for certain is how and why I became one. (Though of course any errors in the practice of my craft---and there have been many---are entirely my own.)

I left teaching for one year, mainly to spend one year backpacking the nether regions of Latin America; that is, backpacking to the really difficult places, for the easy ones I accomplished long ago. Every time I venture forth with tent and machete the task gets harder, and not just because I am 50. It seems I engage in pushing the limits of my endurance---physical, emotional and spiritual---each time I am in the wilds. This occasion will be no different. I await the challenge---this contest with myself---with great anticipation. I would have it no other way. It cannot be any other way.

During this year-long sabbatical I have encountered many of my ex-students---in Lima, in Cuzco and most recently, in Rio. They are always reminders of why I became a teacher in the first place. They are gifts from God, revealing little hints of His presence, a call to not to stay away from teaching too long.

Four-hundred and forty years after its founding was the year when I first pulled into Antigua, Guatemala. There was war in the hills in those days---a war both civil and genocidal. There were soldiers all about, a reasonable deployment since the communist guerrillas prowled nearby and were quite the nuisance. But not as much a nuisance as the army. This body, especially its elite Kabiles, was responsible for at least 100,000 deaths among the indigenous Mayan population. Another 100,000 fled to camps in Mexico. This war against the communists and the government was all-out, and as usual in such events the government won. One of the slogans of the time was

The rabies being communism of course. While busy eliminating all that rabies the army also eliminated some of the seas in which the communists swam, the hundreds of indigenous Maya villages that dot the entire countryside of this country. This was classic counter-insurgency warfare, though a particularly crude and brutal form of it. (Is there a kinder and gentler form?) Like the failed communist uprisings in a host of Latin American nations, the Guatemalan version left in its sad wake poverty, corruption, economic dislocation and a habit of violence both personal and political.

During the war there were few foreigners in Antigua for obvious reasons. Streets were quiet, restaurants were small and empty and there were only three Spanish language schools. Twenty years later Antigua is a Guatemalan version of Cuzco. Restaurants are myriad and with varied cuisines, travel agencies abound, there are 27 language schools and internet is ubiquitous. The town in chock-full of foreigners who bring with them lots and lots of cash and freely spend it. This has caused sort of a boom here that has affected---as far as I can see---all economic classes. (Good lord, there is even a McDonalds and a Burger King---though by law all structures must conform to the building style prevalent here for 400 years. So no ´golden arches´.)

Compared to Antigua Guatemala City is a sight right out of Dante: dirty, noisy, polluted, crowded, congested, violent---in short, it is what every third world capital city is. I had to visit the place today to get some topographical maps of the jungle regions of the Petén. A true nightmare it was, and it caused me to wonder why anyone would live there. The answer is obvious: they have to. Not every place in Guatemala can be as Antigua, and not every place in Peru can be as Cuzco. Antigua is no arcadia, as with the disappearance of the army after the civil war armed thugs have entered the Guatemalan political scene in force. They have wreaked some havoc around Antigua and in Tikal---wherever tourists are in fact. (But Antigua is no doubt more peaceful than Washington DC.) I almost miss the soldiers on every street corner.

(A similar problem has existed in Peru since the end of the civil war there. Armed men periodically raid tourist areas and cause mayhem---that is where the money is, after all. Both the Peruvian and Guatemalan governments have responded by training and placing several legions of tourist police all over the tourist areas. Neither government can afford the huge loss of hard currency that a flight of tourists would cause. The bandits do not just go away of course. They merely change locales. Para eliminar la rabia...)

I will do my best to avoid another descent into the netherlands of the capital. My transportation for the jungle leaves from here---another welcome change, as formerly one had to get a bus to the capital, a taxi to the bus station, and then try and bargain for a seat on the next bus to the Petén.

I have no idea of the internet situation in the Petén, so I might not be able to post until my return around January 15 or so. Both Christmas and New Year will be spent in my tent, a tradition I have kept for almost one decade straight.

Just for fun do a Google search for `Laguna del Tigre´, `Dos Lagunas´, `Nakum´ , ´el Mirador´ and `Yaxha´. I will be somewhere around these places having a fun time. Pray for me. It's a jungle out there.

It was my third day in that damn swamp. I kept one hand on my machete to ward off crocodiles. The other hand clutched my al-Mar knife with its eight-inch blade. My eyes were scanning both the water and the shore in case any beady-eyed crocodile or wandering puma got any ideas. All the while mosquitoes fed with a wild abandon as the sweat dribbled into my eyes and down my face...

OK, it was not that bad, but there was an ocean of mud. And rivers of rain. And hordes of mosquitoes. And there was a wandering puma that devoured an unlucky Guatemalan worker---but see below. It seems I miscalculated the rainy season, which was in full force while I walked alone for five days among obscure Mayan ruins. So all was wet and muddy and bug-ridden. I was lost somewhere in the vicinity of Tikal, and using my compass and machete---always at hand, you see---I had to cut across some wild country for hours and across a croc-infested lagoon as well. And I picked up a few ticks. But still it was, well, fun. (Yeah, I have an odd sense of what constitutes fun.)

At all times I was followed by monkeys. I hate them; I despise them; I loathe them. If they were not part of God`s Creation (and if I were not a Christian) I would slaughter every one of those damn things on sight. I would look right in their simian eyes as I choked the life out of their disgusting bodies. It would give me great pleasure to do so. Without any doubt they are the filthiest beasts on earth.

There were cat tracks everywhere but I saw none of the beasts. Neither did the fellow below.

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

---William Blake (1757 - 1827)

It seemed a day like any other. Pedro (not his real name) awoke in darkness, slipped on his rubber boots and prepared his breakfast of tortillas and beans. Soon he left the jungle camp where he worked. But this time he was not heading off into the bush to collect xate. Today he was heading to Uaxactun, an all-day walk through the jungle on an obscure trail. He would spend a day with his family and then return to the xate camp. He never made it, for it was his last day on earth.

Four hours away his killer awaited him. On ´dread feet` he padded his way through the bush, eyes wide open, searching. On this day his hunt would be a successful one.

At ten that morning Pedro was approaching the limits of Tikal National Park. The killer heard his steps, and followed.

What happened next can be peaced together from the scatered bits of skeleton found three weeks after Pedro was killed.

The cat took him from behind, its classic killing method. His front claws ripped into Pedro`s shoulder while his jaws clamped hard and tore across Pedro`s throat. The man was dead before he hit the ground. I like to think that he felt nothing, that he saw nothing, that his death came upon him in an instant. The cat paused after the kill, then drug the corpse into the bush. He fed, and would return to the kill several times in the next few days. When only ragged tissue and bone remained the cat went after the marrow, crunching the human bones into jagged pieces.

The killing site was found by other xate workers. Pedro`s machete---still in its holder, alas!---was found near his remains. There was no news report because Tikal is a great money maker and tourist magnet for Guatemala. If word got out that a man was killed and eaten by a cat within the park...

The average Guatemalan is smaller than the average American. From behind, and hunched over while walking fast he would resemble some of the puma`s natural prey. An American man walking with a large pack on his pack---me for example---would almost assuredly not be attacked. He simply appears too big for the cat, who would rather not fight his prey. But when the pack comes off, the man better have machete and knife real, real handy, just in case. He will keep his eyes open, build a fire and set the tent. The night will bring the screams of the hungry cats.

Let this be a reminder that the jungle is nothing like the innocent arcadia imagined by the environmentalists. Their minds filled with Lion Kings and addled from years of brainwashing in school, they see the rainforest as a veritable cornucopia of medicines, noble savages and eco-Edens.

All this is nonsense. The jungle is full of death. It walks on four legs. It slithers upon the ground. It flies through the air. It wriggles in the grass. It lives invisible in a host of insects only to burst forth in the most hideous diseases known to man. It burrows into your flesh and organs. It infects and paralyzes and blinds. In the city you might be doctor this or professor that or senator so and so, but in the jungle your are nothing but prey. Ask Pedro.

Tomorrow I leave for Panajachel, which is on the shores of Lake Atitlán. Some years ago it was a magnet for hippies and Euro-trash: Kerouac pretenders, Steppenwolf aficianados, drug users, drop outs and hygiene-o-phobes who could not cut it in the real world of truth and responsibility and so vanished into the oblivion of life-long loserville and the permanent bong hit. The ones who are not in prison and who are still among the living have showered, brushed their remaining teeth and set up nice little capitalist enclaves that serve up, among other things legal and not, massages, yoga, fruit juice, Fen Shui classes, organic gardening methods, natural food, Pink Floyd seminars, energy chanelling, Zen sandal-making and the like. The entire touchy-feely creepy-crawly dippy-trippy-hippy Eastern mystical nonsensical kumbaya peace-love-dopey if-it-feels-good-do-it goofy slam-dunk jack-ass stupid smorgasboard of San Francisco and Amsterdam is now available on the shores of Atitlán.

Obviously I am not going there to connect with my inner lesbian, master the techniques of Tai-chi, decipher obscure ying-yang poetry, become expert in Kabuki plays, learn the art of candle making, write articles on the varied pierced and tatooed street jugglers or practice advanced Kama Sutra. I want to walk the entire distance around the lake, about 50 kilometers all told. There are small Indigenous villages around the lake where one can stay. So no tent, fuel, food, machete and knife, and no stove. All will be light and fast, a new thing for me. All of this to prepare for the serious work that comes soon in Honduras.

I promise to avoid any discussions of the war while among those filthy and ignorant savages---the non-Indigenous ones I mean.

If this works out I will do another walkabout on the Nicaraguan island of Ometepe.

There are four ways to journey to foreign lands. In order of difficulty and risk they are: tourism, travel, adventure and exploration. I have done all of them. I am doing all of them.

Tourism is what most people mean by 'travel.' All hotels, transportation, food, photo opportunities, sites---everything, in fact---is arranged beforehand by an agency that specializes in such things. There are no surprises, for those who pay good money for such a tour do not want any. These are people who have no time to do research, learn the rudiments of a foreign language, and to make their own flight arrangements. Tourism is easy, popular and can be entertaining though at times it can be boring. Remember, no surprises! All hotels are clean and have hot water and one seldom gets ill eating the food.

The next step in difficulty is travel. One makes his own arrangements and attempts to learn street and restaurant survival techniques in a foreign tongue. This takes some time as often the traveler does not really know exactly where he is going or where he will stay when he gets there. College students making their first foray to Europe, graduate students following the 'Gringo Trail' from Mexico to Peru and retired folks who have time and an adventurous spirit become experts in travel. It is seldom boring, but it can be---and many times it is---trying. Cold water pensions or hostels and street food are well known to the traveler, as is the occasional bout with dysentary.

There are some hybrids that combine tourism and travel. They usually have the words 'adventure' or 'eco-' (as in 'ecological') in them. Thus something called 'adventure travel' and 'eco-tourism.' But do not be fooled, both are really types of tourism. All is arranged, planned and organized. The customer is just along for the ride. These trips can certainly be fun, but there is nothing heroic or difficult about them.

Adventure requires a desire to really get off the well-traveled track, to go the weird places---like obscure Mayan ruins buried deep in some God-forsaken jungle. It is also expensive, as the adventurer must have tent, stove and all the rest of the backpacking kit. He---and occasionally she---must be prepared for the unexpected (what I call the 'X' factor) for the unexpected is part of the reason for planning an adventure in the first place. And trust me, the X factor always happens. Adventurers plan on getting sick, sleeping in odd places, being dirty for days on end, becoming unfamiliar with toilets, having close encounters with animals and very strange people, and eating unrecognizable fare---that is why it is called 'adventure.' Adventure types can be seen hiking frozen islands, soloing mountain peaks and revelling in avoiding death when it appears.

Exploration---going where few have gone---is getting tough to come by these days. Most areas of the world have been mapped and McDonaled. Even Everest, which 50 years ago was seen as the peak event in the exploration of the age, now is almost tourism. No kidding, about anyone can pay an agency upwards of $65,000 to take them to the summit of Everest and even back down again---no mean feat, as 14 people died there a few years back. Both poles are well-traversed---there are tours there---Africa has given up her secret of the source of the Nile, Asia is way over crowded. The only real remaining place to experience exploration is South and Central America, but even there it is quickly succumbing to tourism. This is not a complaint, just an observation.

One rule of thumb: if a bus pulls up to your camp site and unloads 50 Japanese tourists with matching suits and cameras, it is time to get out of there. When I was first in Tikal 20 years ago I was about alone in the jungle there. There was only a place to camp, one place to eat and no hotels. Now it is as crowded as Disney World. What all this means is that the adventurers and explorers must go further and further 'out there'. Rather than Tikal one must walk to Nakum. Rather than the Inca Trail one must walk across the Andes to Choquequirao. And so on. But even those places will be well traveled one day, forcing the explorers and adventurers way back into the hills and trackless jungle.

The last remaining areas for exploration in Central America are the far reaches of northern Guatemala, the Mosquito region of Nicaragua, and Honduras, specifically the region between the Paulaya and Platano Rivers. Tales of monkey gods and lost cities abound. And that, dear reader, is why I am going there. After which...what? How will I be able to beat that, assuming I survive? The very thought disturbs. Maybe then it will be time to retire all my backpacking gear. After all, I will have seen all that is worth seeing in Latin America, as far as I am considered.

Or I could climb Aconcagua. Or spend time traversing the Venezuelan jungles. Or venture forth into the grasslands of Suriname. Or cut across country from Perrito Moreno National Park in Argentina all the way to Chile.

Or "walking thither and yon around a lake." I returned today from my latest hike. My original idea was to walk completely around Lake Atitlán, beginning at Panajachel ("Pana"). I described the varied attributes of this village here.

The problem was that the further I moved around the lake, the more I ran into Euro-trash hippy types. It seems that they have slowly migrated from Panajachel to San Pedro and San Marcos. These villages have developed a local part---usually away from the lake---and a foreign part filled with the tatooed, the pierced, the scantily attired, the doped-up and dropped-out, the bra-less and law-less, the shirt-less and worthless, the clueless and the shoe-less. It is bad enough that I must witness this motley and malodorous throng on the streets of my home town of Portland, at Dean for President rallies and at Greenpeace reunions but I refuse to share my vacation with them.

I went counter-clockwise from Pana, staying at Indigenous villages along the way. By the time I reached San Pedro de la Laguna I had had enough of the foreign flotsam. I took a boat across the lake back to Pana, which now feels almost conservative in contrast to the other villages along the lake. I spent nine days in this region. I should add that there was good food and cold beer all along the route.

The language here was a dialect of Mayan which I can neither spell nor pronounce. Spanish is in second place. The language with which all the foreigners communicate to each other (besides marijuana) is English---the world`s true lingua franca.

I am still in Pana. Life is cheap and easy here---too much of both I think. The Internet here allows me access to my web page, and so I have been abusing this privilege as often as possible. I have indexed all of my scribblings since this page began in April of last year. They can be found on the ESSAYS page. I should be in Antigua tomorrow, for I cannot delay much longer. Honduras is calling.

A mountain lion attacked and severely injured a bicyclist in an Orange County park and

After the attack, the body of an unidentified man in his 30s was found at the top of

a trail near a bicycle. Authorities weren't sure how long he had been there and couldn't confirm

if the man was killed by the mountain lion, but Miller said, "it's pretty obvious that an animal was involved."

Change of plans---I am in La Ceiba, Honduras. Surprisingly, there is excellent Internet access here. Now I can write on my site to my heart and soul's content. I went to Santa Rosa de Copan so that I could climb Mount Celaque. But the rain there was incessant, drizzling and depressing. Had I gone ahead I would have been dealing with---yet again---oceans of mud. No thanks. So I decided to bus over to the Caribbean and stay here. Anyway, there is the National Park of Pico Bonito, in which I was going to backpack anyway. So I am content---as long as it does not rain. But rain in the tropical jungles is warm and falls mainly between 2 PM and 6 PM---and thus is acceptable. But right now the sun shines. Thank you, God.

Most Hondurans are not as outgoing or as friendly as most Guatemalans. They seem a bit indifferent as well. I cannot really blame them, as this nation is quite impoverished. Some of the things one sees on the street would be right at home in Calcutta. Hurricane Mitch destroyed much of the infrastructure---billions of dollars worth---and the rebuilding is still in process. Here in La Ceiba there is more of a Caribbean-type atmosphere and plenty of black influence, so the attitude is more laid-back and relaxed. It looks cool so far.

From here I will bus the long route to the capital of Tegucigalpa. This "road" goes through Trujillo to San Esteban and on to Juticalpa. I took it 17 years ago and it was a hair-raising ride. Stay tuned.

I just returned from four days spent hiking around Pico Bonito National Park in Honduras. It was a fascinating trip, full of the type of jungle I love minus any ruins. It is the largest park in this country, and is loaded with opportunities for adventure of all types. The summit of Pico Bonito (2454 meters) has seldom been climbed, and for good reason. True, it seems small stuff compared to the 6000 meters plus mountains in the Andes, but consider: there is no real trail; the climate is hot and humid---sweat city and insect heaven, in other words; which means a minimum of ten liters of water a day---that is 22 pounds per day once you leave the river to begin the climb; the climb takes a minimum of six days (more likely nine), and that means around 50-70 pounds of water per person after leaving the river; everything---food, fuel, tent, Bible---must be packed in without animals, as there is no room for them on the "trail". And a guide is essential---and believe me, he is---and costs $25 a day, but you must take two in case of problems---and there will be some, trust me. Everest has been climbed far more often than Pico Bonito. This peak looked so close and tempting from where I camped, but as I did a one-day recon of the route the difficulties became obvious. Maybe some day...

Anyway, there is another entrance to the park which I will take in two days---after pizza and beer. And for the love of Heaven I simply must arrange another type of diet for my backpacking---one more dried and packaged soup and I will explode. My last day in the jungle I refused to eat, so sick and tired was I of my cuisine. Oh: it rained not at all---God takes care of worthless little me. And maybe there is another route to that peak...stay tuned.

Where I am and where I will be---more or less---until late February. I return in early April to do some hard stuff around and through the Miskito Coast in Gracias A Dios province. The legendary---or fabled or imaginary---Lost White City of the Maya is buried (so it is said) between the headwaters of the Rios Platano and Paulaya---a bit northwest of the `G` in Gracias A Dios. It is rough country there.

Here is Pico Bonito (not my photo). I camped on the other side of it. The route to the top follows the ridge: sweat and heat and bugs and jungle all the way. And if it rains...well, you will have an interesting time and some great stories to tell.

And I read another set of biographies of Plutarch, about which more in due course. I do not know why, but there is something stimulating about reading a classical historian next to your tent in the jungle. I have yet to read more Augustine, some Gibbon, Anna Comnena, Michael Psellus, Boccaccio, Dumas, Ammianus Marcellinus---and no, you look these up.

Yesterday the sky opened up. Rain fell in sheets, in floods---literally. The drainage system of La Ceiba is nothing to boast about. This morning it was impossible to cross from one side of the street to another without getting soaked. All sidewalks are flooded. It rains still. (At least I did not see any guy with a long beard building an ark or any beasts marching two by two.) I am glad that I am in a hotel and not my tent. Odd, when Sir Arthur Evans excavated the ancient Cretan city of Knossus (1896) he noticed that during a fierce storm that the modern city below the ruins flooded, but the 4000 year-old Knossus did not. The ancient drainage system worked as it had since Minos. Not a bad advertisement for Minoan plumbers.

Anyway, I will probably head south to the capital of Tegucigalpa in a day or so, as whatever I could do here with tent and backpack has been rendered muddy and water-logged. I will return in April to finish my look at Pico Bonito. Besides, I need a dentist as a large filling is starting to crack---not a good sign. I had a root canal in Portland in November, but the tooth next to that one is screaming for attention. It will get it. I hope any new root canal can wait until I return to the US. I know little about Honduran dentists but that ignorance will soon be remedied. I hope that I am pleasantly surprised.

The jungles I traverse are wild places. There are animals there who will hunt you and eat you. If you are careless or ignorant or unlucky, you are fair game. After all, the jungle is, well, savage---and that is its charm. If it were not, why would I go? The most dangerous beast there is the mountain lion. It is called puma and tiger and panther, but by whatever name it goes it is a killer. I have written about this before here.

Backpacking in parts of the US has its share of terrors as well. Bears come to mind, but the mountain lion is making murdrous inroads into populated areas all over the nation. How did this happen? There were many warnings. In Boulder, for example

Numerous homeowners saw lions in their yards, dogs were maimed or eaten and a girl was attcked...

but people beleived that they could coexist peacefully with the lions...Even after Scott Lancaster,

the Idaho Springs jogger, was killed, area residents refused to endorse killing the big cats that moved into their neighborhoods.

Call it the ´Bambi Syndrome', where wilderness and its inhabitants are romanticized and Lion Kinged.

Government-sponsored cougar hunting ended, bounties were removed, and cougars started to make a comeback...

As cougars, their fear of humans having dissipated after years of not being hunted, moved into semiurban

Scientists and outdoorsmen began to warn of danger, but they were ignored by both the Boulder public

-- which was sentimentally attached to the idea of free-roaming wildlife -- and state wildlife-protection bureaucrats,

who downplayed first the presence, and then the danger, posed by the cougars. Dogs and cats started being eaten,

cougars started threatening people, and yet meetings on the subject were dominated by

Some people, apparently, would rather be dinner than face up to the fact that nature is red in tooth and claw,

and that -- in this fallen world, at least -- the lion lies down with the lamb only after the lamb's neck is broken.

I had many a conversation with my students about the risks involved with backpacking both in the US and in Latin America. I told them that if I were to go where bears or cougars roam, that I would be suitably armed. In Latin America, however, I cannot do so: except for a short time while in the Paraguayan Chaco, I have not carried a firearm. Why? The difficulties involved in transporting a gun from nation to nation are formidable and, for me, out of the question. I have to arm myself with luck, knowledge and Christ. So far so good.

But what excuse do Americans have? I have ever been amazed as how blithe are those backpackers who venture out into cougar and bear country armed with little more than a Swiss army knife and half-baked animal lore. These types will give all sorts of advice on how to deal with bears---play dead; no, run away; make noise; no, be quiet; back away; no, confront the bear; climb a tree; no, bears climb too; use pepper spray; no, blow a whistle; run downhill; no, run uphill---and so on. Sometimes one of these will work. And if it does not? Read this for those times that it did not. Well then, what works? What will save your life every time when you encounter a bear that will not be placated? Here is what one Alaskan---himself no stranger to living among wild animals---says:

Always take a firearm into the woods that can bring down the biggest animal that lives there.

Good advice I think. And how do deal with cougars? Recall that they will actually track you. Same advice. A 12-guage with a deer slug will bring down any land animal. For a lion, a good pistol will work fine---but make mine a Glock .45. This will also work against all but the biggest Grizzly or Kodiak. (And any critter that thinks me a meal will become a nice rug in front of my fireplace.)

Here is an excerpt from a Los Angeles Times piece by Alaska resident Karl Francis. It appeared January 19, 2004, under the title Walk Softly and Carry a Big Gun.

I am puzzled now by the strange way people here are dealing with mountain lions

— which is to say, letting them kill you.
Nature killing people is no big deal for Alaskans. That's the way things are in Alaska.
When you step out into it, you are at risk. If you are wise, you prepare for it.

Alaska does not suffer fools. It eats them.

It also eats people who are not fools, those who prepare well and

Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

---William Blake (1757 - 1827)

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?