“that’s a little bitty bridge, no relation to the one Indy crossed in The Temple of Doom . Really, it’s what? Maybe thirty feet long and fifteen above the river. It’s not like it’s some great chasm.”
“ A hundred feet or ten, what’s the difference?” Hildy sniffed. “Nobody falls on those rocks and lives.”
“ Hildy . . .,” Max pleaded.
“ Do they inspect that thing?” his wife demanded. “Or did the Incas build that too? That’s it, isn’t it? It’s an antique, so nobody will touch it.”
“ Mrs. Arendsen,” Puma said, his dark eyes reflecting kindly sympathy, “every February the trail is closed for inspection and repairs. It is now only the third week of March. I promise you the bridge is safe.”
“ It held our porters,” Max pointed out encouragingly, “and their packs are heavier than ours.”
“ Perhaps if you took her hand . . .,” I suggested.
“ Come on, honey, we’ve come too far to back out now. You can even shut your eyes if you want to. We’ll be on the other side in no time at all.”
I felt for Hildy, I really did. Not everyone is cut out for the adventurous life, and she’d been a marvelous sport about arranging this trip for Max. But how was she going to fare at 14,000 feet? How was I going to fare? Last time I’d been here I was eighteen and in the midst of all those macho lessons Dad insisted on. Now . . . Flint’s words came back to me. All that frou-frou. I’d gone a bit soft. I knew it, even if it hurt to admit it. I could still handle myself—there were muggers and would-be one-night stands from Frisco to Bangkok who could attest to that—and I’d clipped Arlan Trevellyan’s wings a time or two, which was probably why he was out for vengeance, but things had been too easy for too long. I’d lost some of my edge.
So . . . the Inca Trail was a good place to get it back.
“ I’ll go first,” I offered, giving Hildy’s hand a squeeze. “You and Max can follow right behind.” I summoned my most insouciant smile, the one I’d used on Charlie Purvis, the Calusa County Sheriff, when he’d balked at Fantascapes staging a mock rescue at the SWAT training grounds. Hildy’s mouth opened. I cut off further protest by stepping onto the bridge, refusing to turn my head and acknowledge the possibility the Arendsens might not be behind me.
The bridge was narrow. It swayed in the wind charging down the mountain valley. Spray flew up from the rushing river below. Outwardly, I never flinched. I was woman. I could do this.
When we were all safely on the far side, surrounded by the towering stalks of blooming century plants, I exchanged a grin with Puma while Max folded Hildy in his arms and told her she was a grand sport, the “very best.” Hopefully, we’d just passed the worst of our challenges. It was adventure time, and we were it. We had four days to follow in the footsteps of Inca runners, to plunge down into tropical rain forest and climb into the skies, explore long-hidden ruins, and sleep under brilliant stars forming constellations the Arendsens had never seen before. To lie under the Southern Cross and feel closer to God than in the most ornate cathedral.
“ Okay,” Max finally said to Puma, “we’re ready to move out.”
A surge of excitement stirred my blood as I adjusted the straps on my backpack. If it was one of my oddball premonitions, I didn’t recognize it. No hint that destiny lay in wait on a mountain high above the Urubamba Valley. A destiny not even my wildest dreams could have imagined.
Pumawari Khuyana is the best guide Inca Explorations has to offer. I suspect Roberto pulled him away from another group in an attempt to atone for not verifying the mysterious cancellation. Guessing the age of a Quechua isn’t easy; Puma could be anywhere from late thirties to as much as a very fit fifty. Quechuas, descendants of the Incas, make up for a lack of height with broad chests adapted to high altitude and sturdy legs that eat
“ A hundred feet or ten, what’s the difference?” Hildy sniffed. “Nobody falls on those rocks and lives.”
“ Hildy . . .,” Max pleaded.
“ Do they inspect that thing?” his wife demanded. “Or did the Incas build that too? That’s it, isn’t it? It’s an antique, so nobody will touch it.”
“ Mrs. Arendsen,” Puma said, his dark eyes reflecting kindly sympathy, “every February the trail is closed for inspection and repairs. It is now only the third week of March. I promise you the bridge is safe.”
“ It held our porters,” Max pointed out encouragingly, “and their packs are heavier than ours.”
“ Perhaps if you took her hand . . .,” I suggested.
“ Come on, honey, we’ve come too far to back out now. You can even shut your eyes if you want to. We’ll be on the other side in no time at all.”
I felt for Hildy, I really did. Not everyone is cut out for the adventurous life, and she’d been a marvelous sport about arranging this trip for Max. But how was she going to fare at 14,000 feet? How was I going to fare? Last time I’d been here I was eighteen and in the midst of all those macho lessons Dad insisted on. Now . . . Flint’s words came back to me. All that frou-frou. I’d gone a bit soft. I knew it, even if it hurt to admit it. I could still handle myself—there were muggers and would-be one-night stands from Frisco to Bangkok who could attest to that—and I’d clipped Arlan Trevellyan’s wings a time or two, which was probably why he was out for vengeance, but things had been too easy for too long. I’d lost some of my edge.
So . . . the Inca Trail was a good place to get it back.
“ I’ll go first,” I offered, giving Hildy’s hand a squeeze. “You and Max can follow right behind.” I summoned my most insouciant smile, the one I’d used on Charlie Purvis, the Calusa County Sheriff, when he’d balked at Fantascapes staging a mock rescue at the SWAT training grounds. Hildy’s mouth opened. I cut off further protest by stepping onto the bridge, refusing to turn my head and acknowledge the possibility the Arendsens might not be behind me.
The bridge was narrow. It swayed in the wind charging down the mountain valley. Spray flew up from the rushing river below. Outwardly, I never flinched. I was woman. I could do this.
When we were all safely on the far side, surrounded by the towering stalks of blooming century plants, I exchanged a grin with Puma while Max folded Hildy in his arms and told her she was a grand sport, the “very best.” Hopefully, we’d just passed the worst of our challenges. It was adventure time, and we were it. We had four days to follow in the footsteps of Inca runners, to plunge down into tropical rain forest and climb into the skies, explore long-hidden ruins, and sleep under brilliant stars forming constellations the Arendsens had never seen before. To lie under the Southern Cross and feel closer to God than in the most ornate cathedral.
“ Okay,” Max finally said to Puma, “we’re ready to move out.”
A surge of excitement stirred my blood as I adjusted the straps on my backpack. If it was one of my oddball premonitions, I didn’t recognize it. No hint that destiny lay in wait on a mountain high above the Urubamba Valley. A destiny not even my wildest dreams could have imagined.
Pumawari Khuyana is the best guide Inca Explorations has to offer. I suspect Roberto pulled him away from another group in an attempt to atone for not verifying the mysterious cancellation. Guessing the age of a Quechua isn’t easy; Puma could be anywhere from late thirties to as much as a very fit fifty. Quechuas, descendants of the Incas, make up for a lack of height with broad chests adapted to high altitude and sturdy legs that eat
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