Melina’s brother brought me a cup of fresh river water.
Even if I climbed out, there wouldn’t be enough time to make it back. The sun had already set in the valley bottom. Knowing there was not enough time sucked out what energy I had. For any chance, an attitude change was imperative. No time to be tired, no time to be hopeless. It was time to get going. Methodically, I labored back up the trail pacing myself to make the impossible possible.
At this point, pacing was a critical a technique for survival. Instead of taking large strides, I took smaller strides. It’s like using a lower gear in a car for climbing hills. My steps were an eighth of my normal stride but paced so I could climb the steep trail without stopping. Eighth of a step, eighth of a step; one after another in a slow, but steady pace. Though the climb seemed like an eternity, it probably took me about forty-minutes to reach the valley top.
As I stepped out at the top ridge, I was greeted by the sun. The smart climb left me enough energy to continue on, instead of being extremely exhausted. Now there were about four miles of hilly terrain before reaching the last deep gorge. The clock was running and I had less than an hour of sunlight.
Melina in her home just after arriving
As I headed down the trail, everything looked different. I had hoped that my backward glances and trail markers would guide me back. After a half mile, I noticed footprints wherever soil allowed them to be imprinted. Further on there appeared two distinguishing imprints, one was my tennis-shoe tread and the other was Pedro’s unique boot mark. They were obvious on soil, but invisible on the rocky areas. I wouldn’t have been able to identify the numerous trail forks if it hadn’t been for all those years of tracking in the Boy Scouts. However, if I had followed the motto of “being prepared” by having a flashlight, a knife or even some matches, I would have been a happy camper. But alas, I had a much different scenario.
At times there were no tracks. I had to follow various forks a hundred feet or more before locating prints or making a guessing which path to follow. Several times I became even more confused because the tracks went two directions. I did decipher that one set was going and the other was coming. In retrospect, all the tracks were made by Melina and her family. Pedro deviated from his original path from the one he took on the way into town. Tracking takes time and I felt angry about wasting precious minutes. However, I didn’t realize this at that time and spent precious time retracing my exact path I had followed on the way in. The present rolling terrain had allowed me to recover from the climb out of the canyon and I had picked up my pace dramatically.
The sun edged towards the horizon and heightened my concerns over having enough light for the last gorge to cross. There was a continual debate going on in my head. Do I stop and prepare a shelter for the night or do forge onward. There wasn’t a clear and obvious answer.
