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Now, on the matter of my death in the Grand Canyon on the Colorado River, specifically after an alarming swim in Lava Falls鈥攗niversally considered the canyon鈥檚 nastiest and most difficult rapid鈥擨 confess that I miscalculated badly. I miscalculated previous to the run and then again in the aftermath of the excitement to come.

I had been thrown out of the raft at the top of the rapid, ambushed by some bit of rogue hydraulics, and recall attempting to swim against forces entirely beyond human control. I was using reserves of energy that, as it turned out, could have been better used later. Best really to just go with the flow. But the river seemed to yank me directly down as if by the feet, and I was looking up through about 15 feet of water at what appeared to be a perfectly still round pool, colored robin鈥檚 egg blue by the cloudless Arizona sky.

For a single moment everything seemed calm. I checked: my life preserver was聽securely strapped, good, and I was rising toward the surface, good, and there鈥檇 be a breath soon, thank God. I was low on air.

But as I rose, the calm water in the pool above began to stretch out in an elongated聽oval that I could see falling apart on the downriver side. And then I was tumbling unpleasantly in a lot of broken water downstream. A breath on the surface was out of the question. This seemed unfair.

Ahead and to the sides, the water looked like slowly moving shards of clear glass (I had a moment to think: This is like slow-motion movie violence, scary but sometimes oddly beautiful) and that was when I felt myself seem to fall, as off a cliff. And鈥�yes, finally鈥擨 caught a sudden breath of air before the river grabbed me again and slapped me sideways and pushed me deep under a second time. Things were happening faster now. The shard-like glass was erupting in real time, like an explosion in a mirror factory. Unwisely, I continued to fight it.

Our group had scouted Lava from a hill on the north side of the rapid. We were a private party, five 18-foot inflatable rafts, half a 颅dozen kayaks, and 16 people. Harry Butler had organized the trip with a bunch of his kayaking pals. Harry is the younger 颅brother of a guy I hung around with a bit in high school. I didn鈥檛 know any of the others, but聽I did know that they were all experienced river folk and that all of them had some connection to the state of Wisconsin, where I grew up.

It was a winter trip, launching in late November 2014. There were no commercial trips at that time of year, and damn few private parties wanted to brave the cold. We had the river pretty much to ourselves. Wisconsinites will go for isolation and cold every time. These are people who are said to enjoy fishing in holes cut through the ice of a frozen lake.

That said, the team was prepared. We ran the rapid with disaster in mind. The kayaks went first and found rescue positions on the side of the river, halfway down Lava Falls. The rafts, rigged to flip, were to position themselves at the tail of the rapid, where they could pick up any swimmers the kayakers missed.

It鈥檚 fair to say that my companions and I were a little anxious about this run. We scouted for some time, so I had a pretty good three-dimensional map of the rapid in my mind. At the very top, the river pours over a ledge and drops into a trough that forms a wave, 12 feet high, curling back upriver. This is the Ledge Hole, and you really don鈥檛 want to get caught there, where you can be trapped underwater and swirled from the pourover to the back wave, from the back wave to the pourover, and so on. It鈥檚 called being Maytagged.

Now, bouncing my way through the exploding glass, I at least knew we鈥檇 missed the Ledge Hole. Oh, but there were other problems below. The rapid had waves that could toss a raft five feet in the air. And that鈥檚 where I was, somewhere close to the surface in all that boat-tossing water. And still鈥擨 can laugh about it now鈥擨 was trying to swim.

The worst was yet to come. Toward the tail end of the rapid, about mid-river, there was another big boat-eating hole. To the right of that was a large black rock with water erupting against its flat upriver face. I鈥檝e never found a name for that formation other than the Big Black Rock. (The first two men known to run the rapid, in 1896, called it 鈥渙ur Tomb Stone.鈥�) The damn thing was roughly rectangular and, I guessed, about聽40 feet high. Adjusting for adrenaline magnification, it probably rose 20 feet.

Still, it was a big damn rock, and you didn鈥檛 want to get caught up against the thing with the entire force of the Colorado River crushing you into it with tons of onrushing force. This unfortunate circumstance is called being postage-stamped, and you seriously want to avoid that.

So if you happened to be swimming the last third of Lava Falls, it was a matter of threading the needle in the bouncy water between the rock and the hole.

Apparently, the River Gods had mercy on me, and the next time I came up for air鈥攈oly shit鈥擨 was already beyond the hole and just to the left of the rock. A good line. One of the kayakers, Brian Aho, a 38-year-old power paddler, was racing across the rapid, fighting hard against the current and coming in for the rescue.

I grabbed the loop on the back of his boat and kicked hard鈥攁 dead weight on the tail of a kayak would swamp it in this water. We ended up in an eddy on the south side of the river, and one of the big inflatables was already in position. I grabbed onto the perim颅eter line of the raft, then hung there for a moment, breathing hard.

But then another raft was coming in to assist. The eddy鈥攔apidly flowing upstream water鈥攚as pushing the new boat fast. I was going to be crushed between the boats, each of which weighed about 2,000 pounds.

No matter. I took a last breath, ducked under, and let the two rafts collide over my head. Then I swam, but was confused, and probably hypothermic. I simply couldn鈥檛 figure out which way to swim. Not so long ago, I had been driven downstream by the rapid. But when I tried to go that way, downstream, the powerful eddy, driving upstream, wasn鈥檛 having it. By the time I figured that out, I鈥檇 just about beat the eddy anyway and would soon come out from under the second boat on the downstream side. But I ran out of breath and felt myself breathe water into my lungs.

It wasn鈥檛 pleasant, and my strength faded.

I was being pushed back under the rafts. In some part of my mind, I thought I could just let the eddy do the work. Let it push me聽under both boats and come out on the upstream side. And now again鈥攖here was no helping it鈥擨 felt myself take another big breath of river water. I didn鈥檛 think I鈥檇 survive another and turned left, to fight for the near bank. I came up between shore and the bow of the second boat.

Justin Kleberg, a (NOLS) river-programs instructor, and Harry鈥檚 27-year-old daughter, Rachel Rye Butler, were in the second raft. They yanked me out of the water, and I lay exhausted on the bow. Justin rowed across the river to the large expanse of sandy shoreline known as Tequila Beach, where boaters typically stop to celebrate a successful run of Lava.

We tied up, and I walked along the sand for a bit, reviewing things in my mind. I鈥檇 just swum through some big waves; I鈥檇聽taken a 37-foot drop, but I had missed the rock, missed the hole, and swam maybe 250 yards all told. Not bad.

On the beach, there was a bench of sand created by high water, and I sat down. One of my friends, 鈥淩iver鈥� Roy Crimmins, the only canoeist on the trip, sat next to me and handed me a can of beer. I took it, tried to say something, and my voice disappeared into my throat. I felt the sand crumble beneath me, and I fell over. That鈥檚 all I remember.

My face turned blue, I鈥檓 told, then gray, and then my heart stopped beating altogether. Flatlined. I died that December day on Tequila Beach. This created a great deal of consternation鈥攁nd it has tended to complicate my relationships with others ever since.

I was, at the time, 71 years old, and most of my team was half my age or less. These fine and foolish folk had every reason to imagine that I had all the skills necessary to handle a winter trip down the Grand Canyon.

I had a history of that sort of thing.

It all started back in 1976, in San Francisco, where Rolling Stone magazine tasked three employees to create an 鈥渙utdoors鈥� magazine. Michael Rogers outlined the structure, and Harriet Fier was there, I think to make sure it stayed classy. I was around for reasons that have never been adequately explained.

Picture three young editors in a cubicle in a former coffee warehouse with every outdoor-type magazine published in America piled against the walls. There was a lot of talk, but the concept we came up with for 国产吃瓜黑料 can essentially be boiled down to this: 鈥渓iterate writing about the out of doors.鈥�

I argued for an outdoor-adventure story聽now and again, but at the time the genre was considered subliterate. What passed for adventure, in those days, was found in the postwar pulps, magazines with names like 国产吃瓜黑料 for Men, Man鈥檚 国产吃瓜黑料, Man鈥檚 Testicle. In their pages, men were attacked by savage bloodthirsty penguins at the North Pole (yeah, I know) and rhinos in Africa. And it wasn鈥檛 just men; often they were accompanied by 鈥渘ymphos鈥� they鈥檇 encountered along the way. The writer Bruce Jay Friedman, who had edited a number of these magazines in his youth, once said that 鈥渆ven the rhinos were nymphos.鈥�

But in various editorial meetings, I argued that there was a whole strain of American literature that concerns itself with outdoor adventure: from James Fenimore Cooper to Herman Melville to Mark Twain to Jack London to William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway: it鈥檚 all there. The stories in Man鈥檚 国产吃瓜黑料 did not serve that tradition well.

I wrote a lot of stories and columns trying to live up to our concept.

You have to know that I wasn鈥檛 an outdoorsy kind of guy. In high school and college, all my free time went to traditional athletics, and I earned a swimming scholarship at the University of Wisconsin. So, as a novice 国产吃瓜黑料 outdoorsman, a lot of my stories involved profiling someone who was good at, say, rock climbing or caving or mountaineering and then following that person around, begging for pointers, help, instruction. 鈥淕et me up this mountain鈥� was my unspoken message, 鈥渂ecause if I die, you look bad.鈥�

I probably spent about ten years doing my rookie-in-the-wilderness tales, 颅until it became obvious that I wasn鈥檛 quite a rookie anymore. Similarly, some of these assignments concerned themselves with risk, which was a concept that fascinated me. Was, for instance, the tangible fear one feels before rappelling off a cliff the same as those butterflies felt before a public speaking engagement? (Yep, same thing. I called it 鈥渁n intimation of mortality alternately perceived.鈥�)

Soon enough, critics began calling some of the stories I was writing Outdoor 国产吃瓜黑料. I might crawl deep into toxic-air caves dragging a small oxygen canister tied to my foot, or search for forbidden salt mines in the Sahara, a trip that involved kidnappings and sandstorms. I rode a horse through Mongolia, with Mongolian horsemen, which is considerably more intimidating than it sounds.

But in all these expeditions or journeys, I had begun to realize adventure was about story, not brute survival. Which is how鈥攈aving exhausted my curiosity about risk鈥攕tory became my obsession. Story focused on meaning, and a story well told, I thought, provided a brief glance at the meaning of life, a flashbulb moment of human context.

What I found, in writing my stories, is that it was always best if something goes wrong. I was never Superman. As my expeditionary friends will tell you, I鈥檓 sort of a doofus. I screw up now and again and I laugh at myself a lot, because, well, when everyone else is laughing at you, the best thing is abject surrender. It was all part of the story.

I hoped, as I crafted my stories, that there was a subtext to all this; I hoped that the reader could look at my adventures, my mistakes, and savor them. I wanted the reader to envision themselves in that place, doing the same sort of thing. I hoped they thought: 鈥淗ey, if this clown Cahill can do it, so can I.鈥�

I liked to imagine that I was in the outdoor-adventure permission-giving business.

And so time trundled by: I was 45, 50, 60. By 65, risk was off the table as subject matter. It鈥檚 a losing game trying to do something risky at 65 that you could barely do at 28.
国产吃瓜黑料? Realistically, it鈥檚 a weekend camping trip with a few buddies.

I still had my outdoor ambitions, scaled back as they may have been. I鈥檇 always 颅wanted to trek to Everest Base Camp. Just Base Camp. Not Everest. Even in my absolute prime, I didn鈥檛 have the skills for that mountain. But hiking to Base Camp鈥攁fter I鈥檇 cowritten the 1998 Imax film 鈥擨 had to do it. I didn鈥檛 think anybody would want to read a story I wrote about trudging up a dusty trail with hordes of tourists. Or聽maybe I just didn鈥檛 want to write it. And when I finally got there, standing nearly 1,000 feet above Base Camp, on 18,500-foot Kala Pattar, I wondered what I could say about the experience that might be meaningful to someone else. Nothing. No false epiphany:聽鈥淚 felt now, standing in the clouds and glancing at the white world far below, that I could finally forgive my brother.鈥︹�� Naw. I was just going to let it lie: for once, it was going to be mine alone. I was 68.

Then, three years ago, when Harry Butler called to invite me down the Grand Canyon, it didn鈥檛 take much arm twisting. I committed to the trip, but I never considered writing about it. Too many good stories about that journey have appeared in these pages over the years. And frankly, I didn鈥檛 want to work that hard. It would be my 71st birthday on November 28, and I wanted to be somewhere nice.

Nice turned out to be dead.

What comes next are things I鈥檝e been told. Some of these things contradict one another. I was there, sure, but I don鈥檛 recall being dead. I鈥檇 like to say that I saw a heavenly light and felt myself floating toward it. But that didn鈥檛 happen. I didn鈥檛 see any beckoning figures or beloved pets bounding across the Rainbow Bridge. There weren鈥檛 any pearly gates and I didn鈥檛 even see a guy with a pitchfork.

It wasn鈥檛 black inside. It wasn鈥檛 gray. It just wasn鈥檛 there. It was nothing.

Roy Crimmins saw me crumble and called out for Steve Smits, a registered nurse who had a cache of emergency medical gear. Justin Kleberg, the NOLS instructor and a wilderness EMT, came running with his kit.

They cut off my life vest and wet gear so that I was naked to the waist, and Justin immediately began CPR. Steve said Justin was as good as any doctor he鈥檇 ever seen.

But now they had lost my pulse com颅pletely. I wasn鈥檛 breathing, and my heart wasn鈥檛 beating. I know these were rough field conditions, but Steve is a 颅professional, and if he couldn鈥檛 find a heartbeat, there wasn鈥檛 one.

No one noted the time that my heart stopped.

Steve called for Jennifer Gordon, an aspir颅ing young brewer who was riding on one聽of the rafts, to take notes. Justin continued the CPR. Mark Hattendorf, a former collegiate wrestler, watched from a distance. He said, 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 know you could push a guy鈥檚 sternum three quarters of the way to his backbone.鈥�

Brian Aho, another former collegiate wrestler, said, 鈥淲ell, there鈥檚 no resistance.鈥�

Justin would do 30 compressions, at a聽rate of 100 per minute, and then Steve would give me two rescue breaths.

I didn鈥檛 know any of this. Indeed, before I died, I didn鈥檛 know that in cases of cardiac arrest, the chances of CPR alone effecting a revival are in the single digits. You do CPR waiting for the defibrillation paddles, of which we had none.

Dan LaHam was at my wrist. Still no pulse. People said Dan鈥檚 face was desolate.

Justin and Steve had gone through two rounds of compressions when Dan said he thought he could feel a pulse. Very weak. Meanwhile, I had a sense of being dragged out of some deep and dreamless sleep. Where was I? There was a little pain.鈥� It felt like, like something pinching me. Yes, deep in my chest, and it kind of hurt.

Apparently, my eyelids began to flutter, and my boatmate, Bill Hobbins, shouted, 鈥淐鈥檓on.鈥� Nothing for a moment. 鈥淐鈥檓on, c鈥檓on.鈥�

Justin leaned into a compression, and I believe I opened my eyes and said, 鈥淪top pinching me.鈥� I didn鈥檛 know where I was or what was happening, but Justin was leaning on my chest, doing the 鈥減inching,鈥� and it hurt. So I hit him. Actually, I tried to hit him, but I didn鈥檛 have much leverage from flat on my back, so I humped up into a wrestler鈥檚 bridge, howling in a kind of rage.

鈥淚t was loud,鈥� Rachel Butler said, 鈥淵ou roared. It was like a rage to live.鈥�

Whereas I thought I was just pissed off at Justin for pinching me.

I continued to fight, but now there were people holding my arms and legs, and in the fullness of time (about a minute) I calmed a bit and started to become aware of where I was and who all these people were. My new river friends. On the Colorado. OK. I thought I鈥檇 just taken that little swim and passed out. From exhaustion or something.

So I鈥檓 looking up into a circle of faces staring down at me. Everyone is crying. This seemed like an overreaction. I hadn鈥檛 hit Justin that hard.

Ralph Lee, who’d聽broken his neck kayaking and knew the value of timely communication, got our satellite phone working and contacted the National Park Service, which scrambled a helicopter. My team carried buckets of water to wet the landing site, so the bird wouldn鈥檛 brew up a sandstorm when it landed.

And then I heard it coming in, and a paramedic walked over and examined me while Steve Smits read off Jennifer鈥檚 notes. The paramedic nodded at them: 鈥淵ou guys saved a life today,鈥� he said. Which was news to me.

I ended up in the intensive care unit at the , where it became obvious to me that Justin hadn鈥檛 been pinching. He鈥檇 deeply bruised every rib in my chest, and now all that began to hurt, especially considering the fact that I鈥檇 breathed in a lot of river water, which made me cough. Like every ten minutes. The doctors said that was good. I needed to cough up a bunch of phlegm. Problem was: it鈥檚 extremely painful, coughing uncontrollably with a creaky set of bruised ribs.

And鈥攁fter having it explained to me over and over鈥擨 was becoming aware that I鈥檇 suffered a cardiac arrest. My heart had stopped. Really?

It wasn鈥檛, the doctors said, a heart attack. That鈥檚 a circulatory event, which floods the blood with hormones and enzymes that were not in evidence. Someone said it was electrical. A drowning. Maybe a dry or secondary drowning.

But what every single doctor said was, 鈥淚 can鈥檛 tell you what happened. I wasn鈥檛 there.鈥�

And it may have had something to do with hypothermia. This was my serious miscalculation before the event. Yes, it was Decem颅ber, and yes, the water was, according to rangers I鈥檝e talked to, somewhere between 42 and 44 degrees. But what I chose to wear during the Lava Falls run was a single light rain jacket and a similar pair of rain pants. My warm drysuit was folded up in the bottom of my drybag.

This was how I wanted to take Lava Falls. If I had to swim, I had the idiot idea that with my arms and legs free, I鈥檇 somehow be able to power through it. I mean, anyone scouting that 颅rapid could see that you couldn鈥檛 swim it. But I thought maybe I could ride the flow and adjust my direction. I thought I could swim the son of a bitch. And hey, I鈥檓 a good swimmer. In fact, I was the fastest high school sprinter in the state of Wisconsin. In 1962.

In time, I came to the realization that I鈥檇 died. That鈥檚 a hard one to mentally digest, especially because I had no idea why. One of the nurses, whose husband was a Colorado River guide, said, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e here because it was a miracle, and you鈥檙e just going to have to live with that.鈥�

I checked myself out after five days in the hospital. My friend Nancy flew down from Montana, where we both live, to drive me back home in my truck. I was still coughing every ten minutes, and the pain in my chest would drop me to my knees. That鈥檚 not something you want to happen driving at the legal limit of 80 on Utah interstates.

We stopped for several days in Death Valley, which caused some comment on social media: 鈥淲ho recuperates in Death Valley?鈥� I worked on walking and then took some short hikes.

My thoughts were with my boat team, which I began thinking of as the Colorado River Miracle Team. Amazing how they鈥檇 sprung into action and saved my life and then had a couple of beers and got back on the river. Every time a cough racked my ribs, I hoped that someday I鈥檇 have a chance to save Justin Kleberg鈥檚 life. I鈥檇 break every single one of his ribs and maybe a few of his fingers for good measure.

Nancy said she was watching me for signs of brain damage.

鈥淗ow long were you dead,鈥� she asked.

Well, I don鈥檛 know. They had to run to the boats, dig their emergency bags out of the rigging, cut off my clothes, and no one timed that. Some people聽said I was gone for four or five minutes. Some said ten. Me? I like to go for the big numbers. But I really don鈥檛 know. I was dead at the time.

I鈥檝e lived with聽my death for over two years. I realize now that my second miscalculation had been to wake up swinging. A smart writer would have been all serene and spiritual but a bit vague about what he鈥檇 seen. 鈥淪ublime鈥� would have been a good word to use. Fifteen people saw me die: I should have been able to make up some good mystical shit about what was on the other side. That鈥檚 a bestseller right there.

Unfortunately, I鈥檝e been in the habit of writing nonfiction for too long. And the event seemed a bit, oh鈥攃ommonplace.

It wasn鈥檛 something extraordinary in my life. Rather, it was like being knocked out on the football field. I mostly get blank looks when I try to explain things that way. As it turns out, very few people I know have ever been knocked unconscious. I have to tell them how it goes.

You drag yourself up out of nothing, find yourself flat on the ground, and there is that ring of faces looking down at you. The coach says, 鈥淵ou just got your bell rung. Walk it off.鈥� So you walk it off and they put you back in the game and you go to the dance that night and talk to that one special girl but she wants to talk to the guy who caught the pass in the end zone. Not the guy who got knocked cold. Life goes on. You don鈥檛 philosophize about it.

Still, I have thoughts on the matter. I believed this before I died, and I still believe it now. I don鈥檛 think it matters if you have faith in heaven or hell or reincarnation or some manner of afterlife. Or if you don鈥檛 believe any of that. You ought to be able to coexist with this formulation.

Because I tell stories for a living, I鈥檝e spent a lot of time thinking about the concept of story. I see it as a lens through which we聽apprehend our world. We Homo sapiens told tales from our earliest days on earth. We told stories around campfires, Homer spoke his epic poems, Gutenberg allowed us to widely disseminate stories, and these days we read them online.
Stories are baked into our DNA.

In my mind, I have always envisioned a blinding curve of energy, a great story arc in the sky.

Sometimes I wake up at my desk and realize that I鈥檝e been working for three hours. But it feels like it was 30 minutes. I think I went somewhere for a while and consulted the Great Story Arc. It was there that the stories of our history on earth lit me up and informed the best of my writing.

I think the act of losing yourself in the work, any work, is much akin to Eastern meditative states.

I am not alone in this thought. In his 1990 book , the Hungarian psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi was the first to put a name to the states that painters, craftsmen, athletes, and physicians, among others, all experience while working. He described flow as 鈥渂eing completely involved in an activity for its own sake. The ego falls away. Time flies. Every action, movement, and thought follows inevitably from the previous one, like playing jazz. Your whole being is involved, and you鈥檙e using your skills to the utmost.鈥�

Which brings me back to my thoughts on the soul.

When I鈥檓 writing and in the flow, I often have no idea where that element of the 颅story just came from and why the piece wants to finish the way it demands to finish. I just pulled that stuff down out of that blinding curve of energy, the Great Story Arc.

And what that has to do with the soul is this: You are part of it. I am part of it. Every human being is part of it. As soon as you are born, your parents start telling your story. As a child, you will skin your knee or walk naked into your parents鈥� dinner party; later you鈥檒l suffer a broken heart, maybe hit the zone in your chosen sport, have children of your own. And that all becomes part of the human story. It folds into the Great Story Arc and alters it, if only very slightly. And there, in that blinding curve of energy that lasts forever鈥攖hat is where your soul resides.

Last year I got聽a call from Harry, who asked if I wanted to do another December trip down the Grand. Pretty much the same group of people would be coming along. How about it?

Why certainly, Harry.

鈥淎nd Tim?鈥�

鈥淵eah, Harry.鈥�

鈥淲ear your drysuit this time.鈥�

It was cold, 25 degrees, at Lee鈥檚 Ferry, where we put in. A couple of weeks went by and the weather relented鈥攚e didn鈥檛 have to chip ice out of our wash buckets anymore. Now we were approaching Lava Falls. Everyone could hear it roaring in the distance. For the first time that trip, I had uncomfortable flashbacks of being trapped underwater. And I recalled how powerless I was against that water.

We scouted from a trail on the north side of the canyon鈥攎e muttering bitterly about my clammy drysuit. Still, there was a cold sensation in the pit of my stomach. Some聽of what I was feeling must have shown on my face. Brian Aho pointed to a continuation聽of the trail that would allow me to skirt the rapid. 鈥淭here鈥檚 no reason not to walk it,鈥澛爃e said.

鈥淏ah,鈥� I said, or something to that effect.

I was committed to the run. Steve Smits was at the oars, and we shot Lava Falls on a clean line that busted through the big water in about 25 seconds.

The Colorado River Miracle Team assembled on Tequila Beach in a big huddle. Steve had tears running down his face. This run, this one run, meant so much to him. We were all pretty emotional, but this is not to say that we all didn鈥檛 have a beer in hand. I 颅toasted Lava Falls: 鈥淵ou got me the first time,鈥� I said, 鈥渂ut you let me through this time. It鈥檚 one to one. I figure we鈥檙e even.鈥�

And then there were more beers, more toasts, and an uncomfortable amount of toasting directed to me. I began to feel some irritation in my eyes, like I was going to cry or something.聽These people, my friends, had taken the emotional brunt of my death two years ago. They saw a friend die. (For four minutes, or as I prefer, ten.) Then, as if by the sheer force of their will, that guy started breathing again. Life and death, right there on Tequila Beach. It was something they鈥檇 never forget. More than one of them said the experience had made them a better person. In that moment, I loved them all. Still do.

Later that trip, a lightning storm rolled down the canyon. The thunder rumbled and you could hear it coming and going for miles. Bolts of lightning lit the snow-covered high rims of the canyon, and it was an experience beyond worth.

Most nights we鈥檇 sit out under the stars and talk. I didn鈥檛 say anything about the Great Story Arc in the Sky, just in case anyone was still worried about brain damage. We passed around a logbook and those who had something to say wrote it there. On the last night before the takeout, I wrote a thank you to my friends and to the thunder and to the canyon and to the river. I said this was likely my last Grand Canyon trip and thanked everyone, not only for saving my life but for enhancing it as they had. I was honored by their company.

The next day, driving out at Diamond Creek, Roy Crimmins said he鈥檇 read my farewell. 鈥淵ou鈥檝e got another couple of these in you,鈥� he argued.

鈥淎h, Roy, I鈥檓 getting old. Seventy-three. There were people a third my age on this trip. Just unloading the boats, you guys jumped from tube to tube. I had to belly crawl.鈥�

鈥淏ut you got all your work done.鈥�

鈥淚 did, but I鈥檓 worried about the time that I become a liability on an expedition like this.鈥�

鈥淗ey, that鈥檚 quite a few years away. You鈥檙e pretty spry.鈥�

Which, in my 40 years at 国产吃瓜黑料, is the first time someone ever used that word to describe me. Spry?

I knew I鈥檇 think about that word for a while. Maybe, in a couple of years, it might even be funny. In any case, I鈥檓 pretty sure there鈥檚 something there that will eventually find its way into the Great Story Arc in聽the Sky.

Editor at large Tim Cahill’s column, Out There, ran from 1981 to 2000. He is the author of聽 and eight other books.聽David聽Hughes is an 国产吃瓜黑料 contributing artist.

The post My Drowning (And Other Inconveniences) appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Very few human beings, I believe, could tour that dump near the slaughterhouse on the beach called Escobilla and remain unmoved. There, rotting reptilian bodies were piled one atop the other, as far as the eye could see. Near the entrance to these acres of death there was a pile of eggs鈥攁n entire generation, or so it seemed鈥�
颅rotting away under a blazing tropical sun.

I saw that dump in October of 1977. I had gone to Mexico expecting to write a pleasant little report on what promised to be an awesome natural phenomenon. On the beach called Escobilla, in the state of Oaxaca, on the Pacific coast not far from the Guatemalan border, some 100,000 turtles were said to come up out of the sea and lay their eggs in the sand. The olive ridley, an 80-pound animal about the size of a manhole cover, had come up onto the beach at Escobilla on nights of the full moon, 100,000 strong, for as long as anyone could remember. These massive 补谤谤颈产补锄贸苍别蝉鈥�
颅arrivals鈥�happened approximately once a month from mid颅summer through late fall.

I had been invited to see the arribaz贸n by a man named Juan Jos茅 de la Vega, the director of a Mexican environmentalist group called the Cosmographic Society. Also invited by De la Vega and on hand for the expected arribaz贸n was a film crew from ABC’s American Sportsman. As it happened, the crew was lucky to get good footage of a single turtle laying her eggs in the sand: There was no arribaz贸n in October of 1977. Politics and greed had gotten in the way, and the dump at Escobilla was the result.

The article I wrote, “The Shame of Escobilla,” was published in the February 1978 issue of 国产吃瓜黑料. The pleasant little story I had envisioned became a horror of death and despair. Antonio Su谩rez, the man in charge of the slaughter, felt 国产吃瓜黑料 had judged him “harshly.”

Despite the fact that the situation seemed to me to be hopeless鈥�
颅no laws were being broken, after all鈥�颅there wasa mad scramble of activity. I was invited to international conferences, asked to file affidavits, to submit copies of the 国产吃瓜黑料 article to environmental groups in sup颅port of lawsuits initiated by them.

In the four years since the publica颅tion of that hopeless story, my fileon the turtles of Escobilla has expanded enough to fill an entire drawer, and the story no longer seems quite so hopeless. It is a continuing tale, one of criminal conspir颅acies, of investigations and counter-颅investigations, of well-intentioned people working at cross-purposes, of evil鈥�颅and hints of redemption.

All I ever wanted to do was watch those turtles swim up out of the sea and lay their eggs on the beach. What I actually saw on the beach called Escobilla in October of 1977 lives in my mind like a wound.

In 1977 there was an experiment underway at Escobilla, a deadly ex颅periment involving the survival of an entire species of animal.

In previous years, harvesting of sea turtles during the nesting season had been prohibited, for good reason. In the days that precede the arribaz贸n, female ridleys mass in the ocean, vulnerable, just beyond the breakers. There are thou颅sands of them bobbing in the swells, as far as the eye can see. Sunlight glitters off their shells. At this time they are slow, nearly somnambulant, driven by instinct, and they are easily caught by divers.

The ban on harvesting turtles during the breeding season had been lifted in 1976, and in October of 1977 men were catching the turtles beyond the breakers, slaughtering them faster and more effi颅ciently than ever before. Lifting the ban had been a controversial move. The turtles were listed in the 1975 reptile Red Data Book as endangered: “in danger of extinction and whose survival is unlikely if causal factors keep operating.”

De la Vega had brought this situation to the attention of the media in 1976. The fishing company, PIOSA, and its director general, Antonio Su谩rez, were sensitive to the criticism. Instead of restoring the prohibition against harvesting, however, Suarez had picked up the lion’s share of the tab for the construction of a labora颅tory dedicated to the preservation of the olive ridley.

Here’s the way the lab was supposed to work: As the turtles were slaughtered, eggs would be taken from the female’s oviducts. These eggs would be buried in the sand or in styrofoam boxes filled with sand. There they would be protected from predators, such as domestic dogs and coyotes, not to mention those human jackals, the men who poach turtle eggs for profit.

The eggs fetch a good price in the marketplaces of Mexico’s larger cities; ignorant and impotent men believe they are an aphrodisiac. Poachers, catering to that trade, will strip a beach of 100 percent of its eggs, and in consequence, leath颅erback, green, and olive ridley turtles have all but disappeared from certain unprotected beaches. The poachers are organized and vicious. The new lab at Escobilla was named for Daniel Guevara, a lawman murdered by poachers in the course of his investigation of a major egg-smuggling ring.

Eggs from the slaughtered females would be concentrated in the area around the lab, protected by Mexican marines and PIOSA employees. As hatchlings emerged, they would be collected, put in large tanks, and fed until there were enough of them to be boated out and dumped beyond the breakers.

Protecting the eggs from poachers was a noble-enough idea, but a little reading about set turtles in the most elementary scientific texts indicates that there were several things wrong with the central concept of the lab. No one had any idea what the hatch rate would be from eggs taken out of the slaughtered females, only that it would be a fraction of that from eggs laid naturally. There was also a probability that the hatchlings, in captivity, would become “pen-happy,” that once the swimming frenzy of the first day of birth had passed, they would wallow about indolently where dumped, there to be snapped up by predators or washed back onto the beach by the tide. Finally, whatever mechanism it is that causes ridleys to return to the beach of their birth to lay their eggs might be short-circuited.

There was one other thing wrong with this lab. It was a hoax.

The media was on hand in force for the dedication of the lab that stormy Sunday afternoon in the fall of 1977. There were more than 25,000 hatchlings swimming about in 106 tanks. The governor of the state made a speech, and newsmen got plenty of pictures of the lab’s benefactor, Antonio Su谩rez, who smiled modestly.

Several days later I returned to the lab. All the tanks were empty. All the hatchlings were gone. The mature turtles in the large tanks鈥�颅the ones whose mat颅ing habits were going to be studied鈥�颅had been taken to the slaughterhouse, or so said an old man eating his lunch under a tree. He was the only person I could find at the “lab.”

The hatchlings in those tanks on dedication day, I discovered later, had been collected on the beach at Escobilla, and they had hatched from eggs laid there naturally. They had been brought from Escobilla to the lab to deceive the media and the Mexican people.

On the last day of my visit to Escobilla I visited the slaughterhouse dump, the most evil place I have ever seen. “The dump,” I wrote soon after颅ward, “is located on several low hills just southeast of the slaughterhouse. When the turtles have been slaughtered, the 12 pounds of good meat has been stripped from the bone, and leather has been stripped from the head and chest, the remains are dumped onto these hills like garbage and left to dry in the sun before the bones and shells are ground into fertilizer.

“The stench here鈥攖he odor of death鈥攚as unholy….Vultures retreated reluctantly as I approached. Here and there I saw flippers stripped of their flesh, their five fingers, like yours and mine, jutting out of black putrescent meat.

“There were eggs there too, where no eggs should be. Mixed with the bowels of their slaughtered mothers, they were heaped into a sprawling pile and covered with maggots. I suspect someone will tell me that PIOSA only chooses the finest eggs to go bad in the sand or in those styrofoam boxes, and that these were rejects. But I saw that pile with my own eyes. There were thousands upon thousands of eggs, all rotting in that evil heap.

“I was, quite literally, sick to my stomach.”

That was the tone of the article: bitter, angry, hopeless. It was full of words like evil, and those words were always used in proximity to the name Antonio Su谩rez.

In late 1977 things were going very well indeed for Antonio Su谩rez. His men were killing as many as 700 turtles a day, the governor of Oaxaca had compli颅mented him on his efforts in the field of conservation, and Tecnica Pesquera, the magazine of the Mexican fishing industry, had published a long and laudatory article on the lab. Su谩rez was selling the turtle leather and making enough money, apparently, to continue the obscene slaughter at Escobilla. Mex颅ican law required him to make use of all parts of a turtle. The shells and bones could be used as fertilizer, but the proc颅essed meat was a problem. Olive ridley is not considered a tasty turtle, not in Mexico or Central America. The turtle soup and turtle steaks that are prized come from the green turtle. So Su谩rez was sitting on a few hundred thousand pounds of meat, which, if not precisely worthless, was not making him any money either.

In December of 1977鈥攁ccording to an indictment later handed down by a Miami grand jury鈥擜ntonio Su谩rez and several others met in a luxury apartment in Mexico City, and there they entered into an illegal conspiracy to dispose of all that cumbersome turtle meat.

A few weeks after the 国产吃瓜黑料 article was published, I received a letter from Dr. Peter Pritchard, vice-president for science and research at the Florida Audubon Society. Dr. Pritchard, having recently returned from a fact-finding mission to Escobilla, wrote: “When I was there in late November, they were still killing 500-700 turtles per day, and every one was a female contain颅ing eggs…. The local PIOSA jefe told me that the story behind the opening cere颅mony of the research facility and the subsequent draining of the tanks was simply that the plumbing system was not ready for dedication day, so they had hand-filled the system just for the cere颅mony, then emptied it again. They still did not have their plumbing system in operation when I was there, but they were ‘working on it’…. I, like you, was revolted by what I saw….The feds say that they will clamp down and close the season if the turtles show a diminution in numbers. Unfortunately, it may be too late then鈥攖he Kemp’s ridley, on the other coast, has shown no recovery even after a decade of full protection…Open season during the breeding time is a sure recipe for disaster.”

“Shame” was reprinted in the IUCN (International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources) Marine Turtle Newsletter. Dr. Pritchard wrote a commentary, and I quote from him again, not only because his comments are co颅gent, but because it will later be important to know exactly where he stands. Reflecting on his visit to the slaughterhouse, Pritchard wrote, “I found the sight of the beautiful female ridleys, fresh from the sea, being bashed in with iron bars and deftly eviscerated, one after the other, 500 or more per day, a disgusting and de颅moralizing sight, and I found the idea of creatures being butchered in this way when they were gathering to lay their eggs totally unacceptable, both emo颅tionally and biologically.”

Pritchard had questioned the director of the Mexican Department of Fisheries, who had, apparently, been quite frank. PIOSA, he said, had been allowed to fish during the breeding season, had been allowed such dangerously high quotas, because it would be logistically difficult and extremely expensive to field a small army of enforcement personnel in remote coastal Oaxaca. It was thought that if Su谩rez got the quotas he wanted, he would, in turn, see that those eggs laid naturally or buried at the lab would be adequately protected from poachers. Pritchard’s commentary went on to ques颅tion the concept of the lab itself and mentioned that the Su谩rez /PIOSA opera颅tion constituted the largest butchery of turtles in the world.

In the summer of 1978 ABC aired its American Sportsman segment on the plight of the olive ridley. Producer/director John Wilcox and associate producer Bob Nixon had put together a, powerful and emo颅tional documentary. It was all there on film: the lab with thousands of turtles in the tanks and the media standing around looking suitably impressed, followed by empty tanks only two days later. There was a final shot of the dump, that foul boneyard, and all those eggs, the next generation, rotting away in that maggot-颅infested heap.

A small groundswell of public support seemed to be building, and the Environmental Defense Fund took good and proper advantage of it. They threat颅ened to sue the United States federal government: The EDF demanded that the olive ridley and two other species of sea turtle be declared a threatened species under the Endangered Species Act. Threat of suit was enough. The olive ridley was declared to be endangered. The effect of the action was to prohibit importation of any of the protected turtles or of products derived from them.

Things started to go bad for Antonio Su谩rez in the spring of 1979. In California Charles Clark, a Marine Fisheries Service agent, came across a shipment of freezer packages labeled “chunked Tabasco River Turtle.” Clark examined the meat. It was not light-colored, like freshwater turtle. It was dark, beef-red, fibrous: more like sea turtle. Clark notified Charles Fuss, the special agent in charge of law enforce颅ment for the National Marine Fisheries Service in St. Petersburg, Florida. Fuss had been getting similar reports about sea-turtle meat for sale in Florida. But as a result of the federal action taken the previous July, all six species of sea turtle found in the Western Hemisphere had been declared endangered or threatened. Fuss geared up an investigation.

There were 12 agents on Fuss’s inves颅tigative team, and it was a rare case of near total cooperation between govern颅ment agencies: There were people from the Fish and Wildlife Service, from the U.S. Customs Service, from the National Marine Fisheries Service, and from the Wildlife and Marine Resources section of the Justice Department.

The interagency team talked with turtle experts. It was perfectly legal to import Tabasco River turtle (that has since changed), but according to Jos茅 Toro, a special attorney for the Justice De颅partment, the investigators were look颅ing at nearly 190,000 pounds of it. And there were not enough Tabasco River turtles in all of Mexico to account for that much meat.

One element of the investigative team, working with customs declarations, followed a paper trail to a seafood exporter in Mexico. The man had no knowledge of the shipments pouring into Miami International Airport. Investiga颅tors determined that export papers had been stolen from the company’s office, that signatures had been forged in what appeared to be a criminal conspiracy of some proportion.

Meanwhile, Sylvia Braddon, a re颅search chemist with the National Marine Fisheries Service, was working to identify the meat in those packages of “Tabasco River Turtle.” The technique she used is called isoelectric focusing. It involves passing a strong charge of electricity through a small sample of meat for several hours. Eventually the protein “focuses,” forming a microscopic pattern of blue lines, distinct for each species.

In order to identify the species in颅volved, Braddon would have to test the lines developed from the suspect meat against those from the meat of every other freshwater and saltwater turtle in the world. Luckily the investigators had a pretty good idea of what kind of meat they were dealing with: 190,000 pounds seemed to implicate the most prolific turtle butcherer in the world, Antonio Su谩rez.

Peter Pritchard provided one of the samples of ridley meat used by Braddon. The thin blue lines from Pritchard’s sam颅ple matched exactly those fromthe meat in the suspect tins.

So it was ridley meat. The fact that only one man in the world would have that much olive ridley meat to sell doesn’t cut much ice legally. There was still a blizzard of paper and a forest of middle颅men between Antonio Su谩rez and all that illegal meat.

It was a very difficult case, but Jos茅 Toro had a plan.

I knew nothing about the investigation of Antonio Su谩rez in the late summer of 1979. The story had pretty much died down as far as I knew; so I was surprised to get a strange and urgent call about Su谩rez a year and half after the publication of the story.

The man on the phone sounded like a guy who knew his Raymond Chandler and who subscribed to Soldier of Fortune聽 magazine; the kind of guy who might weigh 300 pounds, smoke cigars, and talk out of the side of his mouth. He was calling from Los Angeles, or so he said, and he claimed to represent a group of wealthy southern California conservationists with the money to “provide extraordinary solutions to extraordinary problems.”

“The slaughterhouse,” he said, “it’s located on a pretty remote stretch of beach, isn’t it? You give us the layout, we could be in and out of there in 20 minutes. We’d be in Mexico 10, 12 hours, tops.”

“You’re not…are you suggest颅ing some sort of, uh, paramilitary operation?”

“I’m suggesting that we talk to these bastards in the only language they understand.”

“Well, you know, I’m not really sure that, uh”鈥攖his lunatic was talking about bombing Mexico!鈥�”we’d be able to, uh, do much good, uh, that way!”

There was a pause while the man seemed to consider his options. “All right,” he said finally, “you tell me. How do we stop this guy Su谩rez?”

I wish I could say I pegged him immediately, but it was only after he hung up that it occurred to me that the guy was neither a militant environmental颅ist nor a flaming nutcase. He sounded more like a very clever professional investigator. “O.K.,” he kept saying, “if that won’t work, how do we get Su谩rez?”

If indeed the man was an investiga颅tor of some sort, then he was pumping me for any nasty information I might have on Su谩rez. The most prolific turtle butcher in the world must have been a very worried man.

Events slid around the bend and went careening downhill for Su谩rez in November 1979. Suarez had been meeting with Pritchard鈥攖he two men would spend eight hours at a crack, arguing their way through a long lunch鈥攁nd Pritchard invited him to the United States to speak at the First World Conference for World Sea Turtle Con颅servation. According to Pritchard, Su谩rez had initially thought that those who opposed him were obstructionists, sen颅timentalists who didn’t like killing, vegetarians, hippies. “But,” Pritchard told me, “he was impressed by scientists, by reasonable men with facts at their fingertips.” Pritchard saw the conference as a process of give-and-take, a learning experience for Su谩rez, who he felt was coming around to a more rational approach.

The Justice Department’s Jos茅 Toro, unknown to Pritchard, attended the con颅ference for entirely different reasons.

“Mr. Suarez,” Pritchard told me, “was very nervous. He was speaking in the largest room of the United States State Department to 500 of the most knowledgeable sea-turtle experts in the world.”

Worse, members of the World Wild颅life Fund had put copies of the 国产吃瓜黑料 article on every seat. Two unidentified men, described to me as “large and probably Mexican,” went from seat to seat, confiscating the reprints. No matter, the WWF people handed out more re颅prints as the delegates entered the room. They had also arranged showings of the ABC Sportsman segment.

Su谩rez spoke before an unresponsive and surly crowd. As he stepped off the podium, he was surrounded by federal agents and handed a subpoena. Apparently he panicked. Su谩rez fled. He flew back to Mexico, leaving his clothes and luggage in his hotel room.

“I knew,” Jos茅 Toro told me, “that there was a great quantity of olive ridley meat involved, and that seemed to point to Mr. Su谩rez. We had no legal proof, however, and the subpoena only involved his records. I went into the investigation with an open mind, but when Mr. Su谩rez fled, we began concentrating on him.”

Toro and other agents took up the paper trail once again. Names on letterheads submitted to United States Customs led to a group of Cuban businessmen in Miami, and inquiries there led to another group of Cubans in Mexico City. There, Toro, who was born in Puerto Rico and of course speaks fluent Spanish, began looking for the man any investigator wants to find: the fellow with a gripe.

On Toro’s list of people he wanted to talk to was a man named Martin Zacarias. It looked to Toro as if Zacarias has once been involved in the conspiracy but had been somehow muscled out of the business. There were three separate meetings in Mexico City, and because Zacarias was no longer involved in the business, Toro felt justified in granting him immunity in exchange for information. On the third meeting, Zacarias produced a sample customs document, written in pencil. It contained the precise wording used in the customs declarations for the illegal meat.

Zacarias said that the sample document had been drawn up during a meeting in Mexico City sometime in December of 1977. At that meeting he and other individuals present had conspired to fraudulently mislabel olive ridley meat and export it to the United States. One of the individuals present was named Antonio Su谩rez.

Taking this information to the grand jury in Miami, Toro was able to obtain an indictment against Su谩rez, PIOSA, and five other individuals and corporations. Su谩rez hired the best lawyers he could find and returned to the United States only after plea negotiations had been completely worked out. On October 28, 1981, Su谩rez pleaded guilty to all charges and paid a total of $50,000 in fines.

Antonio Su谩rez eventually quit the turtle-slaughtering business. “No,” Toro told me, “that was not part of the plea negotiations. I think that we denied him the United States market, and perhaps the business is no longer profitable.” Toro, who shares a Latin background with Su谩rez, thinks there may be something else involved. “Antonio Su谩rez,” Toro said, “is a very proud man, very concerned with dignity. He is very Latin in that respect. I think it was devastating to his ego to stand before that judge, to be declared guilty, to acknowledge that he engaged in criminal acts. I think for him the worst humiliation came at the arraignment, when they took him downstairs for fingerprinting and mug shots.

“You could,” Toro said, “almost feel sorry for him.”

So the butcher of Escobilla was driven from the beach in humiliation and disgrace. The good guys won, the villain was crushed, and the turtles were saved for all eternity.

That’s the way I’d like to end this report. But the turtles are not yet saved, and Antonio Su谩rez may not have been a total villain.

According to Dr. Peter Pritchard, “It was easy to see Su谩rez as evil incarnate, and that is how I saw him at first.” After talking with him for a while, Pritchard saw that Su谩rez truly believed industrialization was the only way to preserve the turtles: If turtles are were worth more the local people than eggs are worth to poachers, then poaching would stop on the beach.

What Su谩rez didn’t believe was that harvesting during the nesting season was harmful to the population as a whole. “He was beginning to come around to our point of view,” said Pritchard. “Hard facts, statistics, scientific research impressed him. That is why I invited him to the sea-turtle conference in Washinton.” That is where Su谩rez was served with the subpoena.

“I knew nothing about that,” Pritchard said. When Su谩rez fled, Pritchard raced to the airport. He wanted to assure Su谩rez that he had not betrayed him. “We didn’t talk for some time after that,” Pritchard said. “He did call me when he made the decision to quit the business, though. He was very concerned about what the world thought of him. He didn’t want to be known as the man who was killing off an entire species of animal. I remember I once asked him what he thought about the 国产吃瓜黑料 article. I thought he would scream and yell, call it a pack of lies. Instead he looked very sad. ‘They judged us harshly,’ he said. He was sensitive to that judgment.”

Perhaps the person whose opinion counted most with Su谩rez was his daughter. “He loves his daughter,” Pritchard said. “He dotes on her. He told me once that if she even told him to quit the business, he would at once, without question. One day he called me. Now I’m sure there are many other reasons for his decision, but he said, ‘Peter, Fernanda asked me to stop killing turtles.'”

Su谩rez sold his turtle operation to Propemex, a government-owned company that continues to kill the animals at a furious pace. “Su谩rez,” says Pritchard, “was the strongman, el Ching贸n, the man in charge. You could reason with him. Now you see bureaucrats who shrug their shoulders and pass you on to other bureaucrats.”

Carlos Nagle, a consultant for the World Wildlife Fund, puts it more bluntly. “If what you really wanted was to save the turtles, then you have to see what happened to Antonio Su谩rez as a tragedy. He was a typical poacher on his way to becoming a game warden. He is a very intelligent man, and he could see the long-range consequences.”

But Su谩rez is gone, and the bureaucrats of Propemex are the new butchers on the beach.

The situation, however, is anything but hopeless. Things are not the same in Mexico as they were in 1977. Then, the only conservationists on the beach at Escobilla were Juan Jos茅 de la Vega and Boris de Swan of the Cosmographic Society. By 1981, during the largest arribaz贸n of the year, more than 150 conservationists hit the beach, like commandos. Aside from Juan Jos茅 and members of the Cosmographic Society, there were representatives of two other growing environmentalist groups, Amigos del Universo and Bioconservation.

“The marines,” Juan Jos茅 told me, “made it possible for us to be there. I can’t praise them enough. When the arribaz贸n started, they provided a plane for us. We flew down from Mexico City and got on the beach only a few hours after the first turtles crawled up on the beach.” The conservationists spread out, with people taking stations every 50 yards. They stayed two weeks. “Poachers don’t want the eggs after a week or so,” Juan Jos茅 said. “They hatch in 40 to 45 days, but hatchlings begin to form inside very quickly. No one would eat an egg with a turtle head in it.”

As the conservationists helped the marines patrol the beach, the navy patrolled the water out beyond the breakers. New Fisheries regulations require all fishing to stop for seven days after the start of an arribaz贸n.

More than 70 reporters covered the operation. The public saw what was happening on television and heard about it on radio. Nine of the most influential newspapers in Mexico ran front-page articles on the plight of the turtles. Two documentary films were produced, and both were eventually shown on televi颅sion. Juan Ruiz Healy, a popular reporter on Mexico’s 60 Minutes, did a devastating report on poachers and sellers.

People like Juan Jos茅 see the media in Mexico as major allies. “The public is now aware of the problem,” Juan Jos茅 told me, “and this is a dramatic change from when you first came to Escobilla.”

Ricardo Mier, of Bioconservation, adds, “It is a paradox, but the ecology movement seems to be growing here, and growing very rapidly, in spite of the current economic crisis. I think this is because we can now clearly see that true value lies in natural resources and not in pesos or dollars.”

As the public becomes more con颅scious of the slaughter on the beach at Escobilla, more pressure is put on the Department of Fisheries to reinstate the ban on fishing during the breeding sea颅son, or, failing that, to lower the quotas allowed Propemex to more reasonable levels.

The current quotas are absurdly high. Here are some numbers; it doesn’t take a marine biologist to analyze them.

1973: Juan Jos茅 de la Vega sees his first arribaz贸n. More than 100,000 turtles lay their eggs on the beach.
1981: The total number of turtles arriving on the beach for all arribaz贸nes, July through November, is 50,000.
1981: The total number of turtles allowed to be killed, according to quotas set by the Department of Fisheries, is 89,000.

The number of turtles arriving on the beach in 1981 was only a tenth of what it was only a decade ago. And although 50,000 turtles reached the beach in 1981, almost twice that number were killed before they could lay their eggs. And 1981 was the sparest year for arribaz贸nes in recent memory, which probably means that fewer turtles reached the beach than ever before, throughout the whole of time.

Juan Jos茅 de la Vega says the mem颅ory of 1973, when he saw 100,000 turtles lay their eggs on the beach in a single night, is a treasure no one can take from him. He likes to relive it now and again. He stood alone, surrounded by all that…biology, and the moon was full and bright. A gentle breeze was blowing in off the ocean, and the smell of the sea was strong. All around, on all sides, as far as the eye could see on this bright night, there were turtles: turtles coming in out of the ocean, turtles laying their eggs, turtles returning to the mystery of the sea. Juan Jos茅 had a sensation of a time before man a sense of the fecundity of the sea and land. There was something deep and full expanding inside of him, something other people feel only inside a church.

There is an image that lives inside my memory as well. It is a vision of that slaughterhouse dump, those acres of death. The breeze I recall was heavy with the stench of rot, warm with the weight of decay.

Propemex is still dumping bodies there, and, according to Dr. Pritchard, still dumping eggs. These eggs are said to be too immature to be buried in the sand; either that or too fouled with the moth颅er’s intestines during the slaughtering process.

So these eggs are dumped where the bodies of the mothers are left to rot. But many of the eggs are not fouled; many are not immature. Many of them live, and hatchlings emerge to crawl over the rot颅ting bodies of their slaughtered mothers. They crawl frantically, through the stench of death, toward a sea they will never reach.

The post The Shame of Escobilla, Part II appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

During the occupation of Kuwait, Iraqi soldiers often defecated in the finest rooms of the finest houses they could find. It was a gesture of hatred and ignorance and contempt. Then, in retreat, the Iraqis literally set Kuwait on fire. There was no strategic significance to this, no military advantage for the retreating Iraqi troops. Blowing the oil wells鈥攏early all the oil wells in the country鈥攚as the environmental equivalent of crapping on the carpet.

Because fierce desert winds would carry smoke and soot at least 500 miles in any direction, Iraqi children would breathe carcinogens along with the children of Saudi Arabia and Kuwait. Iraqi farmers would likely suffer acid rain. These Iraqi troops, under Saddam Hussein, had done something that no other animal on earth does: They had fouled their own nest.

The conflagration in Kuwait is madness made visible, madness with possible global consequences.

I had spent the Fourth of July and the two following weeks dashing around the burning oil fields of Kuwait in company with photographer Peter Menzel, attempting to assess the extent of the madness. But this day, toward the end of our stay, was set aside for a long, leisurely drive. The madness, we felt, had soiled us just as surely as the soot and the purple petroleum rain that fell from the drifting black clouds. This rain created lakes of oil that covered acres of desert, and when these lakes caught fire the smoke was thick and blinding, so that directions to various wells had to be quite specific as to roadside landmarks: “Turn left at the third dead camel.”

I myself particularly wanted to forget the three dead Iraqi soldiers I had had every reason not to bury. They were still out there in the desert, near the Saudi border. The wind covered them with sand. And then, after a time, it uncovered them.

So: Why not spend the day in pursuit of recreational diversion? Peter and I would climb Mount Kuwait. Go to the beach. See the emir’s gardens. Maybe even take in a drive-in movie. Think about things a bit.

Mount Kuwait sits in an area of newly formed oil lakes, south of the oil town of Al Ahmadi, past the distinctive Longhorn fire, and a few miles off the Burgan road. Because we envisioned a long day, and because the summer temperatures in the desert often exceed 120 degrees Fahrenheit, it was a good idea to start early.

At 3:30 in the morning the air felt cool, about 85 degrees, and the streets of Kuwait City were empty. The traffic lights worked, but there was no traffic. It was a great place to run red lights, which I count as a fine activity.

A gentle breeze from the north had swept the sky clear of smoke. The city center might have been Miami, except that businesses and homes were abandoned, windows were broken, and the major hotels all showed evidence of recent fires. There were streaks of soot on most of the buildings. In March the city had been covered over in a thick shroud of smoke, and when the spring rains came they fell black and soiled all they touched.

By July, the fires in the oil fields south of the city had been beaten back dozens of miles. More than 200 fires had been”killed,” and the best estimates had another 500 still burning. Fire fighters were working from the north with the prevailing winds at their backs, and Kuwait City was seldom inundated by smoke. Some days were whiskey brown; others were bright and blue and hot.

The outskirts of the city looked like Phoenix, where futuristic divided and elevated highways ran over single-story poured-concrete houses. We exited the freeway and plowed down the two-lane blacktop toward the oil fields. There was a mound of sand and a sign in English that said ROAD CLOSED. As journalists, we assumed the sign did not apply to us.

Levees of sand kept the ponds and lakes of oil from consuming the road. The oil lakes seemed to glow, silver-red, with the light from the fires on the southern horizon. After a few miles, the shimmering in the distance separated itself into individual fires: great plumes of flame that dotted the flat desert landscape. The shapes of the plumes themselves had become familiar landmarks. Some looked a bit like Christmas trees; some geysered up every 30 seconds; some lay close to the ground and seemed to burn horizontally. Not far past Al Ahmadi, the most distinctive of the fires howled out of control. Two plumes shot out along the ground鈥攐ne to the west, one to the east鈥攁nd each turned up at the end. The fire fighters, most of them Americans from Texas, called this one the Longhorn fire.

It was close to the road, and the western plume was directed at passing vehicles like a pyromaniac’s wet dream. Here the moonless night was bright as day, only the light was red, flickering, hellish. A 20-mile-an-hour wind carried inky billows of smoke to the south, but along this road and others in the oil fields the winds sometimes sent impenetrable clouds of gritty soot rolling over passing vehicles.

Not far from here, on April 24, a small Japanese sedan had swerved off the oil-slicked road and into a burning oil lake, killing two British journalists. The driver had apparently been disoriented by the smoke and falling soot. Two other vehicles, a pumping truck and a tanker, had apparently followed the tracks of the sedan into the flames. At least one fire-fighting crew had passed by the three vehicles without raising an alarm: Burned-out cars in burning oil lakes are a common sight around Al Ahmadi. Those who finally recovered the bodies had seemed unaffected when they described the horror, but they mentioned it a lot, especially to journalists who assumed written warnings didn’t apply to them.

The sun finally rose, a sickly orange color that I could look directly into without squinting, and in the near distance a rocky butte about 300 feet high, the highest piece of ground in all the oil fields, appeared. It took, by my watch, a little over two minutes to stroll to the top of this bump that oil workers had long ago names Mount Kuwait. It was supposed to be a joke, the name, like calling a bald-headed guy Curly.

The whole world smelled like a diesel engine. There were fires burning in all directions, more than 30 at a count, and they thundered belligerently. The lake below was burning in streaks and ribbons, with the flames hanging low over a mirrorlike surface that was unaffected by the wind. The ground was black, the sky was black, the drifting clouds were black, and only the fires lived on the land.

What I was seeing, it seemed to me, was the internal-combustion engine made external.

The country of Kuwait sits atop a vast reservoir of oil, 94 billion barrels of known reserves. This reservoir is two miles deep in places, and the oil is under tremendous pressure. Drop a pipe deep enough into the ground and oil erupts to a height of 30, 50, 70, 100 feet. Wells are capped with valve assemblies, the oil is transferred to gathering centers, then piped to sea terminals for export. It is used in internal-combustion engines around the world.

Iraqi troops had wired nearby wells to a single detonator. These wires still lay across the black sands. The explosions鈥攄ynamite directed downward by sandbags鈥攈ad blown the caps off the wells and ignited the gushing oil.

Kuwait, on this day in July, would lose about $100 million worth of oil. That was the generally agreed upon figure, though the effects of the fires on the people and on the environment had yet to be coherently assessed. Toxic metals, released by combustion, will surely contaminate the desert soil and the sheep and goats and camels that graze there. Many of these food-borne metals might then cause brain damage and cardiovascular disorders in humans.

Meanwhile, a month earlier, a National Science Foundation team, flying over the burning oil fields, had said that environmental damage was a”concern” and not a crisis. Environmental Protection Agency experts measured pollutants common to American cities鈥攖he results of internal combustion鈥攁nd decided, mostly from planes flying 20,000 feet over the choking hell below, that the air quality was not deadly. Further, the flights proved that while plumes rose thousands of feet, the fires weren’t propelling the heavy smoke high enough into the atmosphere to cause worldwide climatic change.

Still, in April, about five million barrels of oil a day had gone up in flame. Black rain had fallen in Saudi Arabia and Iran; black snow had fallen on the ski slopes of Kashmir, more than 1,500 miles to the east. And no one had yet measured pollutants peculiar to this crisis; a class of carcinogens called polyaromatic hydrocarbons generated out of partially burned oil. Standing on the summit of Mount Kuwait, my own assessment was bleak. The desert, here in the oil fields, was both dead and deadly. It was a sure vision of the environmental apocalypse.

By the time we scrambled down Mount Kuwait, the sun was higher in the sky. A purple petroleum rain had fallen while we’d been climbing, and the evidence could be seen as pinpricks on the windshield. Peter fired up the Land Cruiser, but it was hard to hear the internal-combustion engine over the roar of the surrounding external combustion. I thought about those unburied Iraqi soldiers out near the Saudi border; one of them had been decapitated. In the gathering heat, the oil on the windshield now turned a streaky red, so that it looked like dried blood.

On the way to the emir’s gardens, deep in the southern oil fields, we saw a brown Land Rover, coated in black, gummy sand, parked by the side of the road. American fire fighters drove Ford and Chevy pickups, Kuwaiti oil executives drove Mercedes. The Land Rover, we knew, had to belong to our friends in Royal Ordinance, a subsidiary of British Aerospace. Composed mostly of former British military explosive experts, RO had won the contract to dispose of explosives in this area of the fields.

When Iraqi troops blew the wells, they sometimes salted the surrounding area with antipersonnel mines to sabotage the fire-fighting effort. But what RO was mostly finding were the universally feared Rockeyes that had been dropped by American pilots onto Iraqi positions. A Rockeye is a metal cylinder, maybe three feet long. When it is dropped it splits apart, releasing 247 six-inch-long rockets designed to explode on impact. The deadly submunitions look like fat lawn darts. All over, all across the black desert sands, there were Rockeye submunitions buried about three inches deep. Sometimes the pilot had dropped the Rockeyes too low to the ground; sometimes the submunitions had hit very soft sand. In any event, RO estimated that between 30 and 50 percent of the submunitions were still live. They were black with oil and could be identified only by their three fins. Usually there was a blackened Rockeye canister nearby.

Our RO friends had the dirtiest, meanest job in the fields. Whereas the fire fighters who followed them worked with the north wind at their backs, which meant that they often had blue sky overheard, the RO teams worked in heavy smoke in the midst of the fires, looking for explosives within a 150-foot radius of a burning well.

Three teams of ten apiece were now walking the hellish landscape. I could just make them out through the shifting clouds of soot that blotted out the desert sun. They were illuminated, in silhouette, by a nearby plume of fire some 80 feet high. They walked with their heads down, very slowly, looking like a precision drill team of very depressed men. The Rockeyes were marked with red-and-white tape fluttering at the end of a metal stake driven into the sand.

Later that day another man would come through the field, stopping at each of the markers. He would dig a hole next to each of the Rockeyes, place a wad of plastic explosive in the hole, string a long wire, and detonate the deadly submunitions from a safe distance.

Now, however, Lance Malin was standing by the Land Rover, coordinating the three teams currently walking the sand. The process of locating and destroying live ammunition was called explosive ordinance disposal, or EOD, and I knew it amused Malin that American fire fighters were using the acronym as a verb:”Has this area been EODed?”

He was talking to a man wearing heavy leather gloves. There was a large spiny-tailed lizard, about two and a half feet long, dangling from the man’s index finger. The RO men had found a lot of these lizards, known locally as dhoubs, stuck in the sand and too weak to free themselves. They took them back to their headquarters in Al Ahmadi and fed them bits of apple until they regained their strength and snapped at anything that moved. Finally, the lizards took a ride in one of the Land Rovers and were released in the relatively pristine northern desert.

The RO men had no choice. They had to rescue the lizards. They were British.

Malin stowed this particular dhoub in the Land Rover and asked if I had been to the big mine field that RO was working near the Saudi border.

A couple days ago, I said.

“The Iraqi corpses still there?”

We admitted that they were. Right where everyone had left them. Unburied. For five goddamn months.

There was no one at the guard station that flanked the entrance to the emir’s gardens, a weekend retreat for Kuwait’s ruling family. It would have been cruel to station a man there. Fire-fighting teams had not yet reached the large walled compound鈥攖hey were working far to the north鈥攁nd the fires burning on all sides kept the area shrouded in heavy smoke no matter which way the wind was blowing. It was, at ten o’clock on a desert morning, dark as dusk, and the temperature under the smoke stood at 80 degrees. It was 105 in the sun.

We drove through a shallow pond of oil at the entrance and onto a circular driveway fronting a modest group of buildings. There was a children’s play area nearby: teeter-totters and monkey bars coated in oil. On the ground were the oily remnants of a cow that had been slaughtered, presumably for food, by occupying Iraqi troops. There were other black cowlike shapes on the ground, interspersed with the corpses of several large birds, presumably from the compound’s aviary. The largest and highest plume of flame I saw in Kuwait鈥擨 estimated its height at 200 feet颅鈥攂oomed and thundered just beyond the north wall.

This fire was a smoker, and it had formed a lake that abutted the eight-foot-high wall. Where there were breaks in the blackened cinder blocks, tongues of oil seeped into a low-lying palm orchard. These small rivers were burning and running down irrigation ditches, where they lapped at the tree trunks.

My boots were caked with a black, sandy muck so that I walked in a clumping, stiff-legged manner, like Frankenstein’s monster. Visibility was limited to about 15 feet, though I could see, through the falling soot, the large fire and half a dozen others leaping above the north wall. I moved toward them, careful to avoid stepping on the nubbly tracks of coke, a rocky, coallike by-product of the burning oil. In some places the coke was several feet deep, but it was also possible that the coke could be mere scum over a burning stream below. Crack the coke, I thought, and the entire track could reignite.

Presently I saw a man-size break in the wall and moved toward it through the swirling, granular darkness. The inferno beyond lit the break with a shifting, red-orange light, and I could feel the heat on my face like a bad sunburn. Everything that wasn’t burning was black: the earth, the familiar shapes of the trees, the animal carcasses that littered the place. This was ground zero for the largest man-made environmental disaster in history. It was a perfect vision of hell.

I moved through the break in the wall and stopped. The next step would put me in the burning lake, which was throwing up the thickest, grainiest smoke I had yet encountered. It blinded me and made my eyes water. Despite the bandana I wore over my nose and mouth I found myself choking, and then I was coughing in fits that bent me over at the waist.

It was a sudden misery, and yet something that lives in my soul鈥攕ome compelling, god-awful urge鈥攆ound this horror grotesquely enthralling. It is the same urge, I think, that drives us to observe the destructive effects of a hurricane or tornado, an avalanche or flood. We shudder deliciously in the face of incomprehensible forces, in the wake of events that insurance companies call “acts of God.”

But this was an act of Man, which made it a palpable evil: madness made visible in flame.

I fled back into the black gardens, clumping over the burning trenches, coughing uncontrollably as tears streamed from my eyes.

On our way back north to the Al Ahmadi drive-in we decided to stop and see how Safety Boss was doing on its fire. Safety Boss Ltd. is a fire-fighting crew out of Calgary, Canada. The other three outfits fighting the fires鈥擝oots & Coots, Red Adair, and Wild Well鈥攚ere all from around Houston. All were experienced pros, good teams that worked well together.

Safety Boss鈥擨 loved the name鈥攈adn’t been in the business nearly as long as the other companies, but the Calgary group thought its men worked safer, harder, and dirtier than anyone else. This was a matter of constant argument. Every fire fighter thought he worked harder, safer, and dirtier than anyone else.

Safety Boss had started on this new well yesterday and thought it would have it under control today. That was fast: I had watched some other fire fighters work two full weeks to extinguish a particularly nasty smoker.

The road here was a newly plowed lane鈥攕andy white against the oily desert鈥攂uilt in part through an oil lake that was showing a bit of ripple under a freshening afternoon wind of about 40 miles an hour. The wind had swept the area clear of smoke, and the sky was clear. We drove past burned- and bombed-out Iraqi tanks, armored personnel carriers, bunkers, and ammunition depots. Every half-mile or so we passed a Rockeye canister. Red-and-white RO marking tape waved on metal spikes, indicating that the field to the south hadn’t been fully EODed.

It was pleasant to breathe fresh air again after the burning oasis we had just visited. In March the town of Al Ahmadi had looked much like the emir’s gardens, and doctors there had been treating a large number of respiratory complaints. Now, with the fires beaten back around the town, the air was still smoggy, but at least you could see through it.

One foreign industrial-health specialist at the hospital in Al Ahmadi had shown me a chart indicating that sulfur dioxide levels had dropped to the point where they were hardly measurable. A Kuwaiti chemist had argued with the man: The industrial-health specialist was measuring known pollutants, the by-products of internal combustion; how could he鈥攈ow could anyone鈥攌now what toxic substances were being released by all the external combustion surrounding the town?

The chemist was one of the few Kuwaitis I met who seemed concerned about the level of toxins in the air. People in Al Ahmadi, for instance, having undergone months of smoky dusk at noon, now lived under mostly blue skies. The air was breathable, it had no odor, and things could only get better. So they seemed to think. The chemist believed that it would be years before anyone knew for certain just how badly the Kuwaiti people had been poisoned.

Safety Boss was now just up the lane. We turned, as we had been instructed, at the third dead camel, which was a rounded, camellike lump of tar lying on its side and baking in the sun. Arranged to the north of a 70-foot-high plume of flame were a few three-quarter-ton American pickups, a backhoe with an 80-foot-long shovel, two water tankers, an 18-wheel pumping truck, a huge crane, and a bulldozer with a tin shed on top to protect the operator from the heat. There was also an 18-wheel mud truck, an indication that Safety Boss thought it would have the fire out momentarily. Mud trucks are called in just before a fire is killed.

The plume of flame billowed orange and black against the blue sky above and the smoke to the south. I had spent days staring at such plumes. They were transfixing. You couldn’t be near them and not stare. They were hell’s lava lamps.

Two man-sized backless tin sheds had been erected a hundred feet or so from the fire. Large hoses ran from tanks of water, though the pumping trucks, and up to the sheds, where they were mounted on tripods like heavy high-power rifles. There was a man in each shed, working the hose through a rectangular slit in the front of his enclosure.

A crew foreman gave me a hard hat and permission to walk up to the sheds. I had a scientific thermometer to measure the heat near the fire, but it was useless. At one o’clock in the afternoon it was already 122 degrees. The thermometer pegged at 125.

One of the men had his hose trained on the arm of a backhoe that was chopping away at what had been a seven-foot-high mound of coke at the base of the well. The coke accounted for the curious shapes of the fires, bending and twisting the flame as it accumulated. It was necessary to clear the wellhead of coke before it could be capped.

The concussive stress on the backhoe, combined with the heat, often resulted in broken shovels. This one was digging close to the wellhead, and one of the hoses was trained on its dinosaur head, keeping it cool.

The backhoe swung around and deposited another shovelful of steaming coke on the ground 80 feet from the well. Because this coke, even 80 feet away, could reignite the well once it was extinguished, the bulldozer quickly pushed a mound of sand over it.

The fellow manning the water monitor in the shed where I stood was spraying the fire. My completely useless thermometer said 125 degrees. It was hotter than that. There was no talking above the jet-engine howl of the fire, and though I wore earplugs I could feel the sound reverberating in my chest. The ground literally shook under my feet.

The billowing plume of fire looked as fierce as any burn I had seen, but it had already been beaten. When the backhoe finished its work, one man trained a stream of water at the wellhead. About 15 minutes later the fire went out. But only at the wellhead. The geyser of oil above it was still burning. And then both hoses started putting the fire out from the bottom of the geyser up.

When the plume had been killed to a height of perhaps 20 feet, it reignited from below. The hoses started again. It only took a few minutes for the fire to surrender at the wellhead. When the hoses had beaten it up to the 20-foot level, one held steady, right there, at the point where the fire wanted to reignite. The other worked its way up the wavering plume and when the fire was out to a height of 30 feet the whole thing died, puff, like that, revealing a gusher of rusty black oil shooting 70 feet into the air.

In the relative silence I heard the crump-crump-crump of a controlled RO explosion to the south. A few hundred yards away, in the smoke, another depressed drill team was wheeling slowly around a nearby burning well.

The Safety Boss crew moved back behind its trucks. Only two men would work with the damaged wellhead. It was the most dangerous job for a fire fighter. The first order of business was to remove the wellhead. There were bolts to be loosened鈥攂olts that had been fused by explosives and fire鈥攂ut sparks from power tools could turn the gusher above into a massive fireball. The men used wrenches and hammers made of a special alloy that didn’t spark, and they worked in a downpour of oil. The black pool they stood in was hot and burned their feet so that every few minutes they jumped away from the wellhead and let the men with hoses spray them down.

Half a dozen men hooked a series of hoses to the mud truck and ran the line toward the well. A new wellhead was lowered onto the gusher with a crane. Two men with ropes directed its fall, then bolted it into place. Oil erupted out of the new wellhead as before, but this assembly had a pipe projecting from its side.

The hose from the mud truck was screwed onto the side pipe. At a signal, the mud man began pumping a mixture of viscous bentonite and weighty barite into the well. This “mud” had been formulated to be much heavier than oil, and it was pumped into the well under extremely high pressure. The gusher dwindled to 30 feet, to 20, to ten, and then it died, smothered in mud.

No one shouted, and no one shook hands. These men had been working since five in the morning. It was now past two in the afternoon, and they were ready to move out, to get to the next well.

The only break the Safety Boss crew had had all day was a brief catered lunch. A few of the men had chosen to eat several hundred yards away, near a bombed out Iraqi tank. There were always interesting things to be found in the tanks: live ammunition, helmets, uniforms, diaries, war plans, unit roasters, oil-smeared pictures of Saddam Hussein.

Near this tank, the crew had found a black, man-shaped lump of tar lying on its back with black clawlike hand raised in death. Graves details had long ago buried all the dead they could find but hadn’t been able to work their way through the choking smoke of the oil fields, over land that had yet to be EODed. The Safety Boss crews, which were working farther south than the other companies, were always finding bodies: the bodies of men who had fought for oil and died for oil and finally, horribly, been mummified in oil. The Safety Boss crew had buried this soldier on its lunch break. They had buried him where he fell and driven a stake into the ground to mark his final resting place. They always buried the dead they found.

A huge bomb crater graced the entrance to the Cinema Ahmadi Drive-In, which was baking in the heat under relatively blue skies. Surrounded by a high, white cement fence and featuring an immense screen, it was perhaps the most luxurious and high-tech drive-in on earth. Every speaker post featured a thick hose ending in a device that looked like something that might be used to clean draperies but in fact provided air-conditioning for each car. Occupying Iraqi troops had ripped the gadgets off each and every post so that the place as a whole looked like an explosion in a vacuum cleaner factory.

The theater was otherwise empty except for a few late-model American cars that had been stripped of their tires. The doors were open and the windshields had been smashed. The wind, now gusting to 50 miles an hour, was the only sound inside the world’s most luxurious drive-in theater.

In the refreshment stand, behind a broken window sporting an advertisement for Dr Pepper, I found a number of Iraqi helmets, uniforms, grenades, rifles, and ammunition clips. The troops had defecated in the projection room, which they had also thoroughly trashed. Dozens of reels of film had been methodically cut up into four-inch pieces. That would teach those Kuwaitis, all right: Rip out their air conditioning, crap in their projection room, and cut up their film! Ha!

I held one of the film strips up to the light: a lovely Arab woman was comforting a sick old man. Other strips featured other lovely Arab women in family situations: cooking, eating, tending children.

These gentle family films hardly seemed appropriate for a postapocalyptic drive-in. This was Mad Max territory, this was Road Warrior turf. Australian director George Miller’s vision of postnuclear desolation鈥攄epraved individuals driving a disparate variety of vehicles powered by internal-combustion engines and battling each other for…well, for oil鈥攕eemed, in this place, less a B-movie triumph than a sagacious prophecy.

Scenes from just such a movie were being played out in the Burgan field every day. Caravans of odd vehicles moved slowly though the darkness at noon, their headlights pathetic against the swirling smoke. Sometimes they were illuminated by the flickering light of a nearby fire: a few pickups, an 18-wheel mud truck festooned with valves, a bulldozer with a metal enclosure, a huge backhoe…all these vehicles, most of them like nothing seen anywhere else on earth and all of them moving against a backdrop of fire, deeper into the blackness, into the smoke and soot and falling purple rain.

The postapocalyptic town of Dubiyah, 45 minutes south of Kuwait City, was a fenced-off vacation community for mid-level Kuwaiti oil executives. Iraqi troops had thought to make a stand here, and the beaches were very obviously mined. I could see a number of Italian-made mines about the size and shape of flattened baseballs littering the sand. They were designed to maim, to tear a man’s leg off at the knee. It takes several men to care for a wounded soldier. The mines, which didn’t kill, were therefore militarily efficacious. A few weeks earlier, a Kuwaiti teenager, ignoring the posted signs, had strolled out onto the beach and lost a leg for no military reason whatsoever.

Now the town was deserted. The wind had swept the skies clear of smoke, but the sea itself, washing up onto the mined beaches in sluggish waves, was covered over with a faint rainbow sheen of petroleum. Dead fish rotted on the beach next to the mines.

Sometime in mid-January, Saddam Hussein’s troops had purposely spilled an estimated six million barrels of oil into the gulf. The spill was actually a series of releases, with main dumping on January 19 at Sea Island, a tanker-loading station not far from Dubiyah. Prevailing winds had carried the massive slick south, sparing Kuwait. Saudi Arabia took the brunt of the spill, and its beaches had become heavy mats of tar. The glaze of oil here, off Dubiyah, had come from the petroleum rains, from rivers of oil that had flowed from the fields to the sea.

Closer to where I stood, the beach that fronted the deadly sea was decorated with a double row of concertina wire, and behind the concertina wire was a trench reinforced with cement blocks that stretched for miles. There were houses three rows deep beyond the trench. They were blocky cement buildings with faded lawn chairs and tattered umbrellas on concrete patios. Most of them were undamaged, except for those that fronted antiaircraft guns, which had been deployed about every half mile along the beach. Each and every gun had been destroyed. Some were mere heaps of shredded metal. The houses behind the guns had taken some corollary damage. They were, in fact, piles of rubble. All the other homes were intact, undamaged but for a broken window or kicked-in door. And there was no one there, not a soul in this town that must have housed thousands of people. It felt as if the apocalypse had met the Twilight Zone at Kuwait’s last resort.

I stepped through the broken floor-to-ceiling windows and invaded any number of these houses. Dozens of them. Everywhere it was the same. At least one room was completely full of human excrement. Sometimes every room was packed with the stuff.

Peter and I, being journalists, felt compelled to quantify the mess. I don’t know why, really, but that’s what we did.

“I got 34 piles in here,” Peter yelled.

“Seventeen in the kitchen,” I shouted, “and 24 in the laundry room.”

We examined the condition of the piles.

“These guys,” I said, “weren’t healthy.”

And then it occurred to us that maybe the soldiers had been scared. Maybe they’d shit in these houses because they were afraid to go outside during the bombardment. Maybe the odor, at least here in Dubiyah, wasn’t so much contempt as fear.

Someone had drawn on a wall in red Magic Marker. There was an idyllic scene of an Arab boat, a dhow, floating in a calm lagoon. Near that, on the same white wall, was another drawing in another hand: a man and a woman staring at one another with a large heart between them.

Iraqi soldiers, I knew, had been allowed to listen to only one radio station: 20-20 news straight from the mouth of Saddam Hussein himself. Those who disobeyed could be disciplined or killed. Kuwaitis who had talked with Iraqi soldiers before the bombardment said that the occupying troops had no idea that forces were massing on the Saudi border, for they weren’t hearing that news on their single radio station. What they didn’t know would kill them. And poison their world. They defecated in bathtubs and drew pictures of men and women in love on the wall.

I thought about the day we had driven to an oil field near the Saudi border. There the Iraqis had installed a mine field that stretched from horizon to horizon. They had marked it off with a pair of concertina-wire fences. Presumably only portions of the field were heavily salted with mines, and the fence had been built to give the advancing troops pause. On the Kuwait side was a deep pit, which was, I suppose, meant to contain oil that could be set afire.

The allied troops had easily punched through the mine field, and there was a cleared road over the oil pit and through the fence. I could see rounded antitank mines, about the size and shape of home smoke alarms, scattered around beyond the fence. They were a beige color, hard to see in the sand until my eyes adjusted. Then I could see dozens of them.

There were three corpses in Iraqi uniforms alongside the road. Presumably they had lain there for at least five months. It was 118 degrees, the wind was blowing a low-level sandstorm, and the dead men were partially covered in sand.

Someone鈥攖he Saudis, I was told鈥攈ad decapitated one corpse, and the head lay on the man’s lap in an obscene position. The lower portion of the face was all grinning bone, but the upper portion of the head, protected by hair, was intact. The skin was desiccated, a mottled yellow. I have seen mummies in museums and in the field. This scene, these corpses, were five months old and already looked like ancient history.

Peter and I were alone, and we thought to bury the corpses, as was the custom. We had equipped our Land Cruiser with a shovel to dig ourselves out of the sand. Still, I didn’t want to dig a grave in a mine field.聽聽

We discussed the possibility of putting the dead men in the back of our vehicle and driving to a place where we could dig. But the idea of having that desiccated, grinning head rolling around in the back was distressing.

“We could just leave them here,” Peter said. “To illustrate the horror of war.”

Which is what we told ourselves we were doing as we drove off into the desert, leaving three men unburied in contravention of Muslim and Christian custom. I felt mildly guilty about this and knew that I should feel very guilty about it, so I ended up feeling very guilty about feeling mildly guilty.

I was still thinking about those dead men as I stepped carefully through the chalets that fronted the oily beach.

“Oh, man,” I heard myself shout as I moved into one of the grander chalets. It had a fine view of the mined beach and the dead fish and the glittering petroleum sheen that was the sea. And in one big room, in front of the broken picture window, there were well over a hundred remnants of the men who had invaded this land. Souvenirs of ignorance, all in fear-splattered piles.

国产吃瓜黑料, not far away, contaminants released by the howling fires were poisoning children; they were creating acid rains that would kill crops so that people could starve in the name of oil; they were spawning rivers of flame that ran to the sea and killed what lived there; they were throwing 3 percent of the world’s carbon dioxide into the air, intensifying the greenhouse effect that would bake the earth in drought before an alternative to the internal-combustion engine could be found. It was the beginning of the end, the environmental apocalypse, and here I was, in the oblivion of the last resort, thinking about the unburied dead and counting crap.

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Here is one of those scenes: A baby sea lion is trundling along the brown pebbly beach, something of Charlie Chaplin in its endearing, awkward manner. In the surf, several large black dorsal fins, some of them six feet high, saw back and forth through the waves. Bring up the “uh-oh” music.

Close on the baby sea lion, all bright-eyed innocence and bewilderment. It is what biologists call “fubsy.” The theory has it that we, as humans, are hardwired to protect our progeny, and as a result we are also instinctively protective of creatures that possess attributes common to human infants. Clumsy animals, preferably chubby ones with large eyes, big heads, and short limbs, are said to be fubsy. This baby sea lion is so excessively fubsy that we are convinced it cannot long survive.

And so it is. On a crashing, discordant note, an immense black-and-white killer whale, an orca, makes a run for the shore, powering in through the surf and skidding right up onto the sloping beach. It’s a big male weighing perhaps a ton, and it snaps up the baby sea lion like a canap鈥�, shaking it about this way and that because orcas just hate it when their hors d’oeuvres fight back. The triumphant killer then slides back down the slope of the beach in a series of side-to-side lurches.

Several years ago, the wildlife filmmaker Paul Atkins spent six weeks at Punta Norte, shooting for the BBC series The Trials of Life with David Attenborough. Working with the camera half in and half out of the water, he filmed the orca attacks 鈥� the killer whales charging and the sea lions fleeing. Equally compelling was his footage of the mating behavior of both elephant seals and southern sea lions, which is often brutal and bloody.

This was just one hourlong segment of The Trials of Life, an elegant and thoughtful 12-part series. Sometime after the series aired, video rights were sold to Time-Life in the United States, and that company flogged a home video set in a commercial on late-night television, using the most violent clips from the series. The commercial postulated a natural world consisting entirely of fang and claw and running blood. Hey, folks, it seemed to shout, how’d ya like to see animals you never even knew existed fight to the death before your very eyes? The announcer’s tag line was, “Why do you think they call ’em animals?“

The commercial generated more than $100 million in sales, an astounding figure. Talk show pundits took serious issue with the noisome nature of the commercial, and the BBC regretted letting go of the series for what is reported to have been a paltry sum; meanwhile, millions of people watched a thoughtful David Attenborough presentation, apparently not at all disappointed that it wasn’t, in fact, some kind of natural-history snuff film.

Never mind. I was going to Punta Norte solely for the solace of violence. A project I’d recently submitted had just been seriously shredded and left bleeding on the beach.

A few miles beyond Puerto Piramide, on the very handle of the Vald鈥皊 hatchet, the pavement ends, and I drove my rental car slowly past a series of signs the Argentine government has erected to alert drivers that the gravel roads ahead are, in fact, malignant death traps. Slow down, the signs say. Don’t pass. Respect the speed limit, watch out for animals crossing, slow down when approaching other vehicles, slow down altogether, se卤or, for the love of God and all his saints, we implore you, the dead implore you from their graves …

Another sign, somewhat off the subject, advises “amigo turista” that the entire peninsula is a reserve for the flora and fauna of the area. There is no camping, no hunting, no trekking, no rock collecting, and along many stretches of road, no stopping to get out of the car. Period.

The land itself is littered with sagelike plants and spare grasses. To some eyes, this treeless interior plain seems flat and featureless, though it rises and falls in a series of gentle undulations, like great sighs.

I saw a gray fox moving through the grasses and low, thorny bushes; it paused and stood like a dog on point, staring at a covey of crested tinamous, a bird I would call a partridge. In the distance, vultures drifted on thermals above what I imagined to be my recently eviscerated project. A lesser rhea, South America’s version of the ostrich, trotted along ahead of me at about 15 miles an hour. Guanacos, genus Lama, were present in abundance. They were completely wild, and their heavy-lidded and extravagantly lashed eyes gave them an air of voluptuous indolence. Dust devils spinning over the land kicked up hundred-foot-high funnels of sandy brown soil, which approached one another and then retreated, as pretty as do-si-do.

The land did not fall off to the sea, but rose almost imperceptibly, like the lip on a dinner plate. Clay gave way to sand, and sea grasses rose all about in greenish-brown clumps. I was now moving north along the Atlantic coast, at the head of the Vald鈥皊 hatchet, and decided to pull off at an empty but apparently legal parking lot.

A short path ended at a cliff face perhaps 700 feet high. The headlands, which rose to more than 1,000 feet in some places, were ridged with the mark of retreating seas. They extended 20 miles in either direction, curving about in preposterous looping arcs that formed windswept coves and bays.

I found a spot out of the wind, ate lunch, drank some wine for my health, and contemplated my professional career. It was as if the project manager had said something like, “Look Tim, this Mona Lisa thing is pretty good as far as it goes, but what’s with the smile? Hell, don’t get us wrong, we like enigmatic as much as the next guy, but couldn’t you dial it up or down a little. Make it just a little more accessible?”

My choices were surrender or defeat. I resolved to consider the matter a little later, in the presence of inspirational bellicosity, and settled back to read a bit. Jorge Luis Borges’s The Book of Imaginary Beings seemed appropriate: an Argentine author dealing with strange and often violent creatures born in the minds of the strangest and most violent of all animals. Somewhere just past page 82 (a description of the eastern dragon), I felt myself drifting off into a hazy, somnolent reminiscence.

I was, I imagine, six years old, a fubsy little guy, and my father, who was a font of zoological misinformation, had just informed me that frogs were birds, as in the terrifyingly unforgettable poem, “What a funny little bird the frog are / him ain’t got no tail hardly / and when him jump / him bump his little tail / which him ain’t got no hardly.”

My father also said that in certain isolated lakes set dreaming in remote Wisconsin forests, there lived a rare fish, called the goofang, that swam backward in order to keep water out of its eyes. And the gillygaloo, a bird that nested on steep slopes and laid its eggs square so they wouldn’t roll down the hill.

Many of the creatures in my father’s whimsical menagerie, I now realize, derive from the legends of Paul Bunyan. With the exception of the frog poem, which presents itself unbidden for my contemplation about once every two weeks, I hadn’t thought about the illusory creatures that inhabit the Wisconsin of Remembrance in some time.

The Borges book brought it all back. One of the great authors of the 20th century, Borges stumbled onto mystical Wisconsin fauna about the same time my dad was telling me about the goofang. In 1955, Borges was made director of the Argentine National Library, where he discovered “a kind of lazy pleasure in useless and out of the way erudition.” The Book of Imaginary Beings, then, is an effort to harvest the literature of the world for “strange creatures conceived through time and space by the human imagination.” Described within, one finds banshees, fairies, dragons, gnomes, elves, golems, garudas, doppelg鈥瀗gers, sirens, manticores, minotaurs, and nagas. More to the point, under the heading “Fauna of the United States,” I found listings for the gillygaloo and the goofang.

It was, however, the entry titled “Fauna of Mirrors” that lodged itself like a burr in my imagination, where it took up permanent residence somewhere near the dreaded frog poem. In the legendary times of the Yellow Emperor, so the people of southern China say, the world of mirrors and the world of men were not separated, as they are now. “They were, besides,” Borges wrote, “quite different; neither beings nor colors nor shapes were the same. Both kingdoms lived in harmony; you could come and go through mirrors.” One night the mirror people invaded the earth, and there was bloody warfare, yet the “magic arts of the Yellow Emperor prevailed.” The invaders were imprisoned in their mirrors and “forced to repeat, as though in a dream, all the actions of men.” Spells, however, erode with the passage of time, and soon enough, the story goes, the shapes in the mirror will begin to stir. “Little by little they will differ from us,” Borges wrote, “little by little they will not imitate us. They will break through the barrier of glass and metal and this time will not be defeated.”

As if it wasn’t hard enough to look in the mirror.

During the second apocalyptic attack, the warriors behind the glass, so it’s said, will be joined by “the creatures of the water.” Which, I suppose, would include sea lions, elephant seals, and orcas. Plenty of these were waiting for me 30 miles ahead, at Punta Norte. I expected it to be a sanguinary experience.

There were elephant seal calves at Punta Norte when I visited, but no adults were in evidence. The season of mating and giving birth (September) had long since passed, and adult males and females were out feeding, diving to depths of 4,000 feet while the recently weaned calves basked on the beach, looking, really, like so many blubbery slugs. Very occasionally one of the weanlings moved a dozen feet or so, hunching up and down, in the manner of a caterpillar. I am pleased to report that the precise scientific term used to describe this process is “gallumphing.”

During the mating season, 15-foot-long males, weighing in excess of four tons, hold a section of beach against all comers, fighting savagely to control a harem of females. Altercations between males begin with a gallumphing together, followed by a face-to-face staring contest. And these are seriously goofy faces: A male elephant seal is possessed of an inflatable proboscis that looks a bit like an upraised elephant’s trunk. The combatants stand high on the tips of their front flippers, backs arched, and tower seven feet into the troubled gray sky. The animals collide, belly to belly, like sumo wrestlers, all the while butting heads like bar fighters. The butts become bites to the throat. Mouths agape, both heads rise and fall swiftly, like axes tearing into flesh. There is much blood, and it is usually all over in less than a minute, the loser gallumphing away in adipose ignominy.

On this bright summer day in January, however, the southern sea lions were the show. The males are much heavier in the head and upper torso than their northern cousins and range in color from a golden brown to a deep, almost iridescent black. They have upturned noses and manes sculpted in extravagant layers, a style popular among TV evangelists. In point of fact, the male’s skull carries a ridge of bone that protrudes, front to back, like a Mohawk haircut, and is designed to hold the great weight of muscle running down from the head and neck. It must have been a great strain to sit eyes forward, supporting the enormous weight, and so the males stared into the sky, heads balanced on their collars of muscle and blubber, in attitudes of magnificent disdain.

It used to be thought that female southern sea lions had no choice in mating, but recent research suggests that this is not so. Human male observers might imagine that the female calls out loudly and often in deep appreciation of the male’s copulatory efforts. In fact 鈥� and it took female researchers to divine this 鈥� the female may be drawing attention to herself, saying, in effect, to the other males on the beach, “Hey, if you can get this big lug offa me, I’m yours.” Thus, it’s conjectured, they assure themselves that their progeny will carry the genes of the strongest male in attendance.

The pups, bleating like sheep, frolicked in the water, and there were no orcas to be seen, which was a bit of a relief, to tell the truth. The adult males, called los machos, roared very like lions, and their fights 鈥� there was one every two or three minutes 鈥� were brutal and brief, a matter of seven or eight tearing bites. The combatants, streaming blood, then turned away from each other and sat, back to back, heads in the air, three feet apart, like a couple of 650-pound bookends.

I felt my own chest swelling in what can only be described as a wholly fatuous case of sympathetic testosterone poisoning. It was clear that I couldn’t win my own upcoming battle. So what? I’d inflict what wounds I could and leave ’em bleeding, if only a little bit. And then, by God, I’d turn away from the conflict, streaming blood, but with my head held high in an attitude of magnificent disdain.

On the beach, I saw males at war, females devoted to no one, and the pups all fubsy in the water. It was like looking into a mirror, and the mirror people were us, only we were distorted in strange ways 鈥� why do you think they call us animals? 鈥� and then, it seemed to me, thin cracks started from the center of this warped reflection, and the mirror began to bulge, ever so slightly.

Suddenly, a familiar assertion rose up, entirely unbidden, and fully illuminated the universe as I knew it.

I thought, “What a funny little bird the frog are.” Not that frogs are birds, or that sea lions are humans, but it is surely possible to see them as translucent images shimmering deep within the mirror.

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Worse, I recall with a shudder the cruelty I visited upon its author, a sincere young woman who was a high school composition teacher only a few years out of college. This was at Indiana University, and the woman was taking my summer writing class because, she said, my articles on travel and adventure were popular among her students. She intended to absorb my lectures, such as they were, and convey their lessons to her fellow English teachers. Thus composition instructors could inspire students to produce assignments modeled, to some degree, after the sorts of articles they preferred to read.

In one of my first lectures, I’d said that travel didn’t necessarily involve distance. It was a process of discovery and could as easily be accomplished in one’s hometown as in the Congo Basin. Where might a potential writer find local travel writing ideas? Well, there were dozens of them every week in the local newspaper. And then I assigned the class to address this topic in an essay.

It was my first experience teaching writing of any kind, and I am afraid that clemency and compassion were not then among my small arsenal of virtues.

So there I was, standing in front of a class of 20, all of us holding this woman’s paper as if it had been used some time ago to wrap fish.

“Any comments before we start?” I asked. There was a silence so complete it had an odor about it.

And then鈥攄egenerate beast that I am鈥擨 destroyed this woman, completely, and in public.

I turned to a student named Jones, who was a retired history professor and, it was obvious, a brilliant man. “Mr. Jones,” I said, “could you silently read the opening sentence and tell me what you think it means?” I stood at the front of the class, ostentatiously staring at my watch while he read.

Finally Jones spoke. “I think it means writing teachers ought to read the newspapers,” he declared.

“Me, too,” I said. “But it took you 45 seconds to come to that conclusion. You know why? Because the sentence had to be translated. It is not written in the English language.”

The author sat in stunned silence. She rose slowly, eyes glazed over with what would soon be tears, and commented, quite cogently I thought, on my teaching technique.

“You asshole,” she said.

This was something of a surprise, since the woman was a lay teacher in a Catholic high school. Then the author of the worst lead sentence I’d ever read turned her back to me and walked toward the door. She was attempting to outrun her tears.

“Wait,” I called. “Please. Let’s talk about this. We want to learn how to communicate effectively with people.”

The unfortunate woman stood in the doorway, turned her now tear-stained face to me鈥攖o the class at large鈥攁nd said, “I don’t want to communicate with people, you shithead. I want to have an impact on educators.”

With that she slammed the door, hard, and was gone. Exclamation point.

I was thinking about this peculiar contretemps recently. In fact, I think about it every month or so, especially when things are going well for me and I am in danger of imagining that I might be an exemplary individual. I think about it more intently when I teach travel writing seminars, because I always use that hateful sentence as an example of a bad lead.

Now, where I live, in Montana, there is an infestation of writers. In general, those authors on the western side of the Rocky Mountains are associated in one way or another with the University of Montana and its world-class creative writing program. These men and women generally produce highly literate and well-reviewed works: essays, poems, novels. No writing down to the lowest common denominator for these folks. Because they are partially funded by teaching, they have the luxury to produce literature. Or so I like to believe.

Those of us who live on the arid east side of the mountains, however, make our livings鈥攕uch as they are鈥攄irectly from sales of our books or articles. When our friends to the west accuse us of pandering to the masses, as they habitually do, the usual and purposely ungrammatical reply (attributed, perhaps apocryphally, to Thomas McGuane) goes something like this: “I done a lot of things in my life I’m not proud of, but I never taught no goddamned creative writing.”

Well, I can’t say that anymore. I teach one or two creative writing courses a year, all devoted to travel and/or adventure. For example, I recently returned home from the Book Passage Travel Writers’ Conference in Corte Madera, California. The drive took me through northern Nevada, and then up into southeastern Oregon, and I was looking for a story. Something about travel. Or adventure. Whatever.

In Winnemucca I glanced at the local paper, as I still advise students to do, and found a free lecture to be given that night by “a popular short-wave radio personality.” I would learn “things not taught in school.” The venue turned out to be a church basement, and only about half a dozen people turned up to learn things they hadn’t been taught in school. We discovered that it wasn’t going to be necessary to wait for the Y2K disaster. September 9, 1999鈥�9/9/99鈥攚as pretty much going to be doomsday. It would start with computer crashes; early computer code used four 9s to signal that the program had ended and was to be terminated. Stoplights wouldn’t work. Cars would stall on the interstate, miles from anywhere. Banks would fail. People in the know鈥攚hich now included the half-dozen of us in the church basement鈥攕hould take our money out of the bank, stock up on both food and weapons, and begin digging out a bunker, a defense against the starving hordes. We only had three more days.

Was there a story in the end of the world as we know it? Could be, but I wasn’t inspired, so I drove north, into the parched cowboy country of southeastern Oregon, to Harney County, a land of high-desert sage flats and sparsely timbered mountains, of fleet herds of antelope, and cattle ranches. Harney extends over 10,228 square miles, which makes it the third largest county in America. It is bigger than Rhode Island and Massachusetts combined. A mere 8,000 people are privileged to call Harney County home, fewer than one person per square mile. A good place, I figured, to wait out the end of the world, now just two days hence.

I had what might be the last chocolate malt of my life at the caf茅 in Fields, Oregon, because a sign on the wall said the concoctions were world-famous and because I didn’t want to die with a bad taste in my mouth. Fields is located near the southwestern flank of Steens Mountain, locally called the Steens. The mountain, a checkerboard of BLM, state, and private land, is a 40-mile-long fault block that rises gently from the west to a height of 9,733 feet and then drops off precipitously in what amounts to a sheer cliff face. From a distance it looks like a giant wedge rising up out of the sagebrush.

This great block of land was thrust a mile above the surrounding land by pressures created in the mists of geological time when the earth’s crust cooled. Millions of years later, glaciers formed near the summit of the Steens, and they slid down the western slope of the mountain, carving out verdant U-shaped valleys and deep rocky gorges so elaborately sculpted they seemed the monumental work of some mad, alien culture.

On the day the world was to end, I drove west up the road that leads to the summit of the Steens. Sage-littered antelope country gave way to juniper, and at the higher elevations, aureate aspen groves shivered in a gentle breeze. Toward the summit, aspen gave way to a grassland matted with hearty wildflowers: asters and daisies and lacy white yarrow. September 9 is springtime at 8,000 feet on the Steens.

Presently I found myself at a parking lot a few hundred feet from the top. It was a steep, breathless climb to the summit, but it took only 20 minutes or so. There was no one else there, and I sat and stared down the abrupt and perpendicular eastern edge of the mountain wedge.

I was looking at the Alvord Desert, which was three miles distant and almost exactly one mile below me. It was a round, flat, and sandy alkaline playa, completely uninhabited. Dust devils spun across its surface in strange and contradictory directions. It might have been well over 100 degrees down there on the sand. I, on the other hand, was cold. What had been a gentle breeze a few thousand feet below was now a gusting wind that whistled and boomed over the summit at about 50 miles an hour. The vegetation all around was of the fragile sort one finds in high northern tundra: sparse, fast-growing mosses, orange lichens on the rocks, and dwarf shrubs, inches high, hunkered down in crevices against the wind and cold.

The sky was a cornflower blue, streaked with the long thin clouds that some people call horsetails. A brochure titled “South East Oregon Auto Tour” had promised that, on a clear day, I would be able to see parts of four states. It was a clear day and there were no conflagrations in any of the states that I could see. Late on doomsday afternoon, things were looking just peachy.

Still, I tried to contemplate the death and dissolution of civilization as we know it. Here I was freezing in the tundra and staring down at the desert. I tried out a few lines from a Robert Frost poem, the one about the destruction of the world鈥攊n fire or in ice, whatever, take your pick. But quite frankly, I wasn’t inspired.

In fact, my mind was whirling with student manuscripts I had read over the years.

“There are no words.”

Last year, one of my writers’ workshop students had led off her nonfiction travel piece with that sentence, which I thought might be improved. She wanted to describe her feelings upon first landing in Antarctica. The piece as a whole was awfully good, I thought, combining, as it did, a problematic relationship with her father, who was along on the trip, and the desire to see a massive ice ridge named after her grandfather, who had been in Admiral Byrd’s party. It was a real quest, filled with real emotion, and the woman had the talent to make it work.

But the lead? “There are no words.”

“This,” I suggested to the students at the writer’s workshop, “does not fill the reader with confidence in the writer’s ability to describe the interior or exterior landscape of her journey.” I stifled an impulse to put my objection more bluntly. I would be risking another tearful exit if I said: “There are no words, and here they aren’t.”

I carefully polled the other seven students in the class. “There are no words”鈥攇ood lead, or bad? And the fact is, most of them liked it.

A few nights later, my friend and colleague David Quammen came to my house for dinner. David has won awards for his essays, literary criticism, and science writing; I think he’s won awards he doesn’t even remember anymore, or doesn’t care to talk about because he’s pathologically modest. David’s news was that he was building a new house鈥攑robably, I thought (with that total lack of envy that writers are noted for), to hold all his damn awards.

He asked me how my current writing class was going. I said it was exhausting. I couldn’t get certain manuscripts out of my mind, not because they were so bad, but because they were so nearly good.

David shook his head. He believes that no one can teach writing, that it is a solitary endeavor you do over and over again until you start getting it right.

“Tim,” he said, “I think that if you just went to church and prayed real, real hard, you’d have the same effect on your students.”

The essayist and memoir writer Gretel Ehrlich is of much the same opinion. Once she and I were featured speakers at a writers’ conference in Montana. Gretel, it must be said, is a writer whose books I greatly admire, especially her lyrical evocation of the West in The Solace of Open Spaces. She gave the keynote address to a crowd of eager would-be writers, and was not at all encouraging. Gretel spoke well, and with passion. Writing, she said, cannot be taught. Some teachers, she said, will tell you that there are matters of craft you can learn. This, she averred, is not so.

“Any questions or comments?” she asked at the conclusion of her remarks.

The students, who’d all paid a substantial amount of money to learn to write, sat in a kind of poleaxed silence. Now, my own opinion is that elements of technique鈥攎atters of structure and organization, lead-ins and walk-offs鈥攃an indeed be taught but are the only substantive principles professionals can impart to beginning writers.

So, in the silence following Gretel’s request for comments, I raised my hand and said, “I thought the piece you read was well crafted.”

And now Gretel Ehrlich, in company with a certain Indiana Catholic high school lay teacher, thinks I’m a dickhead.

The sun set over Steens Mountain, and I drove down to the remote ranching town of Burns, where I lingered for days, looking for stories. As usual, my initial prioritization was to peruse, for context analysis, the local papers, and taking it seriously. It was in one of these publications that I finally found a short article in the foreign news section that fired my imagination.

It seemed that three cult leaders in East Java were beaten to death by disaffected followers after their 9/9/99 doomsday prediction failed to materialize. The cult members had been told to sell their possessions and to prepare for the end of the world at 9 a.m. on September 9. But the day came and went without incident. The sun rose on September 10 and, according to Saadi Arsam, village chief of Sukmajaya, East Java, “The members were really mad.”

I wondered whether the short-wave radio personality was still in Winnemucca or had gone into hiding. It might be worth driving back and looking for him.

“Hey, what happened to doomsday?” would be my first question.

And, if he was smart, the disgraced doom-monger would decline comment. Because, well, sometimes there are no words. Really.

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SO THERE’S THIS IRANIAN farmer, a great big strapping bodybuilder guy who lives in a tiny village high in the Elburz Mountains, and he’s working out in a makeshift gym, hoisting homemade weights made from five-gallon jerry cans filled with cement. I’m the first American Parviz Kiai has ever met, and he wants to shake my hand, despite the fact that my mission in Iran is to visit the castles of the Assassins, a radical Islamic sect that was, arguably, the first terrorist group in history. This is an endeavor some think unlikely to redound to Iran’s acclaim or glory.

Iran with a human face: wrestler Parviz Kiai flexes for his fan club.

A grizzled mule driver from Garmrud.

The Elburz Mountains rise over Tehran.

Shahram “Shroom” Yassemi leads the pack train out of Pichibon.

High lonesome: a farmer and her mule near Alamut.

Greetings from Assassin country: the trekking crew leaves Sharestan.

Kicking back in the Elburz: left to right, Shahram, the author, and Abbas Jafari meadow-camping at 9,000 feet.

No matter. Parviz motions to the wall of his gym, where there are several photos taped up on the adobe. Affixed highest is the grim and glowering countenance of the Ayatollah Khomeini, whose death in 1989 is mourned each year on an official national holiday called The Heart-Rending Departure of the Great Leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Below the defunct ayatollah are dozens of photos clipped from American muscle magazines: huge, freakish steroidal monsters festooned with enormous and appalling dirigibles of muscles. It was, I thought, a wall of dueling Great Satans, an arresting graphic representation of Iran’s current identity crisis. It’s true that angry demonstrators in Iran’s capital, Tehran, had just been out in the street chanting “Death to America.” On the other hand, this is the same city that held a candlelight vigil after the September 11 attacks to express its sympathy and support for America. It’s the same nation that has voted overwhelmingly for political and economic reform in the past two presidential elections. But it’s also a place with a theocratic government that President Bush says is part of an “axis of evil,” a place where聴according to a U.S. National Security Council spokesman聴”hard-line unaccountable elements…facilitated the movement of Al Qaeda terrorists escaping from Afghanistan,” and where “an unelected few…have used terrorism as an instrument of policy.”

It was the Assassins who pioneered the concept of terrorism as an instrument of policy back between the 11th and 13th centuries. Murdering prominent officials and clerics, of course, was nothing new. People have been whacking kings and emperors since the dawn of recorded history. But early-day assassination had usually been a one-time deal: a Brutus and some conspirators taking out a Caesar. The Assassins repeatedly and systematically killed their enemies with guile and stealth, striking them inside their own strongholds, and used the threat of imminent assassination to bend officials to their will.

In fact, the English word assassin is rooted in the name of the sect, and the Assassins, or so the legends would have us believe, committed their murders under the influence of hashish. They were called hashishiyyin, the Arabic word for hash smokers. The cannabis suggestion invariably generates skepticism among the ranks of those who have inhaled. Ruthless killers, honed to razor-sharp perfection, taking big hits off the bong? Kind of hard to picture.

It was Marco Polo who told their story best. His version of the Assassin legend goes like this:

The leader of the sect聴the Old Man of the Mountain聴”caused a certain valley between two mountains to be enclosed,” and this area he turned into a garden, with every variety of fruit, runnels of milk and honey and wine, not to mention “the most beautiful damsels in the world.” The Old Man, Marco Polo insists, fashioned the garden after the Islamic version of paradise, and “no man was allowed to enter the Garden save those whom he intended to be his Ashishin.”

Young men who became inductees were drugged during a meal, then fell into a deep sleep, and woke in the garden, “where the ladies and damsels dallied with them to their hearts’ content.” Drugged again, a young man woke this time in front of the Old Man of the Mountain, who would say, “‘Go thou and slay So and So; and when thou returnest my angels shall bear thee to paradise.'” That is, they’d get to live in the garden. And if the young man were to die in the assassination attempt, he’d end up in the other, heavenly paradise anyway. It was a kind of win-win situation for the medieval dagger-toting terrorist. “And in this manner,” Marco Polo states, “the Old One got his people to murder any one whom he desired to get rid of.”

This is a great story, lacking only historical veracity. It is more likely, as Bernard Lewis suggests in his 1967 book The Assassins, that orthodox Muslims, writing about a sect they found heretical, used the Arabic word hashishiyyin specifically because it was a term of popular abuse meant to ridicule people who behaved in an outrageous manner.

The story of the Assassins has always fascinated me, and I said as much on my Iranian visa application. There wasn’t much time to wonder if the mention of Assassins might prejudice my case, because the visa came through almost immediately, and I left for Iran a day later, before anyone could change his mind.

Abbas Jafari met me and photographer Rob “the Duck” Howard at the Tehran airport. Abbas, 40, was a guide and climbing pal of some American mountaineers who had helped make the introduction. He wasn’t physically imposing, not at first. He may have been five inches over five feet tall, and I doubt he weighed more than 135 pounds. But his hands were big and scarred, like a rock climber’s, and his wrists and forearms were huge. There was something about the guy.

“He’s a badass,” Rob said.

Little did we know.

LET’S SAY YOUR MOTHER HAS SUFFERED a terrible accident聴it doesn’t matter what聴and she is bleeding to death in the backseat of your car. The hospital is a 30-minute drive away. The streets are wide, two or three lanes in either direction, and they are filled sidewalk-to-sidewalk with slowly moving cars. It is the worst traffic jam you have ever seen in your life. Your mother has ten minutes to live. How will you negotiate these gridlocked streets as your mother’s eyes dull and death steals up on her?

That’s how everyone in Iran drives, all the time.

Tehran’s traffic is the most terrifying in the world, and simply crossing the street is an exercise in daring and judgment involving several very real life-and-death decisions all happening more or less instantaneously. Urban planning doesn’t exist: There are no underpasses or overpasses or pedestrian crossings. You just stroll out into the street and move into the laneless chaos of oncoming cars. Sometimes pedestrians gather along the sidewalk聴it doesn’t have to be at a crossing聴and then, as if on cue, they move boldly into traffic, 20 or 30 people at a time, challenging death as drivers attempt to intimidate their way through the herd.

Abbas grabbed my arm and maneuvered me into the rush of cars. It was the most frightening thing I did the entire time I was in Iran: cross the street.

We stopped in a teahouse to discuss the trip. First, we would drive to the vicinity of the Assassins’ castles, then later we’d trek over the mountains by way of Salambar Pass. Abbas spoke English with the precision of Inspector Clouseau, and at times his odd iterations approached poetry. At one point we paused to watch a defeated and mournful-looking woman walk by outside. “The lady,” he said, “is so sad eyes.”

The lady with the sad eyes reminded me that we would be traveling in the footsteps of the indomitable Freya Stark, one of the great travelers of the last century. Between 1930 and 1932, Stark explored Iran (then called Persia) and during her first expedition concentrated her efforts on finding the remains of the castles of the Assassins. Alone, and with very little money, Stark arranged for guides, for donkeys to carry her gear, and then she set off through the passes of the Elburz Mountains, looking for ruins in the place where terror was born.

In 1934 Freya Stark published her account of the journey under the irresistible title The Valleys of the Assassins. Her writing is witty, erudite, wonderfully descriptive, and suggests that she was a woman whose sense of humor served her well in the face of guns, official ineptitude, thuggery, and a few pesky deadly diseases. She was possessed of that uniquely congenial British ability to appreciate that the most appalling dilemma would eventually devolve into a rather amusing anecdote. She wasn’t plucky, not in the ordinary sense: Freya Stark was fearless and daring and courageous. T. E. Lawrence himself called her “a gallant creature.” Dame Freya Stark died a knight of the British Empire in 1993, at the age of 101. She is one of my heroes.

But why on earth would a brilliant woman choose to travel alone, in truly dangerous and fearful situations? Jane Fletcher Geniesse, author of Passionate Nomad: The Life of Freya Stark, gives us one hint. At the age of 13, Freya, visiting a factory in Italy, caught her long hair in a flywheel and was yanked viciously to the ceiling. An onlooking official, rather than cut the power, pulled her free by her ankles. She lost much of her hair, part of an ear, and her right eyelid in the accident. This disfiguring disaster colored Dame Freya’s life: She was, Geniesse declares, “never able to overcome a dread that she might not be attractive to the opposite sex.”

国产吃瓜黑料 the teahouse, a teenage couple strolled by, holding hands. Four years ago, Abbas said, you wouldn’t have seen that. Reform is measured in such matters. These days, for instance, women are not obliged to wear the head-to-toe tentlike garment called a chador. Government policy does, however, require that all women seen in public, even Western visitors, wear a scarf and a trench-coat-like affair called a manteau. Legs must be covered, but in a recent bit of giddy reform, women are now allowed to appear in public without socks. Some young women, I noticed, were pushing their new freedom: They were wearing sandals that displayed painted toenails.

Sixty-five percent of Iran’s population is under 25 years old. During the Iran-Iraq war, which started in 1980 and lasted ten years, more than 600,000 Iranians died; people were encouraged to have children. Lots of them. And they did. The teens and twentysomethings don’t remember the 1979 Islamic revolution that did away with the shah and his secret police, the SAVAK. They don’t remember the hostage crisis, in which militant Iranian students held 52 Americans from the U.S. embassy for 444 days. Young people want to listen to loud music and dance and go to parties. All the other kids are doing it. They know this; they see it every day on illegal but ubiquitous satellite TV.

So the government is being pushed toward reform by kids and by TV. It is said those who advocated reform were seduced by the fashions and the media of the West. They were “West-toxified.” I asked Abbas, who had switched from fighting in combat to guiding French folks and Italians and Germans and Americans, if he thought he’d been West-toxified.

During the revolution in 1979, he’d been an Islamic idealist, involved with a mosque school. Then he volunteered to teach soldiers mountaineering techniques. He served in the war with Iraq. Eventually he trained as a commando and worked for four years on the border of Pakistan, intercepting massive drug shipments. He spent some time undercover. Of the 24 men he trained with, 18 died.

In all, he’d spent eight years in the army. It wasn’t that Abbas was West-toxified; he’d just gotten tired of killing people.

AND SO THERE WE WERE, the next day, Abbas and Rob and I, packed into a new four-wheel-drive Nissan, barreling north down the road toward the valleys of the Assassins, while cars ahead of us and behind us and on all sides of us emitted whole blizzards of candy wrappers and half-eaten fruit and yogurt cartons and nutshells and sometimes even entire newspapers.

Abbas was in some distress about this. “Always,” he said, “I care about the garbage.”

There was a lot of it to care about.

Abbas’s assistant and our interpreter for the trip, Shahram Yassemi, 33, was staring out into the swirling storm of refuse in a small agony of embarrassment. Shahram is considered “Americanized.” He left Iran at 15 and studied at the University of Wisconsin, where he was known as “Sham,” “Shroom,” and “Shroomer.” Later he went to Oregon State University and studied forestry, which he didn’t like because “it was all about logging and road building.” Eventually he got a master’s degree in forest resources at the University of Idaho. Shahram wanted to use his knowledge to put together small-scale sustainable forestry systems in developing countries. He was generally proud of Iran and Iranians and was acutely sensitive about environmental issues.

“So, Shahram,” I said, as Reza, our driver, battered his way through flying apricot pits and pistachio shells, “your typical Iranian has a hard time differentiating between a public highway and a public dump site.”

“We definitely need some serious public education,” Shahram allowed.

“Hey, Duck,” I said to Rob. “Shahram thinks maybe they ought to have an anti-litter campaign. Here. In Iran.”

The Duck was dumbfounded. “You’re kidding.”

“Really. He thinks his fellow countrymen may actually be a bit profligate with their rubbish.”

“Profligate!” the Duck said. “Rubbish.”

“Hey,” Shahram said, “why don’t you guys bite me.”

Abbas was generally nervous about this kind of exchange. Courtesy was the convention in Iran. But Shahram had fallen in with American and Canadian skiers, with backcountry climbers and the like. In grad school he had spent a couple of winters living in his car (a $300 Toyota) and skiing at resorts like Crested Butte and Jackson Hole. His family hoped he might get a degree in engineering. Some kind of doctorate. Instead he was a grad-school ski bum and had become expert in the American outdoor tradition of giving the other guys a whole bunch of shit.

“So,” Abbas said, obviously changing the subject, “looking now seeing Elburz Mountains.” We were rising into a series of hot and spare and treeless hills. The grass was sunbaked brown. It was a kind of vertical and merciless Bakersfield, and it just kept going up: 6,000 feet, 7,000, 8,000. We came over the pass in the relative cool of the late afternoon. There was a river far below, the Shahrud, which looked, on my Iranian map, to run about a hundred miles, generally in an east-to-west direction. The land along its banks was a brilliant, nearly iridescent, green.

The valley below was prime Assassin country. The sect had had castles up all the drainages that fed the Shahrud, more than 50 of them in the area that was called the River Bank, or the Rudbar. The River Bank is set square in the middle of the northern Elburz and is protected from the plains to the south and east by mountains rising precipitously from the desert; it is also sheltered from the Caspian Sea, to the north, by a crest of craggy, glaciated summits.

We dropped to the rice paddies along the river. About 600 feet above, I could see the shattered walls of a castle undulating along the contours of the hillside.

Abbas got out and began climbing up a steep rock-strewn slope, and it became clear, on this first negligible jaunt, that Abbas and Shahram could climb circles around the Duck and me. The gravel field got steeper toward the summit, and we passed through stones piled where a gate might once have been. This was the Assassin castle of Lammasar.

The Assassin theology is highly complex, and the most simpleminded of explanations would be to say that it is all about succession. When the Prophet Muhammad died in 632, he left no clear instructions about who was to come after him. Abu Bakr, one of the first of the Prophet’s converts, was appointed ruler. A dissident group believed that Ali, the Prophet’s cousin and son-in-law, was the obvious choice. He was, in fact, the fourth caliph, or divinely appointed leader. But Ali was assassinated, and Husayn, his son and successor, was killed in the battle of Karbala.

As time progressed, the Islamic orthodoxy accepted the idea that the office of religious leader could be largely an elective one. The Party of Ali, the Shia, clung to the idea of succession through the line of the Prophet. Iranians are mostly Shiites and are sometimes called Twelvers because they believe there have been 12 imams, descendants of Ali, the last of whom is in hiding and is called the Awaited One.

The Assassins split with the Shia in 765, following the death of Ja’far al-Sadiq, the sixth imam after Ali. The group that was to originate the concept of organized political terror supported al-Sadiq’s eldest son, Isma’il, as imam. But the great majority of Shiites accepted Musa, Isma’il’s younger brother. And that issue聴who was to succeed Ja’far al-Sadiq聴put the supporters of Isma’il in direct confrontation with Twelver Shiites.

The Ismailis were a reasonably successful sect for about 300 years, rising and falling in prominence. Sometime in the late 11th century, a remarkably able and frightening man named Hasan-i Sabbah reinvigorated the faith and, through stealth, took over the castle of Alamut, in the middle of the River Bank area. It was from this fortress, Alamut, that the Old Man of the Mountain sent out his Assassins.

As I pondered Islamic history on our climb to the castle, the Duck and Shahram exchanged an assortment of sarcasms, as Americans will. “I bet,” the Duck said, “you’ve never even seen your girlfriend’s hair.”

“No,” Shahram said, “but the chadors with the cutaway nipples are fun.”

The castle had been built into the ridgetop, but there wasn’t much left of it. The walls had once enclosed a space that Freya Stark thought to be about 1,500 feet by 600 feet. What we saw, at the north entrance, were thistles growing in a pile of rubble. There were several stone cisterns, large rectangular holes, one of them at least 25 feet deep, chiseled out of the solid rock: pools to supply the castle in the event of siege.

Marco Polo mangled the truth in his account of the Assassins, but it is a fact that Hasan-i Sabbah was the Assassin master and that he killed some of the most highly placed of his rivals. The initial victim was the vizier Nizam al-Mulk, the Turkish sultan’s chief counselor, killed by dagger blows on October 16, 1092.

“It was the first of a long series of such attacks,” writes Bernard Lewis in The Assassins, “which, in a calculated war of terror, brought sudden death to sovereigns, princes, generals, governors, and even divines who had condemned the Ismaili doctrines.”

The prime tactic was to place an agent, an assassin, in the target’s retinue. Sooner or later, a sultan would ask a stable hand what he thought of a horse, and the answer might be a dagger to the heart. The weapon was always a dagger, and the assassin seldom escaped with his life. No potentate was safe. Many felt it necessary to wear chain-mail shirts at all times.

At the lower, southern end of the castle, there were several nearly intact walls, along with a few turrets and towers. The terrain below was steep enough that a rider would have to lead a horse. A soldier on foot would strain toward the wall, stumbling with his weapons. I stared at a broken tower and the crumbling ramparts built into the sinuous bend of the slope and could see, for a moment, the terrible symmetry that was Lammasar. The castle was absolutely impregnable. It could not be taken, ever, by anyone.

The wind had sprung up, and it whistled through the rubble, as if to emphasize the complete devastation on all sides. There was a lesson here, moving with the wind through the rubble. We camped that night near a small lake, and Abbas moved about, picking up litter here and there, but there was almost more trash than grass.

“Always,” he said, “I care about the garbage.”

“Then how come,” I asked, “we’re camped in a dump?”

Abbas said, “Is campsite.”

“He’s giving you shit,” Shahram explained.

“I see,” Abbas said, but he really didn’t get it at all.

THE BEST STORY WOULD BE that the Mongols, having lost a few officials to Assassins, set out to destroy the sect and, with it, the very concept of terrorism. The fact is that the grandson of Genghis Khan, H眉leg眉 Khan, who wished to be called the World Conqueror, had already subdued most of Turkey and southern Persia before he took on the Assassins, entrenched as they were in their mountain fastness. The supreme leader of the Assassins in the year 1256 was Rukn al-Din Khurshah, who had installed himself in the unconquerable cliff-face castle called Maymun-Dez.

The Persian historian Juvayni, whose job it was to glorify H眉leg眉, describes the Mongol advance on Maymun-Dez: “They set out…like a flood in their onrush and like a flame of fire in their ascent; and their horses’ hooves kicked dust into the eyes of Time.”

Maymun-Dez was formidable, no doubt about it. We had walked up to it through the village of Shamskalayeh, a jumble of adobe houses, where old men stared at us from glassless windows. As we ascended, the trails degenerated into goat tracks and then disappeared, and I found myself crawling on all fours. Abbas and Shahram took the hill upright, kicking dust into the eyes of Tim.

Presently we arrived at the base of a vertical rock wall. There was some beige plaster stonework on the face of the red rock, and I could see a number of caves set about halfway to the summit. Abbas had climbed up there a few times. These caves, he said, had been carved out to form enormous rooms, and then more rooms on top of rooms, which must have been connected, one to the other, by wooden ladders. A spring near the summit of the cliff fed water to the castle. From where I stood, at the base of the cliff, I could see a man-made walkway between the two largest cave rooms. Abbas wouldn’t hear of a climb to the caves: We had no ropes, and he himself wouldn’t go into those echoing rooms ever again. The caves were collapsing up there.

In November 1256, the Mongols laid siege to Maymun-Dez. They confounded the Assassins with their new and terrible weapons technology. The kaman-i-qav was a huge crossbow-like device capable of firing flaming javelins well over a mile. Juvayni relates that “of the devil-like Heretics, many soldiers were burnt by those Meteoric shafts.”

Rukn al-Din surrendered and sought terms from the Mongols. H眉leg眉 ordered him to command the surrender and destruction of all the remaining Assassin castles. Most garrisons obeyed. After Rukn al-Din had served his purpose, he was “kicked to a pulp then put to the sword.” The castles were looted and systematically destroyed. All the captured Assassins were to be executed. One source estimates the number of Ismailis killed at 100,000. As Juvayni put it: “Of him [Rukn al-Din] and his stock, no trace was left, and he and his kindred became but a tale on men’s lips.”

In fact, there are Ismailis today, mostly centered in India, Pakistan, and cities on the Indian Ocean, and their spiritual leader is the present Aga Khan. The Ismailis are among the most pacific and tolerant sects in Islam. Many of them are shopkeepers in Bombay.

Back in the days of the Assassins, however, Alamut, the castle of the feared Hasan-i Sabbah, was the headquarters of the sect. It wasn’t far from the castles we’d already seen, but unlike Lammasar or Maymun-Dez, there were road signs all the way. Set on a massive knob of rock that Freya Stark said looked like the bow of a ship seen from the side, Alamut rises 800 feet above the town of Gazorkhan, which was bustling with foreign visitors.

In the past few years, Alamut has become a tourist destination. There was a series of excavated steps leading to the top of the ship rock. The path plunged through a tunnel of stone and emptied out onto a narrow ridge where there were broken turrets and tumbledown walls and a number of cisterns carved out of the solid rock. The Iranian Cultural Heritage Department was restoring some of the walls and towers.

There was no place that might have been a heavenly hashish-fired garden. If the fabled paradise ever existed, it must have lain below, in Gazorkhan, probably next to the bus station聴all in all a rather rinky-dink heaven on earth. Bernard Lewis, in assessing the Assassins’ place in the history of Islam, assures readers that the movement was regarded as a profound threat to the existing order, but what he finds most significant is “their final and total failure. They did not overthrow the existing order; they did not even succeed in holding a city of any size.” And their followers, he notes, “have become small and peaceful communities of peasants and merchants.”

That is the lesson of the castles.

IN GARMRUD, where the Shahrud pours out of the mountains, we rented some mules and prepared to take a run at the peaks, moving north, over passes that rose to 10,000 feet, before dropping to the Caspian Sea, the world’s largest lake, at 92 feet below sea level. We were following, more or less, in the footsteps of Freya Stark.

While Abbas negotiated for mules, the Duck and I spoke with a variety of locals. They’d seen any number of Europeans before, but they’d never met any Americans, a fact that made us momentary celebrities. Did we like Iran? Had we been treated well? We answered in the positive. The men shook our hands and then, in what I found to be a singularly emotive gesture, placed their right hands over their hearts.

The mules, three of them, were loaded, pulled along by two boys, one about 14, the other a few years younger. We set off walking along the Shahrud, through a canyon of towering rock. We were strolling along a dirt road, newly built and as yet unopened. Suddenly a purple Paykan, the Iranian national car, a kind of failed Fiat, sped past. The driver must have skirted the roadblock below. He slammed on his brakes and nearly backed into us. There was a brief, argumentative negotiation with our young mule drivers. The driver of the purple Paykan and the four people with him wanted to rent our mules, which were the last ones available in Garmrud. The driver didn’t care what we had paid, he’d double the price. The boys, to their credit, refused.

Abbas turned off the road, and we began rising into the Elburz at the seriously aerobic and slightly hysterical pace of more than 1,000 vertical feet an hour. We negotiated a number of cruel switchbacks and scree slopes until, about 2,000 feet above Garmrud, we arrived at the village of Pichibon, whose name means “the end of the switchbacks.” There were a few adobe homes, and some men in cowboy hats loading mules. It had a kind of American Southwest flavor to it, except that all the women were dressed modestly in approved Islama-wear instead of turquoise and denim. One of them asked us if we had seen her relatives on the trail. It became clear that these were the people in the purple Paykan who had tried to buy the mules out from under us. Shahram said we’d seen them, and they needed mules. Two boys and four mules were dispatched to pick them up.

We camped in an enormous grassy meadow at about 9,000 feet. Spread out on all sides of us was the unexpected splendor of the Elburz Mountains, rising in this neighborhood to more than 12,000 feet. Glaciers glittered on the shoulders of the highest peaks; it was an entire Switzerland of show-offy, snowcapped summits.

Abbas cooked a dinner of rice and canned stew, then tried to pile my plate, and the Duck’s, completely full, leaving almost nothing for himself or Shahram. This is a kind of self-abnegating variety of well-mannered courtesy so common in Iran that it has a name: ta’arof. Over the past week, it had become clear that unless we absolutely refused extra food, the Iranians would never eat.

“No,” I said to Abbas. I said it three times, until Shahram said, “Don’t ta’arof.”

“I’m not ta’arofing,” I said. “You’re ta’arofing.”

“Am not,” he said, both of us ta’arofing our asses off.

THE NEXT DAY SHAHRAM, the Duck, and I climbed a modest mountain nearby. I suppose it was somewhere near 11,500 feet high, a little more than 2,000 feet above our camp. Shepherds we met along the way called it Mam Ruzu. The face was a forbidding wall of overhanging crags and vertical columns and crumbling rock. The climb was potentially deadly and required great skill, not to mention near-imbecilic audacity.

So we walked up the sloping back side, among sagelike flowering bushes watered by the snowmelt from a few late drifts. Snow-crested mountains soared all about and the sun reflected off the glaciers like so many mirrors. We summited, then found a way down on the east side of the face, skiing in our boots through steeply sloping scree fields that led eventually into decorative and absurdly ornate fields of wildflowers. There were yellow buttercups and purple and white flowers I couldn’t identify, interspersed in various swirling patterns. I saw there the elements of complex design so appealing in Persian rugs or in the tile work of various mosques.

It was still several miles across a vast marshy meadow to camp, and when we dropped over the lip of an undulating swale, six or seven huge shaggy dogs, each weighing in excess of 100 pounds, surrounded us. There were a lot of teeth in evidence, and perhaps a thousand sheep and goats grazing nearby. A shepherd shouted a command and the dogs dispersed, grumbling among themselves. Many of them, I noticed now, were pretty banged-up. They walked with an assortment of limps.

The dogs were a kind of sag gorg, a wolf dog, and some wore thick leather collars with metal studs on them, because wolves always go for the neck in a fight.

“How many times a year do they fight the wolves?” I asked.

“Five or six times a night,” the shepherd said. It seemed an implausible number to me, but then again, it did explain why half the dogs were limping.

Later we watched seven shepherds milk their animals, all in a chaos of dust and finely organized confusion. Shahram translated a few questions back and forth. Later, on the way back to camp, Shahram said, “You are the first Americans they have ever seen. They wanted to know how relations were between our countries.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Could be better. I said that you guys came to meet the people and see the culture here. I said that was good, because the image Americans have of Iran is all desert and camels and terrorists. I said what you were doing would help ignorant people.” We walked on a bit. “Of course I was bullshitting.”

“Actually,” I said, “you weren’t.”

AS WE MADE OUR WAY over Salambar Pass and began the long drop down along the Seh Hezar River, I asked Abbas how he’d started climbing. In school, he said, a teacher noticed he had talent as an artist and gave him a set of watercolor paints. He used to go into the mountains to work and eventually the paints fell aside. He started climbing, and he got good at it.

His skills were valuable in the 1980s. Abbas taught soldiers survival during the Iran-Iraq war. He clearly didn’t like to talk about the combat, but I asked. Sometimes, he said, it was too easy. The enemy would be camped under a cliff, thinking they were sheltered, but the Iranians could simply rappel down the cliff faces and slaughter the Iraqis in their sleep. Somehow, Abbas’s idealism began to fade.
“What changed you?” I asked.

“Ah, es-slowly is coming the hard questions.”

There were many things that contributed to the transformation. Abbas said he’d go through a dead Iraqi’s pockets and find pictures of the soldier’s family, his wife, his children. “I think: He is a man, like me,” he said. “I don’t want to kill.” He paused and added, “My government going one way. I going different.”

Then there were the people he’d guided, or met climbing on his own journeys. Abbas has a globe in his home, and he looks at it often. He points out to himself the countries where his friends live. Now, he said, in his fractured and poetic English, “I am more interested in relations between people.”

“Did you know,” I said, “that today is the independence day of my country?”

Abbas stopped, shook my hand, then placed his right hand over his heart in that gesture I always found so curiously affecting. It was the only time on the whole trip I saw him do it.

We came up over the pass and looked into a huge green amphitheater, entirely treeless, entirely green. It seemed to curve around us for 10 or 20 miles in either direction, and Abbas said, “Next year is coming road.” The road, being built now, would bring electricity to the small villages on this ancient trail from the valley of the Shahrud, over Salambar Pass, and down to the Caspian Sea.

“Is sad,” Abbas said. “But they need.” Last year, he told me, a lady took ill and died on the donkey ride down to the road. “So they need.”

I suppose. Still, it was impossible to look at the vast curve of earth funneling down into a river gorge and not grieve for the land. “I sad,” Abbas said, “because maybe somebodies, he have a picnic.”

And I saw the world clothed in rubbish from horizon to horizon, as Abbas did at that moment. “Always,” Abbas said again, “I worry about the garbage.”

Just below the pass, in the town of Salange Anbar, we met Parviz, the weight lifter who’d decorated his wall in photos. The trail broadened after Salange Anbar, and we followed it down the Seh Hezar to a paved road where we took a bus to the Caspian Sea resort town of Ramsar. The world’s largest lake looked gray and dismal in a stiff wind. Women were required to dress modestly, in chadors or manteaus, which took some of the joy out of the beach experience.

Two days later, back in Tehran, we attended a party at an apartment owned by a man named Ali, a friend of Abbas. We ate various fruits and discussed the state of adventure, such as it was, in Iran. The whole concept of the recreational use of the backcountry was so new in Iran that the men present liked to joke that they had fathered the entire idea. Abbas was “the father of Iranian climbing.” Shahram was the “father of Iranian telemarking.” A man named Kazem Bayram, whom I knew to be one of the best breath-hold divers in the world, was the “father of Iranian diving.” Ali’s wife, who was scarfless and dressed in a sleeveless blouse聴women are required to cover up only in public聴said that she was the “father of sitting around worrying about these idiots when they’re gone.”

The day I got home, President Bush gave a speech praising reform in Iran, a move that predictably provoked new “Death to America” demonstrations in the streets of Tehran. Change comes slowly, world peace is a good thing, and I’d just as soon all terrorists joined the Assassins, of whom, Juvayni gleefully wrote, “no trace was left.” I was doing my part, as I saw it, buying every muscle magazine on the stands and mailing them off, as promised, to a bodybuilder in the mountain village of Salange Anbar. I think Freya Stark would have approved, and it was, after all, the least I could do for my new pals, the fathers of Iranian adventure.

The post Everybody Loves the Assassins appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

We’ve learned a lot in a quarter-century of roaming the planet. This month, to kick off 国产吃瓜黑料‘s silver anniversary, we’ve chosen 25 bold, epic, soul-nourishing experiences that every true adventurer must seek out—from the relatively plush and classic to the cutting-edge and hard-core. All that’s left for you is the easy part:

How do you put this thing in reverse? Heavy traffic in Kaokoveld, Namibia

GET OUT THERE





Our resident gadabout’s cri de coeur to get you off your duff and out chasing your dreams.
BY TIM CAHILL
Follow in the Footsteps of Greatness, Make a First Ascent, Get Lost in Your Own Backyard


Live a South Seas Fantasy, Track Big Game on Safari, Scare Yourself Witless on a Class V River


See the World from Behind Bars, Journey to the Ends of the Earth, Paddle with the Whales


Free Your Soul on a Pilgrimage, Explore Majestic Canyons, Help Save an Endangered Species


Master the Art of the F-Stop, Ski Infinite Backcountry, Take an Epic Trek


Get Culture Shocked, Go Polar, Stay Alive!


Swim with Sharks, Pursue Lost Horizons, Behold the Wonders of the Cosmos


Jump Down the Food Chain, Gallop Through the Surf, Cast Away in Paradise, Break On Through to the Other Side

Exotic Places Made Me Do It

Meteora Monestery, Greece

“A SUBMERSIBLE VOYAGE under the North Pole?” The radio host was leafing through a copy of 国产吃瓜黑料, reading off destinations and activities in tones of rising incredulity. “Trekking with pygmies in the Central African Republic? Backpacking in Tasmania? Swimming with sharks in Costa Rica?”


Talk-show hosts, I’ve discovered, often think confrontational interviews are audience builders. I said that the magazine strives to put together the ultimate traveler’s dream catalog. It wasn’t all about diving with sharks.


“A dogsled expedition in Greenland?”


“For instance,” I said.


“My idea of a vacation,” the guy declared, “is a nice oceanfront resort, a beach chair, and a pi-a colada.”


“Mine, too,” I said. “For a day or two. Then I’d go bug spit. I’d feel like I was in prison. I’d want to do something.”


Who, the host insisted, wants to, say, trek across Death Valley? His listeners wanted to lie on the beach and drink sweet rum concoctions.


The urge to grab the guy by the collar and slap him until his ears rang was nearly overwhelming.


But I didn’t. “I think that’s a serious misconception about who listens to this show,” I replied. It was, I thought, a serious misconception about human beings altogether.


So I did my best to defend all of us who aren’t in our right minds. These—I said of the destinations and adventures mentioned—are dreams. Everybody has them, though they often come in clusters when we’re younger. A lot of us first aspired to far-ranging travel and exotic adventure early in our teens; these ambitions are, in fact, adolescent in nature, which I find an inspiring idea. Adolescence is the time in our lives when we are the most open to new ideas, the most idealistic. Thus, when we allow ourselves to imagine as we once did, we are not at all in our right minds. We are somewhere in a world of dream, and we know, with a sudden jarring clarity, that if we don’t go right now, we’re never going to do it. And we’ll be haunted by our unrealized dreams and know that we have sinned against ourselves gravely.


Or something like that. Who knows? I was just sitting around talking with some doofus on drive-time radio.


Then it was time to take phone calls. It would be satisfying to report that each and every caller agreed with me, that they excoriated the host for blatant imbecility, and that the host, convinced of my superior perspicacity, apologized then and there.


It didn’t happen quite like that. But many of the listeners did, in fact, reject the pi-a-colada paradigm. Several seemed positively gung ho about the idea of travel under stressful conditions in remote areas. It gave me hope that somebody might even call in and ask The Question—the one that anyone who’s been writing about travel for any length of time gets asked. And then someone did:


“Can I carry your bags?”


THE MAJORITY OF THE PEOPLE I meet and chat with have their own peculiar travel fantasy. The dream varies from individual to individual, but it almost never involves seven endless scorching days in a beach chair.


Sometimes, after public-speaking engagements, it is my pleasure to sit and sign books. I speak with people then, and often they tell me about these fantasies, sometimes in hushed voices, as if the information were embarrassing and someone might hear. I suspect they fear the scorn of people like the radio talk-show host. They imagine they will be thought immature. Adolescent.


That’s why the words “Let’s go!” are intrinsically courageous. It’s the decision to go that is, in itself, entirely intrepid. We know from the first step that travel is often a matter of confronting our fear of the unfamiliar and the unsettling—of the rooster’s head in the soup, of the raggedy edge of unfocused dread, of that cliff face that draws us willy-nilly to its lip and forces us to peer into the void.


I’m convinced that we all have the urge in some degree or another, even the least likely among us. And we’ve never needed to respect and reward that urge more than we do now. Consider the case of my literary agent, Barbara Lowenstein, a stylish New Yorker, a small woman, always perfectly coiffed, tough and straightforward in her business dealings, and a terror to any ma”tre d’ who would dare seat her at a less than optimal table. Still, every year for the last decade, she has taken a winter trip to this river in Patagonia, or that veld in Africa. She’s been in places where baboons pilfer your food and monkeys pee on your head.


This year, after the September 11 attacks, people were, initially, amazed that she was still going anywhere at all. “It’s Spain and Morocco,” Barbara told me in October. “Not my usual. But people still think I’m crazy to go.”


I spoke with her just before she left on her trip in late December. I asked if people still questioned her sanity.


“No,” she said. “New York seems to be getting back on track. People have stopped asking ‘Why?’ and have started asking ‘Where?'”


What follows is the best answer to the latter question we’ve ever compiled: a life list of destinations, of dreams that won’t die. Read it. Try to refrain from drooling.


Can I carry your bags?

It’s a Real, Real, Real, Real World

One advantage in this dicey new world: “国产吃瓜黑料 travel” is finally living up to its name. While it’s true that previously unimaginable roadblocks are now as common as Oldsmobiles outside a Lions Club luncheon, odds are you won’t run up against them. But in case you find yourself S.O.L. in Sulawesi, our quick fixes for your worst nightmares.


Dilemma: A Third World crossing guard won’t let you into the Fourth World nation through which your third-rate travel agent booked your flight home. Creative Solution: High time you learned the ancient art of bribery. Cash is good, but don’t bother if it’s less than a $50. Low on bills? Freak out so they’ll pay you just to leave. Eat a couple pages of your passport or develop a contagious itch.
Dilemma: You’re trying to look like everyone else buying yak butter at the market in Hostilistan, but your clothing, gear, and pearly-whites scream U-S-A! Creative Solution: Memorize “I am Canadian” in 20 languages. Here’s a start: Je suis canadien. Ich bin Kanadier. Soy candiense. Wo sher jianada ren. Ana Kanady…



Dilemma: Your guide seemed like such a stable fellow when he loaded the duffels into the Land Cruiser. But three days later, he’s foaming at the mouth and stealing your tent poles to build an altar to Zolac, the God of Dead Ecotourists. Creative Solution: Finally, all that Survivor tube time pays off. Size up your group for an impromptu insurrection: Identify anyone who’s a telemarketer or attorney. Offer him/her as a ritual sacrifice to Zolac. Run like hell.


Dilemma: All you needed to bring, your carefree island-hopping friends said, was a bikini bottom and a cash card. Two weeks later, one is full of sand, the other completely drained. Creative Solution: (1) Get to an Internet portal, auction the bikini bottom on eBay, invest proceeds in bargain-priced Enron stock, wait. (2) Using rusty Craftsman pliers you found on the beach, extract gold crowns from the teeth of your carefree island-hopping friends, sell to village black-market jeweler. (3) Bite the bullet and call Mom collect.


Dilemma: Revolutionaries are headed for your remote camp with less than neighborly intentions. Creative Solution: (1) Climb a cliff, spend night on portaledge (be sure to push suspected militants off the edge first), wait for Kyrgyz Army to save you. (2) Booby-trap your campsite. First, turn fire pit into flaming cauldron of hell by greasing surrounding uphill slope with copious amounts of Gu. Carve a figurine out of campfire log, leave it propped against tent with Leatherman blade stuck directly through its head. Finally, rig a tent-pole snare and trip wire to hurl your ultra-crusty SmartWools directly at encroachers.


Dilemma: The airport security guy is sizing you up with a leer that says only one thing: Strip search. Creative Solution: (1) Preempt the search and voluntarily get naked, then start humming “Dueling Banjos.” (2) Ask him if he understands the phrase “uncoverable oozing lesions.”(3) Snap your teeth, bark, and threaten to bite.


Dilemma: To all the other revelers, it’s just your average disco ball and smoke machine. But when it comes to public places, you’ve got pre-traumatic stress disorder. To you it’s a stun-grenade precursor to absolute mayhem. Creative Solution: Relax, already. Get your groove on. It’s likely all that screaming is a just an overzealous reaction to techno-punk. But if not, what better way to go out than in a sequined halter?

The Red Planet: California’s Death Valley

1. Follow in the Footsteps of Greatness
Tibet / Mallory and Irvine’s Everest
It’s everything but the disappearing act: Follow the route of doomed explorers George Mallory and Andrew Irvine from Lhasa to Rongbuk Monastery, the sacred gateway to Mount Everest. You’ll camp and hike in the spectacular Rongbuk Valley, with jaw-dropping views of the world’s highest peak, before trekking to 17,900-foot Advanced Base Camp, from which the intrepid mountaineers launched their fatal summit attempt in 1924. OUTFITTER: Geographic Expeditions, 800-777-8183, WHEN TO GO: May, June, October PRICE: $4,945 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

USA / Idaho / Biking the Lewis and Clark Trail
(NEW TRIP) Retrace a portion of Lewis and Clark’s historic route as you pedal 85 miles on the Forest Service roads of the Lolo Trail, which winds through Idaho’s remote Bitterroot Mountains. But what took the explorers eight days in 1805, and drove them to eat three of their horses, will take you only five: You’ll bike 20 miles per day, and you’ll dine on grilled salmon, chicken diablo, and chocolate fondue. At night around the campfire, your guides will double as history professors, discussing Lewis and Clark’s journey and their interactions with Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce. OUTFITTER: Western Spirit Cycling, 800-845-2453, WHEN TO GO: July-September PRICE: $895 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

South Pacific / In the Wake of the Bounty
Your 22-day cruise won’t involve a reenactment of Fletcher Christian’s legendary 1789 mutiny, but you will meet his family. After three days exploring the mysterious stone ruins of Easter Island, you’ll board a 168-passenger expedition cruise ship and motor 1,200 miles west to the tiny Pitcairn Islands, to which Christian eventually piloted the Bounty and where the 48 residents boast mutineer DNA. Continue with visits to a dozen more exotic Pacific islands: You’ll snorkel in the Marquesas, look for crested terns with the onboard ornithologist in the Tuamotus, and follow a dolphin escort into Bora Bora’s lagoon. OUTFITTER: Wilderness Travel, 800-368-2794, WHEN TO GO: March, April, October, November PRICE: $7,665 DIFFICULTY: Easy

TRIP ENHANCER
Apple iPod MP3 Player
The sleekest, best-designed, and priciest MP3 player going. Apple’s iPod ($399; ) quickly stores up to three decades’ worth of greatest hits (1,000 tunes) and can play them for nearly ten hours straight. Sufficient entertainment even for the longest transpacific flight.

2. Make a First Ascent
China / Into the Kax Tax
(New Trip) Last year, Colorado mountaineer Jon Meisler used a century-old map to rediscover a hidden rift valley in western China’s Xinjiang province that provided access to some 30 nameless peaks in the Kax Tax range. Most of the mountains allow for four- or five-day assaults over nontechnical terrain to 20,000-foot summits. This year’s monthlong guided trips include an acclimatization hike into valleys inhabited by wild yaks, blue sheep, and Tibetan brown bears. OUTFITTER: High Asia Exploratory Mountain Travel Company, 800-809-0034, WHEN TO GO: June, August PRICE: from $5,000 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

Greenland / Gunnbj酶rn Fjeld and Beyond
Pioneer a route up a 10,000-foot peak on your 14-day expedition to eastern Greenland’s Watson Range. A Twin Otter loaded with ropes, skis, and frozen chicken will fly you to base camp about 225 miles south of Ittoqqortoormiit, on the eastern fringes of Greenland’s icecap. After warming up on a four-day climb to the summit of 12,139-foot Mount Gunnbj酶rn Fjeld, your group will decide which of the 50-odd surrounding mountains to climb. OUTFITTER: Alpine Ascents International, 206-378-1927, WHEN TO GO: June PRICE: $9,500 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

Bolivia / Exploring Apolobamba
Spend ten to 13 days in northern Bolivia’s Apolobamba range, tackling the unclimbed south face of 18,553-foot Cuchillo or a virgin peak in the Katantica group. You’ll trek on llama trails beneath glacier-cloaked peaks and watch condors soar over your base camp before you start the dirty work of picking a peak and route to fit your abilities. OUTFITTER: The 国产吃瓜黑料 Climbing and Trekking Company of South America, 719-530-9053, WHEN TO GO: June PRICE: $1,600-$2,575 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

3. Get Lost in Your Own Backyard
USA / Minnesota / Paddling the Voyageur International Route
In the 60 miles between your put-in and take-out in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, you’ll find little more than a chain of pine-fringed lakes connected by muddy portages—so stopping to buy Advil is not an option. But the untouched land-scape on this ten-day canoe trip, which follows an 18th-century fur-trading route on the Canada/Minnesota border, from Saganaga Lake to Crane Lake, will keep your mind off your aching shoulders. At nightly lakeshore camps, look for bald eagles and timber wolves, and listen for the call of the loon. OUTFITTER: Wilderness Outfitters, 800-777-8572, WHEN TO GO: May PRICE: $1,649 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

USA / Alaska / Rafting the Nigu River
(New Trip) Paddle a four-man raft for 70 miles and ten days down the lonely Nigu, and it’s likely you won’t see another two-legged soul. A plane will drop you in the middle of the Brooks Range, where you’ll paddle the Class II water through rolling carpets of rhododendrons and lupines. From your riverbank camps, watch vermilion skies as they illuminate bears, wolves, and herds of migrating caribou. OUTFITTER: Arctic Treks, 907-455-6502, WHEN TO GO: August PRICE: $3,150 (includes flights between the Brooks Range and Fairbanks) DIFFICULTY: Moderate

USA / California / Death Valley Hike
Step out of the daily grind and into the empty moonscape of Death Valley National Park. You’ll hike four to ten miles a day through serpentine slot canyons and over 100-foot-high sand dunes and white borax-crystal flats, camping out under surprisingly serene skies. Yellow panamint daisies, magenta beavertail cactus blossoms, soaring peregrine falcons, and red-tailed hawks will convince you that the area is far from dead. OUTFITTER: REI 国产吃瓜黑料s, 800-622-2236, WHEN TO GO: March, April PRICE: $895 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Paradise on the rocks: Palau, South Pacific

4. Live a South Seas Fantasy
Micronesia / Chuuk, Palau, and Yap Snorkeling
Micronesia’s abundance of sea fans and staghorn corals makes for some of the world’s best snorkeling, never mind the manta rays floating between giant Napoleon wrasses and downed WWII Zeros. For 16 days you’ll stay at beachfront lodges on Chuuk, Palau, and Yap to explore the 82-degree seas in outrigger canoes and visit Jellyfish Lake, home to hundreds of the stingerless blobs. OUTFITTER: World Wildlife Fund, 888-993-8687, WHEN TO GO: March, April PRICE: $5,495 (includes round-trip airfare from Los Angeles) DIFFICULTY: Easy

Papua New Guinea / Exploratory Sea Kayaking
(New Trip) Volcanic walls and 100-foot waterfalls provide the backdrop for paddling inflatable kayaks 75 miles on this exploratory 13-day mission around the Tufi Peninsula and Trobriand Islands of southeastern New Guinea. Snorkel in 80-degree water teeming with leather sponges, sheets of table corals, and schools of Moorish idols. When the cicadas rattle, retire to a thatch-roofed guest house or pitch a tent right on the sand. OUTFITTER: Mountain Travel Sobek, 888-687-6235, WHEN TO GO: March, April, November PRICE: $3,190 DIFFICULTY: Moderate
Fiji / 国产吃瓜黑料 Sailing
(New Trip) The Fijian high chiefs keep the Lau Islands closed to tourists to preserve their wild blue waters and secret coves. Lucky for you, your guides have family ties. Spend four days with 40 others aboard a 145-foot schooner, the Tui Tai, sailing north from Savusavu. You’ll anchor off islands with newly built singletrack (bike rentals included), 900-foot cliffs to rappel, and a maze of waterways to explore by sea kayak. Before the waves rock you to sleep in a specially prepared bed on deck, look overboard for glowing squid eyes. OUTFITTER: Tui Tai 国产吃瓜黑料 Cruises, 011-679-66-1-500, WHEN TO GO: Year-round PRICE: $300 (three nights); $375 (four nights) DIFFICULTY: Moderate

5. Track Big Game on Safari
Botswana / Okavango Delta by Horseback
Go lens-to-snout with the wildest creatures on the wildest continent. On this eight-day safari you’ll spend five days cantering with herds of zebras, milling among feeding elephants, and getting close to the lions, cheetahs, and leopards that roam the marshy plains of Botswana’s Okavango Delta. Then it’s out of the saddle and into a Land Rover for three more game-packed days in nearby Moremi Reserve or Chobe National Park. Your digs are comfortable tented camps—which feature roomy canvas wall tents with beds and private viewing decks—and, in Chobe, a posh game lodge. OUTFITTER: International Ventures, 800-727-5475, WHEN TO GO: March—November PRICE: $1,975 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Tanzania / Ngorongoro Nonstop
(New Trip) Consider it a survival-of-the-fittest safari—the fittest traveler, that is. On this 12-day romp through the Tanzanian outback, you’ll paddle among the hippos in Lake Manyara, rappel down the Rift Valley’s western escarpment, and mountain bike through the rolling foothills—braking for giraffes, zebras, and tree-climbing lions—to watch the sun set over the Ngorongoro Highlands. Next, hike the wildlife-filled Ngorongoro Crater (watch for rare black rhinos) and trek with buffalo, hyenas, and gazelles in the rainforested Empakai Crater. Need a breather? No worries. Nights are spent in cush game lodges and luxurious tented camps. OUTFITTER: Abercrombie & Kent, 800-323-7308, WHEN TO GO: January-March, June-August, October, December PRICE: $4,395 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

TRIP ENHANCER
Grundig ETravelerVII Shortwave Receiver
Emerging from a 20-day trek through the rainforest to discover that a military junta has closed all airports and invalidated all visas is enough to make you long for the PDA-size eTravelerVII radio ($130; 800-872-2228). With its ability to pick up BBC Worldwide’s shortwave signals almost anywhere, it could’ve tipped you off before things turned ugly.

Kenya / Big Five Bonanza
Timed to coincide with the great Serengeti migration, when millions of zebras and wildebeests move from Tanzania into southern Kenya, this 15-day hiking-and-driving safari puts you directly in the path of the Big Five (lions, leopards, elephants, cape buffalo, and rhino) in Nairobi and Lake Nakuru National Parks. Finish with five days in the Masai Mara, where the sheer number of species is downright dizzying. OUTFITTER: Journeys International, 800-255-8735, PRICE: $4,250 WHEN TO GO: August, October DIFFICULTY: Easy

6. Scare Yourself Witless on a Class V River
China / The Great Bend of the Yangtze
What happens when five times the water of the Grand Canyon squeezes through a gorge only half as wide? Twenty-five-foot monster waves, a roaring Class V rapid three-quarters of a mile long, and whirlpools big enough to swallow a van. On this eight-day trip, you’ll raft more than 100 miles on the Great Bend section of the Yangtze River in China’s Yunnan Province and discover canyon walls stretching upward for a mile, with the 17,000-foot Snow Dragon mountains towering overhead. OUTFITTER: Earth River Expeditions, 800-643-2784, WHEN TO GO: November, December PRICE: $4,300 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

Canada / The Mighty Ram
Wondering why this six-day Ram River run was attempted by commercial rafters for the first time just last year? Consider what navigating the 60-mile menace, which flows through Alberta’s Ram River Canyon just north of Banff, entails: You’ll rappel down 100-foot waterfalls, maneuver around massive boulders, and shoot through rapids hemmed in by steep vertical ledges (beware Powerslide, a narrow, 35-foot drop). And you’ll do it all with an audience: Bighorn sheep—the Ram’s namesake—watch from the riverbank, while cougars watch them. OUTFITTER: ROAM Expeditions, 877-271-7626, PRICE: $1,795 WHEN TO GO: June DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

Chile / Rafting and Kayaking the Futaleuf煤
The Futaleuf煤 is revered for its unforgiving hydraulics, which can suck paddlers under like a giant Hoover. But if you’re of questionable sanity and want an even wilder experience, try riding sections of the turquoise maelstrom in an inflatable kayak. Guides will make sure you’re up on wave patterns, ferrying, and how to swim the rapids in the very likely case you get dumped. Of course, you can always stick to the six-man raft, where you feel the joy (and see pine-covered banks, 300-foot-high white canyon walls, and granite spires) with relatively little terror. OUTFITTER: Orange Torpedo Trips, 800-635-2925, PRICE: $3,000 WHEN TO GO: December DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

South-coast solitude: Australia’s Tasmania

7. See the World from Behind Bars
Morocco / High Atlas Traverse
(New Trip) Pedal from the colorful markets of Marrakech to the loftiest peaks in North Africa, the High Atlas Range. This 15-day exploratory ride takes you over a 10,404-foot pass, between 13,000-foot peaks, and through mountains still inhabited by the Berber tribes that have lived here for centuries. OUTFITTER: KE 国产吃瓜黑料 Travel, 800-497-9675, WHEN TO GO: November PRICE: $1,945 DIFFICUTLY: Strenuous

New Zealand / Cycling on the South Island
Nowhere else in the world do velvety roads wind by such idyllic scenery. Sandwiched between ice-capped peaks and jagged coastlines, you’ll pump up to six hours a day from the Tasman Sea to Queenstown, through old-growth forests, over a 3,000-foot pass, and past geysers and glaciers. OUTFITTER: Backroads, 800-462-2848, WHEN TO GO: November-March PRICE: $3,398 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Canada / Coast Mountain Crossing
COAST MOUNTAIN CROSSING Ten days of wilderness singletrack—need we say more? Starting on smooth mining trails near Tyax Lake, you’ll crank up 6,500-foot ascents, into the heart of the Coast Range, before descending to the technical trails of British Columbia’s western rainforests. Thirty- to 40-mile days are punctuated by nights spent stargazing from wilderness camps or soaking in hot tubs at historic B&Bs. OUTFITTER: Rocky Mountain Cycle Tours, 800-661-2453, WHEN TO GO: September PRICE: $2,495 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

TRIP ENHANCER
Garmin eTrex Vista GPS
Soggy maps proving difficult to decipher? Break out the eTrex Vista GPS ($375; 800-800-1020). Better screen resolution (288X160), a more accurate WAAS signal, and downloadable maps from MapSource or Garmin (sold separately) let you use your paper version as emergency Wet-Naps. Just don’t forget batteries.

8. Journey to the Ends of the Earth
Mongolia / Riding with the Eagle Hunters
Riding with the Eagle Hunters When Aralbai, your guide, honors you with a sheep’s ear hors d’oeuvre, don’t gag. You’re in Mongolia for 11 days to learn traditions of the Kazakh eagle hunters, named for the hooded golden eagles they carry on their arms. Ride horses with the hunters by day; by night, sleep in a mud-brick cabin, dance to the sounds of the morin khuur (a two-stringed fiddle), and sip vodka, which will make that ear slide down nicely. OUTFITTER: Boojum Expeditions, 800-287-0125, WHEN TO GO: November-January PRICE: $1,950 DIFFICULTY: Easy

Australia / Tasmania Trek
(New Trip) It’s easy to become disoriented in Tasmania’s Southwest National Park. The nearest settlement can be a week’s walk away, trails often morph into muddy mangrove-covered slopes, and most of your companions are wallabies. So be sure to grab your map before the Cessna abandons your group and its 40-pound backpacks of food and gear near Melaleuca Lagoon. From there it’s a ten-day, 55-mile hike along the South Coast Track, where you’ll bask on deserted beaches, scramble up 3,000-foot passes, wade across tea-tree-stained lagoons, and weave through towering celery-top pines. OUTFITTER: Wilderness Travel, 800-368-2794, WHEN TO GO: February 2003 PRICE: $2,495 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

Mozambique / First Descent of the Lugenda River
(New Trip) The Yao of northern Mozambique have seldom seen foreigners and have certainly never seen your fancy fiberglass boat. This summer be the first to paddle kayaks down the Lugenda River. For two weeks and 700 miles you’ll float the copper flatwater past the Yao’s thatch-roofed huts, dense woodlands, iselbergs—gnarled rock spires poking out of the flat land—and around pods of hippos. Camp on islands scattered in the quarter-mile-wide river or along its banks under skies framed by ebony trees near the Niassa Reserve, home to 14,000 elephants. OUTFITTER: Explore, 888-596-6377, WHEN TO GO: June PRICE: $5,000-$7,000 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

9. Paddle with the Whales
Argentina / On the Coast of Patagonia
Tourism is strictly regulated on the Argentine waters north of Patagonia’s Vald茅s Peninsula, where nearly a third of the world’s southern right whales breed. But you can skirt the rules and sea kayak with the 55-foot-long mammals by helping conduct a wildlife census. As you paddle between beach camps for ten days and a total of 60 miles, you’ll watch female whales care for their calves and surface within feet of your kayak, while the males slap their flukes to get their mates’ attention. You’ll help guides count giant petrels, black-browed albatrosses, and some 40 other bird species. OUTFITTER: Whitney & Smith Legendary Expeditions, 403-678-3052, WHEN TO GO: October, November PRICE: $3,250 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Mexico / Circumnavigating Isla Carmen
(New Trip) Endangered blue whales more than five times as long as your kayak love to cruise past Isla Carmen in the Gulf of California looking for tasty crustaceans. Get close to the world’s largest animals and be among the first to circumnavigate Carmen by sea kayak, paddling between six and eight miles per day for nine days. Along the way you’ll also watch fin whales, snorkel with angelfish in 72-degree water, and search for rare blue-footed boobies. Spend nights camping in sheltered coves where volcanic rock juts into the sea. OUTFITTER: Sea Kayak 国产吃瓜黑料s, 800-616-1943, WHEN TO GO: April PRICE: $1,350 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Norway / Paddling the Svalbard Archipelago
In July and August, go where the whales go: the Svalbard Archipelago, 600 miles northwest of mainland Norway. Here you’ll find 90- to 190-ton blues, 40-foot-long humpbacks, square-headed sperm whales, hundreds of walruses, auks, and kittiwakes—and 24-hour daylight to take it all in. Paddle a sea kayak ten miles a day for eight days through frigid 32-degree water along Svalbard’s western coastline, returning each night to cozy cabins (polar bears make camping inadvisable) and spicy bacalau stew aboard a former Norwegian trawler. OUTFITTER: Tofino Expeditions, 800-677-0877, WHEN TO GO: July, August PRICE: $8,000 (includes airfare from Troms酶, Norway) DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Step inside: another inviting nook off the Grand Canyon

10. Free Your Soul on a Pilgrimage
Tibet / To the Center of the Universe
May 26—the date Buddha was born, reached enlightenment, and died—is the day to visit Mount Kailas, a peak sacred to Buddhists, Jains, and Hindus. And Tibetan Buddhism expert Robert Thurman (yes, he’s Uma’s dad) is the man to go with. On this 28-day journey, you’ll circumambulate 22,027-foot Kailas. For an authentic experience, prostrate yourself as you go. OUTFITTER: Geographic Expeditions, 800-777-8183, WHEN TO GO: May PRICE: $8,085 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

Spain / Biking El Camino de Santiago
Devout Christians have been walking the roads from the city of Burgos to the shrine of St. James, in the city of Santiago de Compostela, for more than a thousand years. Modern pilgrims can save their soles by making the 326-mile journey on a bike. You’ll ride on dirt roads and trails up to 60 miles per day for nine days, stopping to sleep in small hotels and to explore Romanesque churches in villages along the way. Follow ancient tradition and pick up a rock (of a size proportionate to your sins) on day six, and carry it 1,200 feet before ditching it at the highest point on the Camino: 4,891-foot Foncebad贸n Pass. What, after all, would a pilgrimage be without a little suffering? OUTFITTER: Easy Rider Tours, 800-488-8332, WHEN TO GO: May-July, September PRICE: $2,250 DIFFICULTY: Moderate
Peru / Sacred Sites of the Incas
In the tradition of their Incan ancestors, the Quechua people of southern Peru celebrate the June solstice at the foot of 21,067-foot Mount Ausungate, the spirit of animal fertility. Circumnavigate the holiest peak in the Cusco region on this 44-mile, high-altitude (12,000-foot-plus) trek, following ancient paths past grazing alpacas and Quechua villages. The 18-day trip also includes a four-day, 27-mile trek up the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. OUTFITTER: Southwind 国产吃瓜黑料s, 800-377-9463, WHEN TO GO: May-September PRICE: $3,675-$4,525 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

TRIP ENHANCER
NEC Versa DayLite Notebook PC
Kayak, Tent, or African bus: The 3.3 pound Versa DayLite ($2,499; 888-632-8701) goes where you’d never dream of hauling heavier laptops, and goes for seven hours on its battery. But the screen is the star; its significantly heightened contrast means easy readability under the harsh glare of, say, the Saharan sun.

11. Explore Majestic Canyons
USA / Arizona / Padding and Hiking the Grand Canyon
Floating 235 miles through the 6,000-foot-deep Grand Canyon on its storied waters is a once-in-a-lifetime experience (unless you have an in with the permit office, which is doubtful). On this 13-day trip you’ll hit all the raging Class IV+ rapids and have ample time to hike and boulder in the side canyons, play under 125-foot waterfalls, explore Anasazi granaries, and swim in the calcium carbonate-tinted bright-blue pools at Havasu Creek. OUTFITTER: Outdoors Unlimited, 800-637-7238, WHEN TO GO: May, September PRICE: $2,795 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Peru / Whitewater Rafting Colca Canyon
The reward for threading through 40 miles of SUV-size boulders on southern Peru’s twisting Class V Colca River—beyond the rush of making it out alive—is the rare view of soaring black condors against the canyon’s 11,000-foot walls. But don’t look up too much. The run demands deft maneuvering in paddle rafts. An added boon on this eight-day trip are the abundant natural springs. Soak in the hot ones; drink from the cold ones. OUTFITTER: Earth River Expeditions, 800-643-2784, WHEN TO GO: July PRICE: $2,900 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

Mexico / Trekking in Copper Canyon
Hike through four biotic zones while dropping 6,000 feet from rim to floor in Chihuahua’s Copper Canyon. This ten-day trek starts on a cool plateau of ponderosa pine and Douglas fir. You’ll descend on paths used for centuries by the Tarahumara Indians, through pi帽on pine and juniper to reach arid slopes and agave cacti. Lower still, enter the subtropics, where parrots squawk in mango trees outside your tent. OUTFITTER: 国产吃瓜黑料s Abroad, 800-665-3998, WHEN TO GO: February-March, October-December PRICE: $1,590 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

12. Save an Endangered Species
Mongolia / In Search of the Snow Leopard
Journey Mongolian-style across the golden steppes and 12-mile-long sand dunes of the Gobi Desert as you help biologists find the nearly mythical snow leopard in its native habitat. You’ll sleep in yurts as you travel by camel, horse, and four-wheeler south from Ulan Bator for 11 days. Drink fermented mare’s milk with nomadic tribesmen before scouring the wild southeastern fringe of the Gobi, searching for malodorous leopard markings: The elusive cats spray the same spots for generations. OUTFITTER: Asia Transpacific Journeys, 800-642-2742, WHEN TO GO: September PRICE: $5,895 DIFFICULTY: Easy to moderate

U.S. Virgin Islands / Tracking Leatherback Turtles
Heroic beachcombing? Absolutely, at least along the southwest shore of St. Croix, where the Sandy Point National Wildlife Refuge hosts a slew of endangered leatherback turtles and one very successful conservation team. For ten days, live in airy beachside cottages and walk the two-mile white-sand shores, helping resident biologists measure nests and count hatchlings as the newborns struggle toward the warm Caribbean. OUTFITTER: Earthwatch Institute, 800-776-0188, WHEN TO GO: April-July PRICE: $1,895 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Suriname / Paddling with Giant Otters
(New Trip) This former Dutch colony contains some of the most pristine tropical rainforest in the world and offers the best chance to see—and help save—some of the 3,000 or so endangered giant otters still left in the wild. For eight days, paddle in dugout canoes with biologists and natives in Kaburi Creek, a favored otter habitat in central Suriname (and home to kaleidoscopic macaws and parrots). Sleep in hammocks on the shore and canoe to “otter campsites” in this pilot project to count and study the friendly six-foot-long animals. OUTFITTER: Oceanic Society, 800-326-7491, WHEN TO GO: September PRICE: $2,390 (includes airfare from Miami) DIFFICULTY: Moderate

F-stop and go: fishing nets in Vietnam

13. Master the Art of the F-Stop
Cuba / Vision and Discover in Havana
Here’s your shot at playing globetrotting photojournalist. You’ll spend six mornings discussing theory, history, and technical concerns with your instructor, New York-based commercial and fine-art photographer Stacy Boge, at the Maine Photographic Workshops’ Cuba headquarters, formerly a 19th-century convent. In the afternoons she’ll set you loose to photograph historic forts, artisans at the craft market, and the wizened faces of Old Havana with a bilingual teaching assistant and guide. Lab crews develop your film nightly, so it’s ready for next-day critiques and slide shows. OUTFITTER: The Maine Photographic Workshops, 877-577-7700, WHEN TO GO: February, March PRICE: $1,495 DIFFICULTY: Easy

Vietnam and Laos / That Luang Festival
With photo opportunities that include sacred wats, limestone-spired islands, bustling markets, and numerous saffron-robed monks and nuns—plus acclaimed photographer Nevada Wier as your guide—you can’t help but take a few incredible shots. In Vietnam, you’ll sea kayak in Ha Long Bay and mingle with people of the Hmong and Dao hill tribes in the Tonkinese Alps; in Laos, you’ll cruise the Mekong River in a junk and watch a candlelight procession in Vientiane, the capital city, as thousands of Buddhists celebrate the annual That Luang Full Moon festival. OUTFITTER: Mountain Travel Sobek, 888-687-6235, WHEN TO GO: November PRICE: $4,400 DIFFICULTY: Easy
USA / Midway Atoll / Avian Images
The bird-to-human ratio on this U.S. naval base turned wildlife refuge—which lies 1,320 miles northwest of Honolulu—is an astonishing 8,000 to 1. Spend seven days with photography instructor Darrell Gulin and you’ll shoot black-footed albatross in the island’s lush interior one day and backward-flying red-tailed tropic birds on a beach the next. Your base: a comfy (really!) suite in the renovated naval officers’ quarters—Midway’s only accommodations. OUTFITTER: International Wildlife 国产吃瓜黑料s, 800-593-8881, WHEN TO GO: April-May PRICE: $3,295 DIFFICULTY: Easy

14. Ski Infinite Backcountry
USA / Wyoming / Teton Crest Traverse
It’s America’s Haute Route, cowboy style (no chalets). Hone your winter-camping skills after skinning 1,700 feet from Teton Pass to 9,100-foot Moose Creek Pass, with views into more than 400,000 acres of wilderness. Camp here for three nights, skiing the varied terrain of the Alaska Basin, before your 13-mile descent through Teton Canyon. OUTFITTER: Rendezvous Ski and Snowboard Tours, 877-754-4887, WHEN TO GO: April PRICE: $825 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

Europe / The Continent’s Best Powder
Western Europe’s off-piste wonderland has a dirty little secret: unreliable snow. But Gary Ashurst—of La Grave, France, by way of Idaho—won’t tolerate it. Meet him and his Mercedes van in Geneva; he’ll take you to the best powder around—wherever that is at the moment. Staying in B&Bs or chalets, you’ll spend seven days carving the chutes of the Cerces, jump-turning down tight couloirs in the Dolomites, or reveling in another one of Gary’s always-snowy stashes. OUTFITTER: Global 国产吃瓜黑料s, 800-754-1199, WHEN TO GO: January-April PRICE: $1,600 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

USA / Alaska / Peaks of the Chugach
(New Trip) Welcome to the middle of nowhere. After the plane lands, settle into your base-camp hut on Matanuska Glacier and take a lesson in glacier safety. Then spend ten days exploring every crevasse, serac, and untouched blanket of snow between you and your goal: the 10,000-foot summits of the Scandinavian Peaks. OUTFITTER: Colorado Mountain School, 888-267-7783, WHEN TO GO: April PRICE: $1,800 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

TRIP ENHANCER
Leica Trinovid BCA Binoculars
Leica’s nine-ounce glasses ($429; 800-877-0155) are compact enough to slip elegantly into a pocket, but they offer 10X magnification coupled with superior optics that sharpen contrast on objects 1,000 feet away, all in a package that doesn’t scream “tourist.”

15. Take an Epic Trek
Nepal / Jugal Himal Exploratory
Get off the teahouse circuit (and, let’s hope, the path of Maoist insurgents) on this 23-day exploratory trek through the Jugal Mountains of Langtang National Park, about 75 miles west of Mount Everest. Starting in the Balephi Khola Valley, trek up to eight hours a day among rhododendrons and banana trees, following shepherd trails to two delphinium-fringed lakes at 17,000 feet. OUTFITTER: World Expeditions, 888-464-8735, WHEN TO GO: October-November PRICE: $3,120 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

Bhutan / In the Shadow of the Goddess
Your ultimate destination is 23,997-foot Chomo Lhari, the “Mountain of the Goddess.” But, like life, this trek’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey: You’ll hike seven miles per day (average daily elevation gain: 2,000 feet) through western Bhutan’s Paro Valley on an ancient trading path that winds through thousand-year-old villages, fields of blue poppies, and pastures filled with grazing yaks. Camp in meadows and share the trail with caravans bringing salt, tea, and Chinese silk to Paro on this 70-mile, out-and-back route. OUTFITTER: Asia Transpacific Journeys, 800-642-2742, WHEN TO GO: March, September PRICE: $4,395 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Russia / Hgih-Altitude Altai
Storybook adventure at its finest: Be on the lookout for wolves, lynx, eagles, and the rare snow leopard by day; by night camp at the base of 10,000-foot peaks named Beauty, Fairy Tale, and Dream. On this challenging 65-mile trek in the Altai Mountains, in one of the most remote regions of Siberia, you’ll cover eight to 12 miles per day, hiking through cedar-forested valleys along the roaring Chuya River and ascending to glacier-fed lakes, before heading back to civilization—and we mean civilization. The Altai has been inhabited for hundreds of thousands of years.OUTFITTER: Mir Corporation, 800-424-7289, WHEN TO GO: July-August PRICE: $2,395 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

The dog days of Greenland

16. Get Culture Shocked
Central African Republic / Tracking with Pigmies
(New Trip) Put down your cell phone, pick up a spear, and spend five days in Dzanga-Ndoki National Park fully immersed in the Pygmy way of life. You’ll bushwhack through remote rainforests in the southwest Central African Republic, helping hunt for small antelope, track lowland gorillas and elephants, and collect medicinal herbs like Carcinia punctatam (it battles the runs). At night, retire to comfortable bungalows on stilts perched along the Sangha River, near the Pygmies’ village. OUTFITTER: Wilderness Travel, 800-368-2794, WHEN TO GO: November PRICE: $4,695 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Ecuador / The Magic of the Shamans
See your troubles revealed in the entrails of dissected guinea pigs and enjoy other, equally drastic healing measures (like being thwapped by twigs) on this ten-day visit with Ecuadoran shamans. You’ll sleep in locals’ huts and travel by car, canoe, and foot to three spiritually distinct regions. Before heading into the Andes, visit the Amazon, where shamans venture to the underworld on the wings of ayahuasca, a natural hallucinogen—sorry, audience participation is discouraged. OUTFITTER: Myths and Mountains, 800-670-6984, WHEN TO GO: March, July PRICE: $1,895 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Vietnam / Ethnic Explorer
Motorcycle into the hills of north Vietnam and meet the Flower Hmong in their rainbow head wraps or get lost in a chicken-filled market. Then park the bike for a three-day scramble up 10,312-foot Mount Fan Si Pan, with a local guide who smells his way up the route. OUTFITTER: Wild Card 国产吃瓜黑料s, 800-590-3776, WHEN TO GO: Year-round PRICE: From $1,600 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

17. Go Polar
Greenland / Dogsledding Across Polar Tundra
Travel the Arctic with the in crowd. Join explorer Paul Schurke on his annual Polar Inuit spring trip, accompanied by Inuit hunters who happen to be descendants of Americans Robert Peary and Matthew Henson, arguably the first men to reach the North Pole. You’ll snow camp in ten-degree temperatures for 14 days and dogsled the snowy alien landscape for 300 miles over sea ice on coastal fjords and Arctic tundra. OUTFITTER: Wintergreen Dogsled Lodge, 800-584-9425, WHEN TO GO: April PRICE: $6,000 (includes round-trip airfare from Resolute, Canada) DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Sweden and Norway / Reindeer Packing in the Arctic
Welcome to a slice of polar paradise: With domesticated reindeer to do the heavy lifting and carrying, indigenous Saami guides will lead you for four days and 35 miles through the alpine birch forests and tundra of Arctic Sweden until you reach the Tys Fjord at the Norwegian Sea. There you’ll swap hiking boots for sea kayaks and paddle 58 miles of Norway’s Salten Coast, exploring lush fjords, camping on beaches, and fishing for arctic trout. OUTFITTER: Crossing Latitudes, 800-572-8747, WHEN TO GO: August PRICE: $1,900 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Antarctica / Scuba Diving Under Ice
You may have explored the wrecks off Palau and swum with whale sharks off South Africa, but until you’ve submerged yourself under the Antarctic ice pack, you haven’t really scuba dived. Journey on a Russian icebreaker to the Antarctic Peninsula and for 13 days don a drysuit, hood, and a freezeproof regulator, and plunge into a frigid world of surreal rewards. The diffuse light and 32-degree water are home to spindly pink starfish, sea hedgehogs, and sea butterflies. Just don’t let the ice, in infinite shades of blue, distract you from the roving leopard seals. OUTFITTER: Forum International, 800-252-4475, WHEN TO GO: February, March PRICE: $4,890-$6,340 DIFFICULTY: Strenuous

TRIP ENHANCER
Fossil Wrist PDA Watch
Don’t tote your PDA around the world, wear it. Fossil’s wristwatch ($145; 800-969-0900) uses an operating system developed in collaboration with Palm to let you zap 1,100 contacts with addresses or 800 appointment memos from your PDA into its stylish little self. Added bonus: it also tells time.

18. Stay Alive!
Peru / Learn to Thrive in the Amazon
Failing economy got you feeling the need to sharpen your survival skills? Let Peruvian survivalists show you how to stun fish, start a fire in the waterlogged forest, repel mosquitoes (by smearing yourself with squished termites), and treat ailments like a venomous snakebite. Eating juicy beetle grubs is optional on this seven-day trip in northeast Peru’s Tamshiyacu-Tahuayo Reserve, but once you’ve tried them, stomaching a bear market seems easy. OUTFITTER: Amazonia Expeditions, 800-262-9669, WHEN TO GO: Year-round PRICE: $1,295 DIFFICULTY: Easy

Costa Rica / Survival Trekking in the Osa Peninsula
Get a taste of Special Ops action when you spend ten days in the Costa Rican rainforest with former Special Forces veterans, who teach you survival basics and throw in a little fun to boot. Lessons in shelter building, foraging, and wilderness first aid are mixed with beach trekking, diving, and wildlife watching on the biodiverse Osa Peninsula. OUTFITTER: Specops, 800-713-2135, WHEN TO GO: April, July PRICE: $3,495 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Namibia / Forage and Hunt with Nomads
The barren Namibian prairie may seem like a wasteland, but after six days with the nomadic Ju’hoansi bushmen, you’ll see it as a bountiful Eden. Learn to make arrow-tip tranquilizers used to stun and kill impala; help gather roots, wild fruits, and the sweet sap of the acacia tree. Back at your mobile camp, the tribesmen may treat you to an evening of music. OUTFITTER: Baobab Safari Co., 800-835-3692, WHEN TO GO: April-October PRICE: $3,100 DIFFICULTY: Easy

Silent as stone: Angkor ruins in Cambodia

19. Swim with Sharks
Costa Rica / Live-Aboard Off Cocos Island
Bring courage and an empty logbook. With ten days on the live-aboard Okeanos, you’ll need plenty of room to record all the scalloped hammerhead and reef sharks that swim by on nearly every dive. Dry out with an optional trekking excursion on lush, 18-square-mile Cocos. OUTFITTER: International 国产吃瓜黑料s Unlimited, 800-990-9738, WHEN TO GO: Year-round PRICE: $2,995 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

South Africa / The Big Five Dive
Even if you feel safe on the three days you’re inside a steel cage watching great whites, your ten free dives could be a little nerve-racking, and this is one time you won’t want to chum the water. On this 12-day, hotel-based trip on South Africa’s northeast coast, you’ll see ragged-tooth, hammerhead, and bull sharks in their natural habitat—aka hunting grounds. OUTFITTER: EcoVentures Nature Tours and Travel, 800-743-8352, WHEN TO GO: July, September PRICE: $3,900 DIFFICULTY: Moderate
Gal谩pagos Islands / Cruising on the Sky Dancer
(New Trip) The hardest part about your eight days on the Sky Dancer will be resurfacing—and not because the 24-person live-aboard is anything less than first-class. No, it’s that the white-tipped, whale, and Gal谩pagos sharks will have you jonesing for your scuba tank all hours of the day, as will the gigantic manta rays that swarm here in Darwin’s playhouse. OUTFITTER: Ecoventura, 305-262-6264, WHEN TO GO: Year-round PRICE: $2,895 DIFFICULTY: Easy

20. Pursue Lost Horizons
USA / Utah / Rock Art and Archaeology in the Escalante Outback
Archaeologist Don Keller, who’s scoured Escalante National Monument’s backcountry for the past decade, has uncovered numerous ancient petroglyphs, but many of his finds remain undocumented. Join Keller this spring, hiking for nine days, three of which are spent photographing and mapping 4,000-year-old Anasazi and Fremont rock-art panels. OUTFITTER: Southwest Ed-Ventures, 800-525-4456, WHEN TO GO: April PRICE: $1,250 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

USA / Hawaii / Multi-Island Hike
There’s a lot more to Hawaii than Sex Wax and surf gods: Poke around the Pu’u Loa Petroglyphs on the Big Island, taro terraces on Oahu (both of which have been around since a.d. 500), and the ancient Hawaiian heiau (temples) on Kauai and you’ll feel like a hand fresh off Captain Cook’s Endeavor. But fear not, this custom seven-day camping and hiking trip is flush with the hedonistic pleasures for which Hawaii is famous: soaking under tropical waterfalls, sunning on secluded white sand beaches, and snorkeling with dolphins and sea turtles. OUTFITTER: Hawaiian Islands Eco-Tours, 866-445-3624, WHEN TO GO: Year-round PRICE: $895 DIFFICULTY: Easy to moderate

Cambodia and Vietnam / Discover Ancient Ruins
Spend hours exploring the 12th-century temples of Angkor Thom, Angkor Wat, and Ta Prohm, the Hindu centerpieces of the Khmer kingdom, on this four-day trip to the Angkor ruins—the front end of an 11-day cycling tour through Vietnam. When the heat becomes unbearable, lounge by the pool at the Grand Hotel d’Angkor, a French colonial palace with all the touches of early-20th-century Indochina: wicker chairs, lazily swirling fans, and teak beds. OUTFITTER: Butterfield & Robinson, 800-678-1147, WHEN TO GO: October-April PRICE: $2,250 (Vietnam costs an additional $5,450) DIFFICULTY: Easy

TRIP ENHANCER
Olympus C-700 Digital Camera
This featherweight digicam ($699; 888-553-4448) has two megapixels’ resolution with a 10x optical zoom and a 27x digital zoom that outfocuses anything in its class. If you’re lost, use the images in the view screen as a visual breadcrumb trail.

21. Behold the Wonders of the Cosmos
Canada /Northern Lights
Nowhere else on the planet do the northern lights have more pizzazz than in Churchill, Manitoba, and this year, they’ll be at their best: Scientists are expecting great solar storms, meaning that for four nights you’ll likely see flaming oranges, streaks of deep blue, and patches of magenta over the early-spring subarctic skies. Days are spent dogsledding and watching for polar bears near your lodge in Churchill. OUTFITTER: Natural Habitat 国产吃瓜黑料s, 800-543-8917, WHEN TO GO: February, March PRICE: $2,795 DIFFICULTY: Easy

USA / Colorado / Anasazi Sun Calendars
(New Trip) Eight hundred years ago, the Anasazi hailed the winter solstice using rocks and shadow tricks. You can still watch the shadows dance, but only on December 22 will the sun be perfectly positioned to cast the dagger-shaped shadows onto the heart of spiral petroglyphs. From your B&B base camp in Cortez, Colorado, you’ll spend a week day hiking in Ute Mountain Tribal Park—home to more than 20,000 protected archaeological sites. OUTFITTER: Southwest Ed-Ventures, 800-525-4456, WHEN TO GO: December PRICE: $1,395 DIFFICULTY: Easy

Australia / Total Eclipse 国产吃瓜黑料
The Australian outback is your front-row seat for the 2002 total solar eclipse. You’ll be awed by the shimmering lights that dance on the edge of the darkened sun—a phenomenon caused by sunlight shining through the moon’s valleys. But the events leading up to the big show are nearly as spectacular: six days diving from a live-aboard in the Great Barrier Reef and three days of hiking in the Cape York rainforest. OUTFITTER: Outer Edge Expeditions, 800-322-5235, WHEN TO GO: December PRICE: $3,500 DIFFICULTY: Easy

Grin and bear it: an Alaskan grizzly’s smile, frozen on film

22. Jump Down the Food Chain
USA / Alaska / Grizzlies of Coastal Katmai
Your expedition leader, naturalist and photographer Matthias Breiter, will tell you to bring your good camera, and for good reason. The first day, you’ll see puffins, sea lions, and bald eagles while kayaking Kodiak Island’s jagged shore. On day two you’ll meet your base camp: a research tugboat christened The Grizzly Ship. And for the next three days, you’ll cruise the Katmai coast, where thousand-pound grizzlies dig for clams. The brave can venture ashore in a Zodiac. The foolish can snap close-ups. OUTFITTER: Natural Habitat 国产吃瓜黑料s, 800-543-8917, WHEN TO GO: June PRICE: $4,695 DIFFICULTY: Easy

Uganda / Primate Safari
You hear a wild mountain gorilla—the largest primate on earth—long before you see it: The territorial scream of the 500-pound beast is bone-chilling. After five days in plush safari camps while exploring chimp-thick Kibale and Queen Elizabeth National Parks, machete your way into the Impenetrable Forest of Bwindi National Park and spend two days tracking your huge, hairy distant cousins. OUTFITTER: Mountain Travel Sobek, 888-687-6235, WHEN TO GO: January-September PRICE: $5,150 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Brazil / Pantanal Jaguars
Ride horseback, boat, and hike into the steamy Pantanal floodplain in southwest Brazil, home to the highest concentration of wildlife in South America, to find the largest jaguars in the world. For nine days, you’ll help count the stealthy cats with motion-triggered cameras and scat and paw-print surveys, and stay at a comfy research lodge. OUTFITTER: Earthwatch Institute, 800-776-0188, WHEN TO GO: February, March, July, August PRICE: $2,195 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

23. Gallop Through the Surf
USA / California / Redwood Coast Ride
Survey the Mendocino Coast from the back of a regal Arabian or Russian Orlov cross. You’ll gallop along windswept Ten Mile Beach, atop oceanside bluffs, and through dense redwood forests. Where else can you fill your canteen at a mineral spring by day and sip cabernet in hot tubs at an oceanfront hotel by night? Welcome to northern California. OUTFITTER: Equitours, 800-545-0019, WHEN TO GO: May-October PRICE: $1,995 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Greece / Aegean Sea Trail Ride
Trot from inn to inn and taverna to taverna for six days and 90 miles around the Pelion peninsula, 200 miles north of Athens. You’ll stuff yourself silly with feta and phyllo and sip your share of ouzo at every stop, so be happy the sure-footed horses are accustomed to the rugged landscape. From Katigiorgis on the Pagasetic Gulf, cross 3,000-foot mountains on old mule trails, then descend to the Aegean Sea, where you’ll canter on the beaches, and plunge—with your horse—into the warm surf. OUTFITTER: Cross Country International, 800-828-8768, WHEN TO GO: April-May, October PRICE: $1,430 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

Venezuela / Galloping the Beaches of Macanao Peninsula
Ride, siesta, ride. Repeat. This will be your blissed-out routine for three days as you explore the pocket beaches, rocky points, and cactus forests of Isla Margarita, off the northern coast of Venezuela. On the island’s undeveloped Macanao Peninsula, gallop into the waves, camp on the beach, and afterward part ways with your beloved steed. For the last four days, fly to famous 3,212-foot Angel Falls on the mainland, and then on to the island of Los Roques to snorkel among exotic corals and rainbow parrotfish in the national park. OUTFITTER: Boojum Expeditions, 800-287-0125, WHEN TO GO: January, November, December PRICE: $2,175 DIFFICULTY: Easy

24. Cast Away in Paradise
USA / Idaho / The Middle Fork of the Salmon
Few fishing spots nourish the ego like the Middle Fork of the Salmon, where even beginners can catch (and release) 30 fish a day. Raft on Class III water for five days and 60 miles in the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness, fishing with guides from your boat and camping on sandbars—many near hot springs—at night. OUTFITTER: Middle Fork Wilderness OUTFITTERs, 800-726-0575, WHEN TO GO: June-September PRICE: $1,790 DIFFICULTY: Easy

Canada / The Miramichi
While 80 percent of North America’s Atlantic salmon spawn in the 55-degree waters of New Brunswick’s Northwest Miramichi River, they’re persnickety bastards when it comes to biting on flies. Spend five days outsmarting them on water near your farmhouse post—the Smoker Brook Lodge—using flies you tie each evening under the tutelage of master Jerome Molloy. OUTFITTER: Smoker Brook Lodge, 866-772-5666, WHEN TO GO: May-October PRICE: $1,500 DIFFICULTY: Easy

New Zealand / The Rangitikei
Fly-fishing indeed: Access the North Island’s Class I-III Rangitikei River by helicoptering to its headwaters, then pile into a three-man raft and spend five days casting for gluttonous 16-pound rainbows. Camp on the river’s grassy banks and hike to rich side veins where the “flies” trout prefer are plump field mice. OUTFITTER: Best of New Zealand Flyfishing, 800-528-6129, WHEN TO GO: October-May PRICE: $2,500 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

25. Break On Through to the Other Side
North Pole / Journey to the Bottom of the Sea
(New Trip) Your mission: to be the first team to reach the ocean floor at 0 degrees latitude, 0 degrees longitude, in two 18-ton submersibles. For seven days, your nuclear icebreaker slices through the Arctic Circle. Once at the pole, you’ll spend eight hours descending 14,500 feet. OUTFITTER: Quark and Deep Ocean Expeditions, 800-356-5699, WHEN TO GO: September 2003 PRICE: $65,950 DIFFICULTY: Moderate

The World / Mysteries of the Earth by Private Jet
The Jules Verne experience! Only, swap the French sidekick for four world-renowned scientists, the balloon for a deluxe 757, and 80 days for 25. Taking off from Miami, touch down first in Manaus, Brazil, then fly westward for a dance with Upolu Islanders in Samoa, whisk across the International Date Line (crikey, we’ve lost a day!) to dive the Great Barrier Reef, go on safari in Nepal’s Royal Chitwan National Park, hoof it in the Serengeti, the Seychelles, the Canary Islands, and…isn’t it about time for cocktails? OUTFITTER: American Museum of Natural History Discovery Tours, 800-462-8687, WHEN TO GO: March PRICE: $36,950 DIFFICULTY: Easy

Space / Suborbital Space Flight
(New Trip) Train at a custom-built, U.S.-based spaceport for four days, reviewing the details of your reusable launch vehicle (RLV) and perfecting simulated-zero-gravity back flips in the hull of a cargo plane that’s nose-diving from 35,000 feet. Then it’s off to suborbital space (that’s 62 miles up) for ten minutes of weightlessness with a nice view of your native planet. OUTFITTER: Space 国产吃瓜黑料s, 888-857-7223, WHEN TO GO: 2005, pending development of the RLV PRICE: $98,000 (includes leather flight jacket and space suit) DIFFICULTY: Moderate

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The great white shark slowly cruising outside the flimsy submerged cage in which I’d imprisoned myself was probably only 12 or 13 feet long and weighed, at a guess, 2,000 pounds. It seemed quite docile, menacing only in its profound grace. The great white rose to the surface, where there was a floating and iridescent smatter of chum: fish oil and sardines ladled into the water specifically to attract sharks. A severed seal’s head floated nearby. The head was tied to a thick yellow rope. The shark hit the seal bait with no sense of urgency whatsoever. It twisted its head slightly, in the way a human might tear at a strip of beef jerky. Someone above, aboard the dive boat I’d hired, began pulling on the rope attached to the seal’s head so that the shark was drawn toward the cage where I stood, breathing hard through a scuba regulator. Soon, all I could see of the animal was its belly, white as a bedsheet. The sheer size of the fish filled my vision to its periphery, and when its leathery flesh actually touched the wire of the cage, there was an instant thrashing jerk—all those muscles whipping and bunching inches from my face—and some part of the shark bashed into the cage, twice. It felt rather like being in a minor pile-up on the freeway: thrown helplessly forward, thrown helplessly backward, banged against this side of the cage, banged against that one.

The shark then turned and cut a wide circle through the sea, disappearing into the blue-green distance.
Great whites—known to be man-eaters and sometimes called “white death”—can be found in all temperate and tropical oceans. But they are most readily observed, in the wild, off South Africa, where there are an estimated 2,000 of the creatures cruising between Cape Town and Port Elizabeth. The premier viewing area—probably the best spot on the planet to encounter great white sharks—is near Dyer Island, which is about seven miles off Gans Bay, a sleepy fishing village a few hours’ drive south and east of Cape Town.


Dyer Island itself is pretty much covered over in gulls and other seabirds, so that occasionally, as if on signal, half the island seems to rise up into the air and circle about overhead, shrieking in a shrill and self-righteous manner.


Set just off Dyer Island is another smaller body of land, a long, graceless pile of stones, 10 to 40 feet high at most, called Geyser Rock. It is the home of an estimated 50,000 Cape fur seals, a favorite prey of the great white shark. The seals bask in the sun on Geyser Rock but must periodically enter the water to hunt and eat. They can also become overheated, which is potentially fatal. The seals thus have two choices: stay out of the water and surely burn to death or, what the hell, take a nice, refreshing dip in the ocean and maybe get eaten by a huge, hungry shark.


Great white sharks like to cruise around Geyser Rock, which they seem to regard as a kind of fur seal McDonald’s.


In places, less than 1,000 yards separate the two islands. The channel between them is known as Shark Alley. Interested parties—tourists, photographers, scientists—can hire a “shark operator,” that is, someone with a ski boat and a welding torch, and get right in the water with several great white sharks. It costs about $150 to look white death in the eye.

Gans Bay is a village of green lawns and frame houses, mostly painted white. It has the feel of small-town, rural America, a place, one imagines, that values neatness and hard work, personal honesty and public decency. It sits on a coastline that could hardly be more appealing: 600 or more varieties of heather flowering in idiotic profusion in a climate that rivals that of southern California. Sun. Sea. Surf. A view toward Cape Town featuring purple mountains, range upon range of them, disappearing into the setting sun.


An American, standing in the midst of such soul-stirring beauty, feels instinctively that something is missing. Where are the waterfront trophy homes, the seaside shopping malls and arcades and amusement parks and saltwater taffy vendors? Who left this place alone to stew in the economic stagnation of hard work and decency?
The answer is, pretty much everyone. In the days of apartheid and sanctions, for instance, South Africa’s share of the world’s tourism dollars was one-quarter of 1 percent. These days, tourists to the Gans Bay area known as Cape Overberg, can visit wineries, experience some of the best whale-watching on earth, walk the nearly deserted white sand beaches, and surf the perfect wave. It’s heaven, as envisioned by the Beach Boys.


The emerging tourism industry, however, is not much regulated, and because South Africa is not a highly litigious country, it has become an extreme sports free-for-all with a profusion of both professional and inexperienced outfitters. “Sharking” is one of the new risk enterprises.


There are currently six shark operators working out of Gans Bay. Training is not required, and the money is good. The average income in South Africa is about 5,000 rand (about $1,000) a month. Sharking pays better: A boat carrying eight guests at 500 to 800 rand a day ($100 to $160) is a month’s wages in pocket. That’s a year’s wages in two weeks.


Consequently, competition among sharkers is fierce, and behind the orderly and idyllic facade of Gans Bay, passions and tempers run high. Lawsuits have been filed; threats have been made. Rumor has it that one sharker has even been shot at. Each of the operators is critical of the others, such criticisms rumored to occasionally degenerate into fistfights at the boat launch. One sharker has been faulted for using pigs’ heads as bait, which tourists find aesthetically unpleasing. Some operators have offended clients by tossing cigarettes and garbage into the sea. Other sharkers are guilty of pulling great whites up to the transoms of their boats so that they will thrash about in a dramatic, photogenic manner, which the more aware operators feel is degrading to the animal and an affront to South Africa, the first country on earth to specifically protect great whites.


But the most cogent critiques have to do with safety: Do you really want a 4,000-pound great white shark thrashing against a boat that has no guardrails, that may be overcrowded, that is carrying tourists who range from families in matching Bermuda shorts to hot young divers from Europe and America? Shouldn’t the cages have tops on them? Or at least extensions that rise above the sea? Shouldn’t someone be regulating the number of people an operator can cram onto his boat, a boat that, after all, has to be able to handle 10- to 16-foot swells on the seven-mile trip to Shark Alley?


For a while now, the operators and various government organizations had talked about regulations, about a “code of conduct” that finally went into effect just after my visit. These rules place a dive master and skipper on each craft, mandate a galvanized shark cage and a radio that works, require that operators and crew be trained in trauma treatment. But no one in Gans Bay expects the new regulations to be effectively enforced. What every sharker in town knows is this: Someone is going to have to die first. No one wants this to happen. Gans Bay operators are decent folks, first and foremost. And a death, or several, would be very bad for business. Still, few doubt that the tragedy is coming, and coming soon.

The company I chose to go with, The White Shark Research Institute, had the largest and safest-looking boat, a 30-foot Dive Cat complete with enclosed wheelhouse, toilet, and two well-maintained 200-horsepower outboards.


The skipper, a Swede named Fredrik 脰str枚m, brought the boat down to the dock, trailered behind a battered Ford truck. The shark cage sat on the stern of the boat, and it was not the expected and reassuring rectangle of sturdy iron bars. It was, in fact, a cylinder about 10 feet high and five feet in diameter, made of galvanized iron woven together in a diamond pattern. The wire was not nearly as thick as that in a backyard chain-link fence, but it was somewhat stronger than chicken wire, which it closely resembled. This cage, like those of other operators, was designed to float free, on a rope, so that it would swing away from an attacking shark. The same principle makes bobbing for apples difficult, but not impossible.
The White Shark Research Institute is sometimes criticized for being a tourist operation in the guise of a scientific organization. Whatever the fact of the matter is, on the first day I chose to dive with the WSRI, there was an American scientist aboard, doing actual scientific work. Richard Londraville, an assistant professor of biology at the University of Akron, had a grant to take blood samples from great whites. His mission was to find out if the ancient fish carried the hormone leptin in their blood. Leptin is created by fat cells and is thought to control appetite in creatures as diverse as mice and men. Sharks, however, have little or no fat. Does that mean they don’t have leptin in their blood? Inquiring minds wanted to know.


Richard was handsome in a boyishly tousled way, and he showed me the implement he used to collect the blood. It was a simple oversize syringe that looked like a big horse needle, with a barb halfway down its length. A piece of monofilament fishing line was connected to the plunger of the syringe, the length of it wrapped around a plate-size reel of blue plastic. The trick, he said, was to insert the needle just behind the shark’s gills, where the blood was fresh from the nearby heart. As the shark pulled away, you played out the line, gently pulling back on the plunger so that the syringe filled with blood. It wasn’t like DNA work: You needed a lot of blood to test for the presence of a hormone. Once the syringe was full of blood, Richard would yank the line, which freed the barb from the shark.


In 10 days, he’d collected three good samples.


“So,” I said, “the syringe is fastened to some kind of long pole…”


“No. That doesn’t work.”


“How do you get the needle into the shark, then?”


“You have to do it by hand.”

Louw Hugo, a former commercial fisherman, piloted the WSRI Dive Cat. After slaloming through 16-foot swells for a long 45 minutes or so, we arrived at Shark Alley and anchored about 50 yards from the fur seal colony. It was 7:30 in the morning, and no other operators had arrived yet.


The place smelled like a feedlot, which in fact was what it was if you were a great white shark. Fifty thousand blubbery mammals—male Cape fur seals can weigh as much as 600 pounds—produce an enormous amount of solid and liquid waste, so that the various gusts of wind that buffeted the Dive Cat seemed to have actual mass to them, and they hit like a slap to the face.
On the far side of the narrow island that is Geyser Rock, over on the other side of the great hillock of densely congregated furry blubber, the full force of the Atlantic Ocean exploded against the shore in a constant booming meter. The huge swells produced geysers of spray perhaps 40 feet high. This spray rose above the seal colony and caught the sun in such a way that it fell back to sea and earth like the shards of tattered rainbows.


It was a noisy place, and the air itself was shattered by the continual barking and roaring of the seal colony. Females sounded like aggravated terrestrial cows, mooing in a kind of constant bawl, while juveniles baaed like goats or sheep, and large adult males occasionally roared in the manner of some unfortunate soul suffering the agonies of projectile vomiting. The sound was constant and unrelenting: moo-bah-ralph, moo-bah-ralph.


The fur seals, scruffy golden-looking creatures, were draped, side by side, over the sandy-colored rocks, like an allegory about population dynamics, or Hong Kong. Seals at the edge of the beach lay there for a while, heads in the air, bawling at the sea. These animals were joined by others, all of them vocalizing, as if daring one another and hurling curses to the sky. Finally one, perhaps braver than the rest, would plunge into the ocean, and then, as if the floodgates had opened, a hundred more would hit the surf. Meanwhile their colleagues above lay across the rocks, in attitudes of adipose unconcern, all of them melting in the sun like Salvador Dali clocks.


The seals swam in “rafts,” dozens of them, clustered together for the safety that can be found in numbers. The seals hugged the shoreline, a single flipper raised to the sky, catching the cooling effect of wind against wet flesh and fur. They were dithering about in the surf, only ten yards from the safety of land, only 50 yards from the boat, and it was tempting to wave back to them. Hi, seals.


Washed up on Geyser Rock were several ship’s timbers, boards 40 feet long, the remnants of some old shipwreck. The waters around the Cape are treacherous, currents from the Atlantic and Indian Oceans running at odds to one another and to the prevailing winds. Huge waves, called Cape Town rollers, have been known to literally break cargo ships in half. The area, known to the rest of the world as the Cape of Good Hope, is locally called the Cape of Storms or, sometimes, the Cape of Souls.


Directly off the shipwreck, a dozen seals, basking in the ebbing water of a broken wave, lifted their flippers as if to say, “We who are about to die salute you.”

On the dive cat, Fredrik began mashing up a mess of sardines and fish oil in a 55-gallon drum using a big wooden pestle. Every minute or so, Richard would ladle a great glop of broken fish into the sea, and the iridescent mess would float away from the boat.


Louw muscled the shark cage into the water. The cage was tied to a cleat on the boat with a yellow rope perhaps an inch in diameter and floated at the transom, so that a prospective shark diver could just step from the boat into the cage.
Set close to the transom and tightly secured to various cleats was a standard scuba tank fitted with what is called a double-hookah rig: a pair of breathing regulators affixed to the tank with two hoses perhaps 20 feet long. Divers in the cage would breathe through the long hose from the tank on the boat.


The other paying passenger on board was Louise Murray, an English photographer with white spiky hair and milk-white skin. She smoked hand-rolled cigarettes and had once been a negotiator for British Petroleum, working deals that ran to millions of dollars. She fell into the job sometime after she joined the company and took a test that showed she was a “risk taker.” British Petroleum apparently felt it needed fearless negotiators.


Now Louise was traveling the world, publishing her photos in various scuba magazines, doing some writing now and again, and galloping through the last of her “oil money.”


The chicken-wire cage was suspended by floats-cylindrical blue-and-white plastic objects like giant two-foot-long sausages. The floats were placed deep in the cage, so that about three feet of wire projected above the surface of the sea.


Louise and I repaired to the wheelhouse to don our wetsuits while Richard chummed for sharks and Louw worked a pocketknife through the half-frozen head of a dead fur seal. Louw and Fredrik said they generally picked up dead seals from the far shores of Geyser Rock. At that moment I noticed a seal-shaped thing with a big hunk missing from the middle directly beside our boat, which was anchored in about 15 feet of clear water. It might have been an oddly shaped rock.


“Is that a seal?” I asked Fredrik.


“Yes,” he said, and added, unnecessarily, I thought, “it’s dead.”


Richard ladled chum while Louw whirled the roped seal’s head about in a great underhanded circle and tossed the bait about 15 yards from the boat. To the west, a small squall, like a bruise against the sky, stood on dark and slanting pillars of rain. A freshening breeze slapped the boat with the heavy, deep-brown odor of fur seal.


“The smell,” Fredrik said, “isn’t too bad today.”


“It isn’t?”


“No.” The temperature stood at 60 degrees. On really hot summer days, 100-degree scorchers, Fredrik said, seal excrement literally baked on the stones of Geyser Island, and tourists who’d come to risk their lives diving with white sharks spent much of their time vomiting into the sea, chumming the waters with last night’s dinner and unconsciously imitating the sounds of the seal bulls only 50 yards away.


“There’s a shark out there,” Louw said, the way another man might say, “Oh, look, a robin.”


I stared at the floating seal’s head and saw what looked to be a shadow on the surface of the sea.


Fredrik and Louw said they had seen the shark come up below the frozen seal’s head and then glide slowly past it. “We call that a dummy run,” Fredrik said.


“Shouldn’t I be getting in the cage?” asked Louise, the certified risk-taker. She was standing on the transom of the boat, about three feet off the surface of the sea, and out beyond her I could now see the dorsal fin of the shark cutting through the water, leaving twin ripples drifting off to each side. Definitely a great white.


Fredrik tugged on the rope that pulled the shark cage toward the boat. Louise sat with her feet dangling over the water and then lifted herself into the cage. She held the regulator in her hand, adjusted her mask, cradled her camera under her arm, and turned to me.


“Bring my second camera,” she said. “Be careful with it.”


I sat on the transom with my feet in the cage, bit down on the regulator, adjusted my mask, and as I did so, the shark rose out of the water and hit the seal’s head with a kind of indolent indifference. It was not at all like a trout hitting a fly on the surface of a stream. Instead, everything happened very slowly, very deliberately. The sun caught my mask at an angle, so what I saw was a blurred and brilliant glare, with a great triangular head shimmering in the center as it rose languidly from the sea, mouth agape. Rows of glittering, triangular teeth ridged the palate, and the eyes were a pure and ghostly white.


Great whites often roll their eyes back into their skulls when taking prey. It is thought that this is done to protect the eyes from the thrashing death-throes of the victim. But no one really knows. Human gourmands roll their eyes when sampling a tasty morsel. So, it seems, do great white sharks, and this one rose like a particularly vivid nightmare, with glistening rows of teeth and ghostly white demon’s eyes completely devoid of pupils.


Because of the eye roll, the shark was effectively blind at the moment of the munch. Louw tugged the rope and gently pulled the bait toward the boat as the great white moved blindly forward, mouth open in a behavior Fredrik called “gaping.”


“I’ll bring him right up to the cage,” Louw said. “Get in.”


“If you get knocked out of the cage,” Fredrik said. “Swim down.”


“Down?”


“They hit things struggling on the surface.”


And so, cradling Louise’s second camera and biting down hard on my regulator, I dropped into the cage, where everything turned gray-green and I was looking at the world through a mesh of chicken wire, while Louise stood at the slitted window, her camera at the ready. Say I lost the regulator: How long could I stay below the surface of the sea, with a great white shark circling above? Two minutes? How long is a great white shark’s attention span?


And then I saw the shark, perhaps 40 feet in the distance, a dimly seen abstraction, like a notion of grace half-formed in the mind, something brilliant but hazily apprehended. There was a curious feeling of dread without vulnerability, as in a dream.


Louise and I stayed underwater for perhaps half an hour, and the shark circled back a few times, always gliding off at meditative distances. Occasionally, chilled and shivering uncontrollably, the two of us rose to the surface and sat, somewhat awkwardly, on the floats set about the interior of the cage, so that we were still surrounded by the wire that rose above the surface of the sea.


“How big was that guy?” I asked Fredrik. I figured 20 feet.


“About 11 feet,” he said. “Weighed maybe 1,500 pounds.”


“I thought it was bigger.”


“Adrenaline magnification,” Fredrik explained.


Louw lured and then pulled another great white shark to the transom of the boat, and Richard, the leptin collector, tried to plunge his syringe into the powerfully thrashing beast, which boomed against the boat and sent up a great waterspout of spray. This was more than a little tricky, not to mention dangerous, and Richard missed twice but didn’t actually fall into the water, which I thought made for a successful day, leptin or no.


We saw six sharks in eight hours. There were two other shark operators, with boats full of paying customers, anchored no more than a stone’s throw from us. While that felt a little crowded, the next day was a circus, risk as comedy.

There we were, four out of six operators, all of us anchored side by side in Shark Alley, in the one area just off the shipwreck where the water was relatively flat. There was, however, enough surge and surf that the boats were swinging widely on their anchor lines and banging, one against the other, so we were pushing boats off the Dive Cat with long poles, which was not something one really wanted to worry about a whole hell of a lot because there were three—count ’em, three—great white sharks in the water, circling the boats, and there were three cages, containing five divers, in the water, not to mention three scuba divers, who were swimming around just under our boat. These divers were not in a cage. One of them, an American scientist named Mark Marks, habitually swims with great whites in this exposed fashion. The shark operators think this is dangerous and feel that when he’s eventually killed, business will suffer.


Marks was working with a French film crew, and at the moment he was acting as a safety diver for the cameraman, who, when looking through the lens of his camera, couldn’t see sharks coming at him from odd angles. Marks hovered above the Frenchman, holding a weighted three-foot-long board carved in the shape of a killer whale. The board was painted with the orca’s distinctive black and white markings. The killer whale is one of the few creatures in the sea that prey on sharks. Even great whites. Still, I thought of this object as the board of delusion.
Anchored next to the French party was a small 17-foot boat. Counting the captain, there were 10 people aboard. The swells had diminished (to a mere 12 feet) but the boat, rated for six passengers, was dangerously overloaded. Louw told me he had quit work for a rival sharker because the man tolerated such conditions.


I glanced over at the wreckage on Geyser Rock and thought about trying to swim the 50 yards, boat to shore. The boat closest to Geyser Rock had deployed a cage whose floats were positioned on the top rim so that when the divers, two American men in their thirties, surfaced to the warmth of the sun, they sat on the floats with their butts hanging out in the shark-infested water. Occasionally Fredrik or Louw would yell over helpful advice, like, “For Christ’s sake, get in the cage, there’re sharks coming your way.”


Having seen any number of sharks rise two or three feet out of the water to take seal bait, I found this cage just a little scary. A white shark could easily rise up and put his great conical head into the cage, where it would be trapped, swimming around like some doofus at a party with a lampshade on his head. Except, of course, there would be terrified divers crouching at the bottom of the cage. This scenario is not at all fanciful. It has happened. The photographer cowering at the bottom of the cage got a lot of good pictures and was not injured. But what an advertisement for the topless shark cages: Sharks can get in, but they can’t get out.


Louise was down in our cage, with Fredrik watching the circling great whites, and Louw was ready at the line that held the cage. In a bad scenario, a shark could get wrapped in the rope and toss Louise out of the cage. Louw stood ready to uncleat in an instant. This was the value of having a skipper and dive master on board.


Meanwhile, the other boats were banging up against one another, mostly because their operators had come out alone, without professional assistance, so that they felt an obligation to watch the sharks and their clients and couldn’t spare the attention necessary to re-anchor or even prevent the constant and irritating collisions.


As I pushed the French vessel off the Dive Cat with a long pole, the biggest of the great whites made a dummy run at our bait, rose blind and gaping, and then engulfed the entire seal’s head in its mouth. Louw pulled the shark—it was a 15-footer—to the transom, while the French boat thudded into the Dive Cat. The shark whacked our boat and caromed off the submerged cage, bouncing Louise back and forth against the chicken wire before it turned and dove slowly toward the French cameraman, whose video housing was snowy white and very prominent against the blue-gray sea.


Then something remarkable happened. Marks, the safety diver, pulled the board of delusion from under his chest and flashed it at the shark, rather in the way horror-film actors hold up crosses to vampires. Did the shark apprehend the board as a killer whale in the far distance? Did it calculate its chances against a mammal that can weigh in excess of five tons and hunts in packs? I don’t know, but the great white shark did not just turn away from the three-foot-long board. It veered off in several sharp thrusts, the fastest I’d seen a great white shark move in more than 20 hours of observation.


Louise crawled out of the cage, blue-lipped and shivering, shaking uncontrollably as she tried to get a topside shot of another shark taking our bait, which it shook about for a time. Little bits and pieces of what used to be a seal floated to the surface. I pushed more boats off the Dive Cat while seagulls swooped to the surface of the sea and picked at the floating leftovers. This seemed less than gallant, a way of profiting from death and tragedy. I told Louise that I thought of these particular seagulls as “lawyer birds.”


She was thoughtful for a moment.


“We do that, too,” Louise said.


“What?”


“Journalists. We write about death and tragedy. For money.”


The perception was jarring, and accurate. Here I was, one of the journalist birds circling over Shark Alley, ready to shriek in my shrill and self-righteous manner about choosing the proper operator, about inexperienced sharkers and overloaded boats, about operators with flimsy cages and no trauma training. Soon enough, flocks of us would be swooping down to pick at the various remains of the inevitable disaster, the one nobody wants and everyone expects.


With that unlovely thought in mind, and with a certain amount of confidence in my own operator, I dropped back down into the chicken wire and played another one-sided game of bumper tag with a couple thousand pounds of white death.

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It was no great feat of investigative journalism to find the house of Boots. The ramshackle log edifice was partially hidden behind a dozen mature trees, about a hundred yards off a gravel road a dozen miles or so outside the town of Cholila, in Chubut Province, Argentina. It was surrounded by a barbless wire fence intended to keep cows away; I had been told that no advance permission was required to examine the unmarked and abandoned complex of log buildings, so I climbed over the fence. A pasture fronting the dark structures was alive with daisies and the lazy hum of bees. The main house was pleasantly shaded by trees, and there were several out-cabins strung along the banks of the slow-flowing blue waters of the R铆o Blanco.

Argentina Secretary of Tourism

The man called Boots, I had been informed, built this homestead nearly a century ago, in 1902, after he fled to South America from the United States. In Cholila, there are those who will tell you Boots was a gunslinger and a killer. One local family believes he killed one of its forefathers during a botched and cowardly robbery. The Ap Iwans, a clan of Welsh settlers, had established a trading post to do business with the Mapuche Indians. On the night of December 28, 1909, a torch was thrown through the window of the store. The proprietor, Llwyd Ap Iwan, was inside and fired several shots to drive off the robbers, but burned his hands badly putting out the fire. The next day, they say, six outlaws, including Boots and a woman, attacked the trading post. Boots burst through the door with his pistol drawn, but Llwyd grappled with the intruder, who fell when his spurs became tangled in a rug. Despite his burned hands, Llwyd managed to get the gun away from the outlaw, but it had been modified to be cocked with the heel of the hand*#151;to be fanned—and the trigger was missing. Llwyd was slow with the gun, and a man known in North America as the Sundance Kid stepped into the room carrying a Winchester .45 rifle and killed him.
The Welsh community was enraged. The Ap Iwans say that the outlaws were hunted down by Argentine territorial police and killed not far away, near the border with Chile.


There are others in Cholila who say that the Ap Iwan family is mistaken and that Llwyd was killed by another gang of North American bandits living in the area at the time. The man who called himself Butch Cassidy (“Butch” sounds like “Boots” in a Spanish-speaking mouth) was a good neighbor and a fine rancher. According to this variation on the legend, Boots was driven from his land by political circumstances beyond his control and died either in Bolivia or back in the United States.


A breeze sighed through the tall old trees around the house of Boots, and I listened for the voices of spirits. A set of crooked steps led up to a small porch, and it was no great feat of imagination to see the place as it must have been almost 100 years ago: graceful and rather elegant, a scaled-down version of the late-nineteenth-century cattle-baron style.


The doors were locked and the windows shut tight. I looked through panes of wavy glass into dusty dark rooms. My own shadow slid across the floor, but I imagined dim figures, vaguely translucent, shifting through the gloom, a table set for a long Argentine lunch: one woman, two men. A linen tablecloth, fine silver, plates of beef and salad, the contented murmur of conversation.


“Step inside,” a disembodied voice suggested, “for we wish to relieve you of your time and currency.” Not me, I thought. But it was as if the locked door was already swinging open on ghostly, creaking hinges.

El se帽or Ra煤l Cea, 77, is generally considered the historiador, the keeper of the legend. He owns a small cattle ranch set on a hillside above the R铆o Blanco, and I drove to visit him with an Argentine fishing buddy of mine named Eduardo, who directed me through fenced fields of fine, fat cows. Beyond the valley was the Cerro Tres Picos, an Andean wall rising stark against a cloudless sky, and the three pinnacles that gave it its name. Glaciers on the saddles between the peaks glittered in the sun.


“Ra煤l will talk about Boots for hours,” Eduardo told me. “His wife doesn’t like it. She believes he is obsessed. We should only stay for one hour, no more.”
We arrived at the modest old ranch house to find Ra煤l Cea wrestling with a used freezer that was sitting on the tailgate of a battered Ford pickup. He’s a big man, but it is my opinion that anyone who has attained 77 years shouldn’t be carrying around freezers single-handedly.


Eduardo and I shouldered the resolute Mr. Cea out of the way and lugged the bulky appliance into the house. We gathered around the kitchen table, and La Se帽ora Cea graciously offered the thick green tea called mat茅 and sat with us for a moment until it became clear that we were going to talk about the dreaded Boots. She excused herself and left the room, closing the door perhaps a bit more firmly than was absolutely necessary.


Mr. Cea told us that he is not an historian by trade, but a retired civil servant. He had been a builder, Eduardo said, and it was he who erected the stately municipal office building in Cholila. He’d also been a small-time rancher all his life—”a gaucho, a cowboy like Butch Cassidy”—and his father had known the North American outlaws well.


Butch and Sundance arrived in Cholila in the summer of 1901, Mr. Cea said. Butch called himself Santiago Ryan. Harry Longabaugh—the Sundance Kid—brought along his girlfriend, Etta Place. They claimed to be man and wife, and Sundance went by the name Enrique Place. The newcomers were granted land to develop under an Argentine law, similar to the U.S. Homestead Act, that had been enacted on October 16, 1884. (Mr. Cea, like any historian, amateur or professional, was a font of such dates). According to the law, each head of a household was granted 2,500 hectares, or about 6,250 acres. The Ryan Ranch covered 15,000 acres in all—12,500 belonging to Butch and Sundance, and 2,500 to Etta, the first woman in Argentina to be granted land under the act. This might have had something to do with the fact that Etta wore paired six-guns and was able to shoot bottles off fence posts while riding on horseback at full gallop.


In Cholila, the North Americans quickly earned the respect of the local people. They rode well, knew cattle, and Ryan and Mrs. Place spoke some Spanish. In the United States, Mr. Cea informed me, there is much controversy about Ryan. Some say he was a good man. Some say he was bad.


“When he came here,” Mr. Cea said, “he was a good man.”

More than ten years ago, I found myself driving through southern Argentina and stopped for a time in R铆o Gallegos, the last sizable outpost on the mainland before you reach the car ferry to Tierra del Fuego. It was a dreary day in late September, and the snow that lay around the small town plaza was covered with a wind-driven shroud of soot and dirt, all of it dissolving under gray, freezing rain.


My tourist map was full of interesting facts. Along this wave-battered coast of the southern Atlantic, penguins frolic on the rocks. And on February 16, 1905, the local bank was robbed by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
A guy came from Utah to the end of the Earth to rob the bank, here? Not so very far from Antarctica? I had a hard time assimilating the idea of Wild West bank robbers in close proximity to penguins.


It took me more than a decade to get back to Argentina. I brought along a 1994 book titled Digging Up Butch and Sundance, by Anne Meadows. With her husband, Dan Buck, Meadows traveled to South America half a dozen times to research the life and times of Boots. “Our obsession has nearly bankrupted us,” she wrote. The book is a fascinating labyrinth of conflicting stories that ends in a high mountain bowl in Bolivia where Sundance is almost certainly buried. Butch is probably there as well, but then again, there’s a slight possibility that he survived and returned to the United States. The speculative historical record reads like a catalog of Elvis sightings.


By the time I turned off the paved highway and onto the gravel road to Cholila, 35 miles away, I was in the labyrinth myself. There were forests and rivers and lakes. The Andes looked a lot like the mountains outside my hometown in Montana, and I had a sudden apprehension of psychic danger. It was possible I too could become lost in a maze of stories; I could bankrupt myself searching for an unattainable veracity. “Two days,” I thought, “no more”—much in the way the future crack addict believes he will take a single hit on the pipe and quit.


“Ryan was born Robert Leroy Parker, in Beaver, Utah, on April 13, 1866,” Mr. Cea continued. Despite my protests, he thought it was important that I revisit certain aspects of American history. The Civil War, he said, the war of brother against brother, had just ended. Some 816,000 men were dead, the most to die in any American war. In the West, banks and large cattle companies were buying up land from the widows of veterans. Justice was slow. Gangs of men, hardened fighters like Jesse James, robbed the hated banks and became folk heroes. All this, Mr. Cea said, happened in the first decade of Bob Parker’s life, a time when the soul is formed. The boy saw family ranchers bilked of their land by banks, railroads, and multinational cattle companies. If Butch rustled cattle, in Mr. Cea’s rendition of history it was a form of social protest.


Butch—who worked for a time as a butcher, hence the nickname—became a ranch foreman, a natural leader who knew how to command tough men. He watched his employers, the cattle barons, stealing stock and land from poor ranchers, who had no recourse. He burned, in Mr. Cea’s opinion, with a hatred of injustice, which he identified with the big and bullying corporate interests of the time.


The bad winter of 1888-1889 broke the system. Hundreds of thousands of cattle died on the range. Bosses abandoned the land and returned to their homes in Great Britain or the East. Unemployed cowboys roamed the lawless land. Butch continued robbing banks and railroads, and became famous. In 1899 he hooked up with the Sundance Kid.


Pursued by the Pinkerton Detective Agency—”actually the forerunner of your FBI,” Mr. Cea said—the partners decided to flee to South America. Modern technology, especially the telegraph, had effectively put them out of the train-robbing business.


“Why South America?” I asked.


“Europe was too socially stratified,” Mr. Cea replied. “But many people in the American West knew of Patagonia.” The Welsh, fleeing dead-end lives in the coal mines, had already settled in Chubut province. Representatives of these Welsh immigrants recruited English-speaking colonists all across North America. Central Patagonia was attractive because the land looked a great deal like the American West. But there were few banks, the frontier was still open, and the cattle business was still a matter of family ranches. It was a place where a man could make an honest living raising beef.


We had been talking for an hour. Mrs. Cea came into the kitchen, passed through smiling pleasantly, and closed the door to the next room with a great deal of authority. Mr. Cea smiled after her.


The events that followed had a horrible irony, Mr. Cea continued. “When Ryan”—Butch—”arrived in Argentina, he intended to live peacefully, but instead became a catalyst for the social and political problems of the day in this country.”

Behind the closed door to the living room, Mrs. Cea was rearranging furniture or perhaps using the floor as a trampoline. Ra煤l Cea began to speak more rapidly.


Ryan was granted land primarily because Argentina needed to develop the Cholila valley and frustrate Chilean claims on the land. After a plebiscite—”held on April 30, 1902″ and presided over by Queen Victoria of England—the land was declared part of Argentina. Chileans, however, owned most of the property in the valley and apparently planned to pursue their claims by buying up all the ranches they could. The Argentine authorities gave the Ryan party homesteads—the one sizable chunk of land in the valley not yet under Chilean control—primarily because they weren’t Chileans.
There are documents, Mr. Cea said, that proved they were good ranchers. As in the United States, a homesteader had to “prove up” the land, and officials were dispatched to monitor his progress.


“Remember this date,” Mr. Cea said. “February 15, 1905.” On that day, an official named L贸zaro Molinas visited Ryan’s Cholila ranch under the provisions of the homestead law. He spoke with Ryan and the Places, and certified that they had 900 mother cows and 50 horses. Their books were in order. The report that Molinas filed, Mr. Cea said, can be found in the town records of Rawson, the provincial capital.


A Chilean-backed company called Cocham贸 offered to buy the ranch from Ryan, but he refused. According to Mr. Cea, Chilean agents framed Ryan for the R铆o Gallegos robbery. “Recall the document of Se帽or Molinas,” Mr. Cea said.


Mrs. Cea marched through the kitchen, slamming both doors.


“We should leave now,” Eduardo said.


“Yes, of course,” I said, making no effort to move.


Mr. Cea began speaking much faster. “Molinas talked with Ryan on February 15, 1905. The bank was robbed the very next day. It is over a thousand kilometers from Cholila. Who can ride a horse 1,000 kilometers in less than 24 hours? It is not possible!”


Sometime later, he said, a picture of Butch, Sundance, and Etta appeared on the front page of a Buenos Aires newspaper. They were identified as the persons responsible for the R铆o Gallegos robbery. The picture, Mr. Cea believes, was planted by Chileans. When Ryan saw the paper, he sold out to Cocham贸 and required that they pay him in Chile. “He left on the ninth of May, 1905.”


“So Butch and Sundance couldn’t have killed Llwyd Ap Iwan in 1909!” I cried, as Eduardo pulled on my arm.


“No, Argentine police identified the assailants as two other North Americans, Robert Evans and William Wilson. And they were hunted down and killed near the border of Chile after the murder.”


“Do you think Butch and Sundance died in Bolivia?” I asked.


“Good-bye, adios,” Mrs. Cea said, as Eduardo dragged me out the door.


“I don’t know,” Mr. Cea said.


“Thank you for your visit,” Mrs. Cea said. She was quite gracious, considering.


“Santiago Ryan,” Mr. Cea said as he followed us outside, “is not a man for North America or for Argentina. He is a man for the world. He is a social enigma, a mystery of a soul haunted by injustice.”


“And I saw his house.”


“Oh, no,” Mr. Cea said. “That was the house of Enrique and Etta. Ryan’s house was in front of that. It was torn down in 1943. The logs were used for another building.”


“Which one?” I asked, in the manner of the seriously obsessed.


“Good-bye, now,” Mrs. Cea said, a little less graciously, and at that point we really did have to go.

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