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hazard the river. Six months in the jungle? Was there a chance of living through the rainy season? Of waiting for the miners to come back to their camp?

My mind raced feverishly, evaluating new ideas as they cropped up, restoring my hopes. I spent hours devising intricate plans; the greater the detail, the better I felt. The excitement kept my mind off the sizzling skillet, my suffering feet, my howling belly, and the irritating lump on my forehead.

First of all, I would stay right where I was, waiting for a plane until Christmas. During that time I would try to get a fire going and take care of my feet. I would dry out the rice and beans and make soup and get my strength back. On the twenty-fourth of December I would empty out my pack. I knew exactly where I was: just a few hours upriver was the Turliamos with its lovely beach, cave, and tamarind tree. I would walk there, stuff my pack with as much fruit as I could, and then walk back to Curiplaya. I could live on the fruit for two weeks, going back for more when necessary. I would save as much of the rice and beans as I could, using them only when I couldn't find anything else in the jungle. I would build myself a shelter on the hillside, where I would store all my belongings in case of a flood. If necessary, I could easily flee up there myself. At the same time I would reinforce the hut down here, perhaps put up some walls to keep the wind out. Inside I would