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http://www.chicalo.com The footprints in the sand were deformed into grotesque shapes and patterns due to the periodic heavy rains that continued throughout the previous night although they couldn't be very old. A day at the most, I reckoned. The fresh animal tracks, which were on top of the older human footprints, looked like they belonged here. Ours, however, did not. Perhaps none of us should be here at all. For some unexplained reason the weathered human tracks produced a sense of disgust in me. We should not be here. I did some rough time calculations in my mind. Who possibly could have made these footprints? Frank? No way. I would be surprised if he even made it back to the vehicles, never mind all the way here. The rest of my group were far behind me. I was significantly slowed by the need to search the creek for Sally and backpacks and it was conceivable that they passed me on their way downstream if they were not required to stay on the edge of the creek. Maybe some of them hiked all night while I slept? Given the state of mind and body of all of the others I highly doubted this possibility. The only thing I could do is push on and find Sally, Sally's backpack, or John's backpack. Taking it a bit slower and more cautiously, downstream I went. The pain I had just experienced seemed to cause other emotions to well up inside of me. I blamed John for all of my woes now; after all, this was entirely his fault. If he hadn't been so cocky and arrogant this whole mess could have been easily avoided. His bungling began to fester in me like a gangrenous wound and the further I continued downstream the more I was convinced that John was guilty of manslaughter, or even the murder of Sally. If anyone else died because of his ridiculous creek crossing system, he would pay. A strong dislike of John began to form within my psyche and everything that was not perfect I blamed on him. Each and every time debris entered my eye, the resulting irritation was due to him. Every stick that poked me came from him. Finally, in the early afternoon, I came across something that convinced me to turn back. The creek narrowed into a steep-sided canyon and the water gushed through the resulting crevasse like a tempest. There was a series of large trees that had fallen down across the creek at the uppermost possible location. There was no way that Sally could have made it past here and lived. The sheer drop was at least one hundred feet and terminated far below on a bed of jagged boulders in a cloud of spray and foam. This was the end. No Sally, no Sally's backpack, and no John's backpack. The party was over. My hopes of recovering the satellite phone were dashed and we were all going to have to get out of this the hard way. Even the mere thought of shimmying out onto those overhanging logs made me quiver in revulsion. I scanned around looking for any evidence of further footprints but the terrain in the area did not lend itself to leaving evidence of passers-by. The fallen trees across the precipice were sizeable enough to support the weight of a logging truck but I certainly was not venturing forth across them. I speculated whether the producers of the footprints had gone across or not. Not unless they were crazy. Or desperate. Or both. No way. As if to validate my efforts to find Sally, or at least to prove something to someone somewhere, I recorded a fifteen second video clip of the chasm with my digital camera. Not really knowing why I had done so, it did make me feel better. My ass was covered. I had done what I could to find Sally and could do no more. And this video clip was the proof in my mind. This was all John's fault anyway. I didn't know who, or why, I would show it to, but I felt now that I could not be blamed for anything that had happened. I was very certain now, as certain I could be without an actual body, that Sally was indeed gone and wouldn't be coming back. I did not relish the thought of informing John of this fact. Although I did have a creepy urge to play the video clip of the raging chasm for him. Part One: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gIqB7p-HpjU Read Complete Story: http://www.chicalo.com [Mas+detalle]

Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5AOOi_q3QyE http://www.chicalo.com We all searched our souls that night and did not like what we found. It could be seen in our faces, in our eyes, like glass shattered glass in an angry moment. A morning light, echoing its way in from the outside world, as well as a persistent and particularly nasty snore coming from Adam, woke us early. A few of the group eventually stirred from their cocoons, venturing out to relieve themselves, and then returning with a weather report for the rest of us. The rain had stopped but a dense swirling fog persisted; mysterious, deadly. Visibility was down to a couple of meters at best. We were cut off from the outside world here in our underground grotto and it gave us time to reflect on the happenings so far, and to take an inventory of our worldly possessions at the moment. We were down to one GPS; the other trickled down into the depths of the boulder field, like a giant Plinko game. Two water bottles were gone; probably somewhere back in the thick, dense bush. Adam's cell phone had disappeared, presumably into the bottomless Plinko game as well. The loss of the GPS didn't bother me as we had another and I relied on my old-fashioned map and compass anyway. Adam's cell phone didn't work out here anyway and the loss of it almost made me glad as a small, indirect act of vengeance. The water bottles, I knew, would haunt Peter and Jill later when we entered an area where water was not abundant and they had nothing to purify with their drops of iodine. Would others offer them water in their time of need? Judging by what had happened so far, I doubted it. I made a mental note to carry a little extra water myself, just in case, but probably not for Peter. Robert and Adam tended to their feet as they were the only ones that had old-school leather hiking boots, accompanied, of course, by cotton and wool socks. Once their boots were sodden and heavy, which was almost immediately, they acted like huge friction-causing smothering weights around their tender feet. Their moisture-retaining cotton socks, held tightly against their skin by their soaked woollen socks, acted like fine-grit sandpaper, abrasively grinding away the soft wrinkled skin of the feet and ankles in the most painful of locations. Not a pretty sight and I grimaced as they futilely attempted to remedy the hopeless situations with mohair, second skin and duct tape. Pain was visibly apparent in their faces and their hands shook as they operated like over-worked surgeons in a front-line aide station. At the next creek we were not so lucky. After searching both upstream and downstream as far as we could, we determined that the required windfall, or bridge, was not present. Nor were there any large boulders that could be jumped across. A shallow, wide area was not to be found. John produced a rope and proceeded to tie it to Sally, who was to go over first, according to him. I protested, arguing that many a needless death was caused by this foolhardy practice. Retrained by the rope, hikers could be caught by the swift current, immobilized, and then drowned before anyone could do anything. My concerns were dismissed as paranoia and the rope was attached to Sally with an evil-looking slip-knot. She had so much faith in John that she did not question his perceived wisdom. John selected a location for the crossing that I definitely did not agree with and suggested an alternative further upstream. Once again I was shut down and was accused of scare-mongering. A couple of the group half-heartedly backed me up with a quiet murmur; the rest, intimidated by John, chose not to engage. I did not like the look of what was to happen next at all. Tying the other end of the rope to a nearby root, John signalled Sally to start across. The roar and din of the raging creek was incredible and in the background we thought we could hear the sound of a commercial jet flying overhead; looking up, no jet was to be seen, nor did the sound of the passing jet diminish; the creek itself was producing the phenomena. At John's direction Sally waded into the fast-moving ice-cold water, immediately lost her footing, her legs being swept from under her, and was then brutally seized and carried downstream by the immense force of the water, the rope rapidly reaching its limit. With a twang it became taught, but not before throwing John off of his feet, complete with clasped and secured backpack, down off of the slippery, rounded boulder on which he stood, and into the creek as well. What happened next was an eerie combination of lightning-fast blurred action and slow motion life-passing-before-your-eyes chaos. Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5AOOi_q3QyE Part One: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gIqB7p-HpjU Read Complete Story: http://www.chicalo.com [Mas+detalle]

Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8GLD89fuMk http://www.chicalo.com I awoke a few times during the night and heard something small rustling nearby as well as some grunting and cackling in the not-so-far distance. A grouse produced its distinct mating call; a sound like an old Briggs & Stratton engine starting up but then running out of gas. Several other noises, that I could not identify, presented themselves to my groggy state and made me wonder what could be producing them. I was dead to the work with weariness and was not afraid even when I thought I could hear chewing and what I thought was breathing nearby somewhere. The owls of this area, at least I presumed they were owls, had an uncanny human-like quality to their early morning hootings. The light of the morning was my curtain-call; the part that I was to play in today's unfolding all-to-real drama was to begin again. I opened my eyes wishing to see the familiar painted ceiling of my room back in civilization, realizing that the last two day's events had been but a dream, but instead was greeted by something very different indeed. As my eyes adjusted to the dim morning light filtering through the thick canopy above, the light and my haziness dissipated, and I became aware of something very close to my face that I could not focus on without my reading glasses. I soon realized that a very large and wicked-looking spider had chosen the space immediately above my face, perhaps to take advantage of the heat emanating upwards, to build her web and was now hovering a mere inch or so above the skin of my face. Not being one that is intensely afraid of spiders, I still did not like to touch them nor be in such close proximity to them; spiders did make me feel uncomfortable and brought out the some sort of mild primeval fear that is common among us squeamish people. This one, with its very large abdomen and short but gangly legs, was particularly offensive in nature; not at all like those little cute guys that run around quickly in the corners of windows catching irritating flies for us. This spider was so close to my face that I could not even turn away for fear of contacting the web and alerting the builder to my presence and provoking an attack. Finally I was able to wriggle my hands from within my down-filled cocoon and carefully sweep away the vicious looking miniscule predator. How could something so small instil such a large amount of fear in us? The instant I removed the spider from its too close proximity I frantically shed my warm sleeping bag, jumped up and proceeded to squirm and shake like I was enduring an epileptic fit. The hair on the back of my neck tingled and goose bumps were everywhere. Beads of sweat ran down my forehead and into my eyes, stinging them. The spider was able to invoke a rude awakening in me that morning so very long ago and I mention it not for sensationalism but to merely convey the state of my mind at the start of what was sure to be a very, very long day. It was a careful balancing act; spending time and effort searching for Sally downstream but save enough of myself for helping those who were known to be still alive upstream. I was still unsure how, or why, much of this responsibility had fallen onto my shoulders. It was also interesting to note whom I was more concerned about, more worried about. Most of the people involved were virtual strangers to me but hardship can make comrades quickly. I knew Jill before this adventure started and knew she could take care of herself. She was an athletic and attractive woman, but somehow presented herself as utilitarian to me. The rest of the group I had just met on the outset of this bushwhack, only a couple of days ago but now seemed much, much longer. Strangely enough, it was Becky who I was concerned about the most. It was about noon as I lucked onto a fairly lengthy sandy gravel bar where the creek splayed out into a wide but still swift-moving expanse; it was a distinct relief from the slow-going salal-infested shoreline and I was able to make some good time here. Near to the end of the gravel bar was where I discovered something that confused and bewildered me; human footprints in the sand. Animal footprints were plentiful in the mud, sand or gravel that I came across from time to time, but boot prints! Here? I couldn't believe it. It appeared that there were two people moving downstream and one set up prints heading upstream some time later, judging from the overlap. I couldn't tell if there were three people involved as the heavy rains had distorted this very important information. Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8GLD89fuMk Part One: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gIqB7p-HpjU Read Complete Story: http://www.chicalo.com [Mas+detalle]

Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbZdFE3_5DE http://www.chicalo.com The psychological ramifications of hiking alone at night, in the inhospitable environment such as it was, and considering the stresses and strains that I had recently endured, were an entirely negative influence on me that night. As I moved ever further downstream searching every nook and cranny of the creek for Sally, Sally's backpack, or John's backpack, my mind played evil tricks on me. Exacerbated by the extreme fatigue that plagued my body and soul, my eyes produced images that were simply just not there. Floating rafts of creek foam in slowly swirling back-eddies became Sally facedown, dead of course. Frothy rapids became lost backpacks containing the crucial satellite phone. Shadowy areas between boulders became black bears readying themselves to lunge at me as I passed. The dark stumps of windfalls became caves and the lairs of a wide assortment of frightening and vicious animals. Once my heart completely stopped when before me appeared, in astonishing detail and clarity, a cougar crouched, muscles rippling in anticipation of pouncing on it's prey; me. Of course it turned out the cougar was only a clump of brown dead ferns. I felt sick to my stomach, my hands trembled and I had the intense feeling that eyes were constantly on my back, as if I was being followed or stalked. Extreme nervousness haunted me and I had never felt so alone. Adrenaline coursed through my veins like the first fix of a junkie after a long, hard dry spell. I started to stumble and trip on every root and slippery boulder, the smear strip on the bottom of my trail running shoe becoming non-existent. At one point I thought I could see human footprints in a sand bar. But no, it could not be, I told myself. I did not want to stop but knew I had to or I would be the next person to need assistance; assistance I knew would not come. At last I turned away from the creek side and headed inland, up a gentle slope though a stand of magnificent virgin timber. The frigid katabatic airflow heading downstream was replaced by still air and a gradual rise in temperature. The constant din of the raging creek was drowned out by the thick and stifling vegetation. The resulting silence merely added to my fears. In some ways I was thankful that I was alone, as fear can be contagious, being passed from person to person, until finally all are infected by its insidious effects, but at the same time I would have welcomed the company of any human being. Every snap of a twig in the distance, every tree that rubbed against another sent a shiver down my spine. I had perpetual goose-bumps and the hair on the back of my neck tingled with anticipation of what was about to happen but surely would not. The demon of panic rose in my throat and I swallowed it back down like so much foul bile. I spoke to myself, told myself that it was all in my mind, nothing was out there, lurking nearby in the darkness. My headlight cast eerie shadows as I moved through the old-growth forest like a ghost in a forgotten land, glimmering eyes sometimes in the distance, judged only by the distance between them. Suddenly a smell permeated my lungs, a foreign smell, a smell that instinctively brought additional fear to me in large, heaped helpings. It was scent, the smell of a large predator, fur bearing, one with large teeth and claws no doubt. Panic drew close and I was at the point of complete loss of control. I kept my cool and soon the smell was left behind just I was going to bolt, throwing down my pack and running, screaming through the darkness. I gave the scent another couple of hundred meters berth and flopped down under the overhang of a very large western red cedar, one that clear cut loggers can only have wet dreams about these days. The duff was dry and spongy, like a princess's mattress without the pea. Using the rain fly from my hammock as a groundsheet I struggled into my down mummy bag as quickly as I could. I cared not if I woke up with the wolves at my throat as I was already dead to this world. Within seconds I was asleep, the bugs were feasting, and the unknown eyes that had reflected the light of my headlamp on the way here this night continued their nocturnal duties. Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbZdFE3_5DE Part One: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gIqB7p-HpjU Read Complete Story: http://www.chicalo.com [Mas+detalle]

Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bgtmJ6BusO8 http://www.chicalo.com There he was, ahead of me, alive and unaware that I could see him. He looked dejected now, wet, like a drowned rat, hunched over and exposing the bald spot on the top of his head. I never noticed his lack of hair when he stood ramrod-straight, full of confidence and vigour. He was a changed man now, brought down by a fall from grace, realizing his limitations and the damage that could be done from his own cockiness. He was bruised, battered and scraped all over, including his ego. Backpack gone, headwear gone, gaiters gone, pride gone, and a long way from the safety and comfort of home. John was finished as a leader, as a man, and was now a liability with the capability of bringing down additional others with him. As I neared he rolled his eyes up without moving his head from its downward gaze. Muttering something incomprehensible, his teeth chattered and his hands shook. In fact his entire body was shaking like a leaf. What took me hours to hike, took him only minutes, like a bob-sled ride down an icy slope. He was lucky to be alive although he didn't appear to want to be. I led him away from the sound of the raging waters and into the calm of the dark, dripping forest. A great leaning western red cedar provided the shelter we so sorely needed. I scraped together some dry duff, lit it, and added some fallen branches. While the blaze got underway I had John remove his sodden clothes, dry himself off with a small hand-towel, and spoke softly to him. He couldn't have been much cleaner after the scrubbing he took on his downstream washing-machine journey, so I merely bandaged the worst of his injuries and then sacrificed a set of my remaining dry shirts and pants for him to wear. One of his ankles was swollen, obviously sprained or fractured. He wasn't walking out of here, that was for sure. It was time for me to weigh my options. Continue downstream searching for John's backpack and Sally? Stay here with John and hope that a rescue would eventually come via the efforts of the others? Return upstream and send Peter down here to attend to John while I proceeded to get help? Leave John alone and continue upstream with Peter, collect the others and head back the way had come, all the way to the vehicles? Since I was now well beyond the half way mark in our circular loop hike, should I continue on downstream solo to the vehicles and seek help myself? Go get Peter, then continue on downstream solo for help after leaving Peter to attend to John? Peter, of course, was waiting at the creek junction, in the dark, in the rain, with a set of tent poles and no tent. Would he be capable of finding natural shelter on his own? Was there even any natural shelter near to him? And what was the state of affairs for Jill and her new sorry-ass charges; Robert and Adam? When the rope was cut, did it injure Robert? Did Jill even stay with Robert and Adam, or, as I suspected and dreaded, continue on downstream in her own personal quest for John and Sally? Try as I might, I was unable to extract the information from John regarding the whereabouts of the one-and-only satellite phone. Was it in his pack? Or in Sally's pack? He couldn't, or wouldn't, remember. If a nearby peak was scaled, would a cell phone work from here? Judging from what I saw before the fog rolled in, this would not be a good expenditure of energy nor resources; the risk factor was unacceptable, in my opinion and the likelihood of the cell phone receiving a satisfactory signal was very low. John seemed unaware of the fact that Sally had been swept away after the rope had been cut. This was not surprising as he had disappeared downstream before that particular event occurred. He didn't ask, and I didn't tell him, about the supposed fate of Sally as she was last seen rapidly floating downstream, facedown, ribs most likely crushed from the slipknot around her waist. Considering John's state of mind, I didn't think it was wise of me to fill him in on the most current of events. He was in denial and I let him be. In the end, and after some careful consideration, I gathered John some firewood, left him a small amount of food and water, and set off further downstream in search of John's backpack, Sally and her backpack, or at least the satellite phone itself. I didn't know how far downstream in search of Sally I would go before I would turn back but told myself that I would somehow know when I reached that particular event horizon. Or would I just keep going, completing the circular loop all the way back to the vehicles? Really I didn't know the answer to that question but I did know that I had to do something; right or wrong, I had to do something now. Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bgtmJ6BusO8 Part One: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gIqB7p-HpjU Read Complete Story: http://www.chicalo.com [Mas+detalle]

Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=weK98cnbJK4 http://www.chicalo.com John, the producer and director of this tragic series of events, complete with fastened and secured backpack, emerged from beneath the ice-cold waters of the raging creek, gasped for breath, and began clawing desperately at the large, rounded, and very slippery, river boulders that lined the shoreline. John's fingernails, finding no purchase and now bloody, slipped and he headed rapidly downstream at an incredible rate, banging from boulder to boulder like a giant pinball machine as he went. Sally, meanwhile, literally at the end of her rope, was now transformed into a human hydrofoil and was thrust downward to the depths of the creek. The flow of water overtop of her boiled upward, increasing the deadly effect. Occasionally, and only for a split second at a time, we could see her struggling to get back to the surface. In a last act of defiance perhaps, her face appeared briefly and her eyes swept among us searching for a saviour. Somebody had to act for those who could not. John had disappeared downstream into the distance and someone had to go after him. Sally, hopelessly pinned underwater to the bottom of the creek, had to be set free. I quickly looked around me. Peter, the one furthest downstream stood there in shock, motionless and eyes as big as saucers, his head swivelling as he followed John's progress downstream. However, he continued to stand there, a bit of drool coming from his mouth and hanging from his chin. My immediate concern, and certainly Sally's, was to free her from the bondage of the rope. Robert's head slowly rotated towards me and also nodded in apparent comprehension of my shouting. He fumbled in his fanny pack and brought out his Swiss Army knife but seemed unable to open the blade. Adam meanwhile verbally agreed to cut the rope but did nothing. Standing there zombie-like, Adam was frozen in place but appeared to be in control, knife in hand, but still did nothing. Becky, on the other hand, fell to the ground where she stood half way between Robert and Adam and myself and proceeded to sob, vomit and soil her pants. She was obviously completely overcome with emotion and was well on her way to being in shock. Jill, finally, came to the rescue, through down her pack, ran upstream to Adam, grabbed the hunting knife from his limp hand and slashed the rope in one swipe. While we all watched the rope quickly whistled away now that the tension was suddenly released and the frayed end whipped Robert in the lower leg just above his gaiters like cat-o-nine-tails whip wielded by a sadistic seaman. He let out a shriek and joined Becky on the ground, sobbing and blubbering like a baby. Sally, suddenly released from her confine under the water, bobbed to the surface and was promptly swept away, facedown, apparently unconscious or worse. Jill then threw down the knife, as if it was something vile or dirty and covered her mouth with both hands. I yelled to Jill to stay here with Robert, Adam and Becky and headed down to where Peter stood like a pillar of salt. I approached him and shouted in his face to come with me downstream after Sally and John. He seemed to comprehend me and even verbally agreed that it was the thing to do. I took a few steps and noticed that he still stood where he was with the drool hanging from his chin. I returned and slapped his face hard, which was the only thing I could think of to do at the time. The slap seemed to snap him out of his stupor and he stumbled towards me, following me. The banks of the creek were unbelievably treacherous and tediously slow-going. At every turn we encountered huge fields of devils clubs, slide alder, salal so thick we had to almost swim through it, and a series of side gullies that forced us far inland numerous times. This proximity requirement slowed us down considerably. As we continued downstream we found a hat, glove, gaiter and sunglass case. But no John, and no Sally. Peter, at first able to keep up to my frantic pace, soon tired and became lethargic. Just as darkness descended like an evil landlord's cloak the rains let loose with a vengeance, punishing us further for our senseless folly. I got out my headlamp as the battle raged around me with renewed fury and it became apparent that we were its cannon fodder. I was fading fast, my second and third wind long gone, and that's when I found John. Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=weK98cnbJK4 Part One: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gIqB7p-HpjU Read Complete Story: http://www.chicalo.com [Mas+detalle]

http://www.chicalo.com The West Coast Trail is officially closed from October 1st to April 30th. During the harsh winter months frequent and prolonged periods of very heavy rain, severe strong winds and extreme high tides are the norm. There are no shelters and no dry firewood. The essential ferry services are not in operation. Anyone on the West Coast Trail requiring rescue during the winter months must pay the full cost of the rescue, which may be several days away. This video does not recommend, advocate, advise, encourage, suggest, endorse, or propose hiking the West Coast Trail during the off season. The West Coast Trail has the reputation of being on of the most gruelling treks in North America. It is isolated, strenuous, physically challenging and potentially hazardous. The West Coast Trail is also extremely rewarding due to the spectacular scenery and unique setting. We set off, against all advice and rules, to hike the West Coast Trail during winter; a feat attempted by few and successfully completed by even fewer. The treacherous Nitinat Narrows has claimed many hikers with it swift currents. Cable cars were disabled and washed out along the way. Not a footprint we saw until we neared the lighthouse at Carmanah Point. Tusiat Falls thundered over the precipice, where normally, during the crowded summer months, it must be just a trickle. The impassable headlands were extra slippery during the winter, we were told. The boardwalks and ladders were covered with dangerous frost. Captain James Cook arrived on the West Coast in 1778 and years of exploitation through trade in sea otter and other pelts ensued. Missionaries and settlers followed and with increased Trans-Pacific and coastal sea trade the infamous weather and tidal conditions of the West Coast took their toll in a series of calamitous shipwrecks. The area soon became known as the "Graveyard of the Pacific". Any stranded survivors soon perished if they made it to the rugged shoreline prompting the government to construct a rough trail and telegraph line to assist shipwrecked survivors. Hiking the WCT demands stamina and expertise in hiking and backcountry camping skills. Only competent backpackers should attempt the entire route. You are required to cross deep gullies on fallen trees, negotiate very steep slopes and follow an irregular, slippery trail. This is a wilderness area and it may be many hours before help can be obtained should an accident occur. All hikers should carefully evaluate their individual and group abilities before attempting the West Coast Trail. [Mas+detalle]

Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPYhKD73L_s http://www.chicalo.com I don't know if it was the darkness, the fatigue, or what, but it all happened calmly in an almost serene way. We all stood there, headlights shining in each other's faces, rain cascading down, the light casting strange shadows into our backdrop of slimy rubble while we spoke of our options. We discussed someone waiting with the dog for Frank, someone returning with the dog to the vehicles, two people returning with the dog to the vehicles for safety, and of course abandoning Bully where he shivered in the cold, wet rain here and now. We even considered voting, survivor-reality-tv-show-style, and therefore electing who would wait or return with the dog. I know I wasn't the only one that would have gladly voted for Adam to be the one. Earlier Jill and I overheard Adam telling Peter that he had recently quit smoking, basically just before he was picked up to go on this trip, thinking that if cigarettes were not available, the temptation would not be there. This was true, but it seemed a little unfair to subject the rest of us to the wrath of his withdrawal mood swings. Couldn't Adam have picked a better time and place to do such a thing? The wind suddenly stopped, along with the rain. A sudden silence overwhelmed us and only served to increase our guilt as we could not even lose ourselves in the din of the storm now. Noise would bury our conscience no longer. Of course nobody suggested turning back even though the going was now extremely treacherous. The rock of the boulder field had a thin coating of lichen growing on it which was now very wet, creating a slippery, slick surface which we had to cling to as we leapt from miniature precipice to angular abutment. Down below us, deep within the myriad of darkness, water gurgled producing an eerie low-frequency rumble. I thought I heard, on at least 2 occasions, something drop from someone's pack and rattle its way down into the unknown. No one seemed to notice, not even the owner of the item dropped, so I said nothing, glumly noting that later the item would no doubt be sorely missed. But at least not by me. Our plan was to traverse the boulder field and seek a suitable campsite just beyond the far perimeter in the treeline. If my calculations served me correctly, only 2 out of the 8 of us had hammocks. It would be difficult, in my opinion, to find 6 flat, dry spots to erect 6 tents. Hammocks, on the other hand, could be set up anywhere, even a steep side hill, as long as the 2 ends could be lashed to something sturdy. On we went, leaping, crawling, and scrabbling our way forward. Another hour ticked by, then another. Always forward, relentlessly into the darkness. I am sure that Peter was starting to think what he was to do with no tent? Hypothermia and exposure had to be running through his mind if he had any sense whatsoever. Squeeze into a tent with one of the others? With Becky or Jill? I was sure that wouldn't have bothered him too much. I knew that all of the others, in there attempt to be self-contained, had very small one-person tents. This could be interesting. Failing everything, Peter could position himself beneath one of the hammocks. After a couple of snide and ignorant remarks from John and Sally, which I put down to the fact that it had been a long and trying day, we entered our inner sanctuary. Once inside we were quite oblivious to the horrible conditions outside. Rain, wind, and even the darkness was a thing of the past for us, or at least we had a temporary respite from it all. Once we were all settled down, dripping clothing everywhere, we thought we could hear a dog howling in the distance. Or was it our imaginations playing upon our shattered nerves? No one spoke. We were tired. We slept. Tomorrow would be another day. Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPYhKD73L_s Part One: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gIqB7p-HpjU Read Complete Story: http://www.chicalo.com [Mas+detalle]

Next: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZiYa-50e4c http://www.chicalo.com The arrival of Bully brought many questions to the ugly surface that required our immediate attention. Questions that there could be no easy answers. I could see that the onset of yet another heated discussion visibly irritated John and, of course, spilled over onto Sally as well. Robert, on the other hand, flopped back down onto the now soggy ground, relieved about the sudden delay. The lack of foresight into the plan for Frank, Bully's owner, came back to haunt us like the arrival of darkness in the valley of death. Now what were we to do? Should we wait for Frank, assuming that he was not far behind Bully would be here soon after finding him somewhere between his departure point and the vehicles? Or did Frank return all the way to the vehicles, failed to find Bully, and then decided to make his way to where we were now? Bully offered no clues or explanation to his whereabouts all this time. Just as John launched into his tirade about the dog, Adam overshadowed him with an impressive display of rage, only to realize that Frank was not there to absorb it. Stopping his spittle mid-stream, this fact seemed to make him even angrier and lashed out at everyone that dared to make eye contact with him, even the soft-spoken Becky. I did not like this and some sort of primal urge threatened to force me to intervene. It boiled down to either waiting for Frank where we were, even though he may or may not be on his way, or continuing on with the riley Bully in tow. The chances of Frank finding us in this dark jungle were almost nil in my opinion. Peter, of course, urged the rest of us to wait for Frank since Frank had the tent to go with his tent poles. After everyone, except Robert, injected their differing opinions into the fray, it became very apparent that waiting for Frank would be folly since we didn't even know if his arrival was imminent or not. During all of this Robert took the timely opportunity to open his pack and pull out some food to replenish his tired and battered body. Looking over his shoulder Jill noticed that Robert was carrying a full 2 litres of camp stove fuel, 3 hard-cover books, and what looked like a litre of milk. Peter, taking the lead from Jill, jumped in and took advantage of Robert's moment of weakness and rooted through his pack further. To the rest of us, or at least me, Peter's actions seemed like a thinly-veiled attempt at gaining Jill's favour by strongly backing her up. This was swept aside, however, by the rage now being directed at poor Robert by both Adam and John as they tag-teamed him and forcefully dumped all of his possessions onto the soggy ground right in front of us all. Robert turned white, then red, and then looked everywhere but at us. Becky intervened just as it looked like blows were about to be rained down upon the haggard-looking Robert. Once again level-headed Becky saved the day and sorted out Robert's stuff, handing some of it out to the rest of us to carry, and shit-canned the rest of it. It was interesting to see who, and who would not, carry a few of Robert's things, even though it would benef