The Long Count

We take a helicopter up to see the Inca ruins, a mossy tumbledown temple perched on a mountain peak wreathed in fog. Josephine is still in mourning for her grandfather, and for solace has turned to Mesoamerican mysticism, with its reassuringly cyclical time. She insists we go. Who am I to disagree?

It’s a rocky ride up, the helicopter shaking and bouncing, coming close to smearing us across the invisible mountainside half a hundred times. Then, when we finally reach the top, the fog parts, there’s a brilliant flash of light from the ground, right into the pilot’s eyes, just as another violent gust hits us. 

We’re whirling, tumbling, slamming into the ground, pinwheeling across the turf before we slide to a stop at the foot of the ruins. I’m stunned, amazed, thankful to be alive. Josephine and I stagger from the wreck on weak, shaking legs. I have to touch the temple stones, feel the mossy rocks beneath my fingers and convince myself that they’re real, I'm real, I'm alive.

Feel the looping, glistening coils time has etched into the walls, dew-wet, slithering beneath my palms like a thing alive.

After relief comes realization: We are alone, at the top of a mountain, with no food, no shelter, and no easy way down. We’re an inch from despair when I hear the throb of rotor blades. Another helicopter is approaching, invisible in the fog, but it sounds close. There! A darkened shark-like shape swims through the clouds. I grab a mirror from my pack, and use it to reflect the sun, flash an SOS.

Something goes wrong. The helicopter is spinning, careening across the meadow, its blades snapping against the ground, catapulting it towards us—

* * *

We take a helicopter up to see the Inca ruins, a mossy tumbledown temple perched on a mountain peak, wreathed in fog…