The Sick Horror at The Lost and Found by Heidi King Read Free Book Online

sunrise. But
Pablo, the guide that Steve had met over some tequila in a popular
bar called Zanzibar, assured us that the trip was amazing. We would
jump up and down on the top of the world, where few white men ever
tread. When Estrella and María were persuaded to come, I was not
allowed to say no.
    We decided to catch an hour or so of
sleep, and I was happily thinking this was the end to Steve’s
stupidity. But Pablo showed up, blaring the horn of El Toro Rojo, a
red Ford Bronco from the 70’s. I envied Dr. Mike and Usnavy,
snoring away somewhere in a tent on Isla Iguana. It was four hours
past our departure time – the one we had to meet to make it to the
summit for sunrise.
    We started our climb from a ranger
station at the base of the volcano, and it immediately became clear
that Pablo was no mountain man. He constantly had a cigarette
hanging from his mouth, and Steve and I were the only ones who had
thought to bring water (which María and Estrella were happy to
drink most of). I didn’t have a day pack, only my big backpack
which Pablo eventually used to house a bottle of cheap Panamanian
rum called Panama Jack (which is actually pretty good). We learned
that Pablo had not been to the top since he was a kid, and even
then, that was by horse. María and Estrella looked as though they
were ready to quit, but I wanted to make them pay… I wanted to
reach the top… I wanted to see both oceans and reach a place where
few dare to go.
    The sun came up and humidity came with
it. I regretted my heroism. We were exhausted and unanimously voted
to rest. Pablo smoked and Steve cracked the rum and we got
dangerously close to the bottom third of my water. The girls were
chomping at the bit, eager to prove themselves.
    I heard them first and told the others
to sit quiet. They were coming up the steep path behind
us.
    “ We are one in the spirit;
we are one in the Lord.
    We are one in the spirit; we are one
in the Lord.
    And pray that all unity will one day
be restored!”
    A group of about 10 people, mostly
children, marched right by, smiling and putting us to shame,
singing gospel songs as they went. They were followed shortly
thereafter by a woman in her fifties on an ATV.
    She stopped and glanced quickly at our
bottle of booze. “Want me to take your bags to the top?” she said
with a thick southern US drawl. As I said no, Steve said yes. I
shot him a look, and we agreed in an instant that surrendering our
packs to strangers, whether they be religious nuts or thieves,
would be a bad idea.
    The rest of the hike was even more
grueling. The signs taunted us. I thought, ‘4 km to the top…okay,
almost there, almost there,’ and when I thought the next steep hill
would bring us to our final destination, I would see another sign…
2km… And then the clouds joined in on humiliating us by spitting
rain.
    We reached the top!
Amazing.
    We had clear views of the fog in front
and behind us. The only bodies of water that were apparent were
stinking under my armpits.
    But then the fog cleared!
    And we could see… buildings. Tiny ugly
shacks sprouting radio antennas; gray concrete and graffiti. Where
few white men have trodden?
    But Pablo seemed triumphant. His
spirits suddenly picked up and he headed to one of the concrete
slabs and knocked on a door. We were making a house call. This was
not an empty untouched oasis… it was a communications outpost! But
we were happy to get out of the cold, and Pablo and our host were
happy to see each other -- they were brothers actually. When they
offered us water and coffee, I understood that this is what Pablo
had promised -- not his mountaineer expertise.
    We were cramped in a tiny room with
bunk beds and rolls of copper wire. We had too many coffees and
rums and lost track of time. There was a short break when the TV
(with surprisingly bad reception for the amount of antennas here)
cut out. In the silence we heard gospel singing. We poked our heads
out of the antenna shack and saw the