It's Friday, July 30, 1999, Hike Day. I awake to my most effective alarm clock: crowing roosters and yelping dogs (no snooze button, unfortunately). We have to hurry this morning; the van that will carry us out of the city is scheduled to arrive at six-thirty. Last night, our leaders went through the to-do list point-by-point so that nothing would be missed. We need to be absolutely punctual at six-fifteen so we don't miss the Taxi Buesse or those we've hired to carry what we cannot.

Seven o'clock. The van veers around the corner and Doug runs to open the gate. The ten of us hikers hand the packs down our human conveyor belt to toss on top of the van. We've successfully doubled its height and now we're finally off, leaving the city to make the important transfer point.

We wait an hour for a Taxi Buesse to negotiate fares and drive us the next stretch of the journey, to the very end of the road. In my mind, I've hiked to and from the community in the hilly jungle so many times that I am almost ready to go home. The taxi looks like a 1940s Ford, painted camouflage green and brown with an olive canvas over the truck bed that reminds me of those covered wagons from the American frontier.

I have an inkling that my pack is a little bit on the heavy side when I step off the no-apologies-offered end of the road and into the slick mud of the riverbank. I see the river that Shannon told me about a few weeks ago. She hadn't mentioned the steep slope I will need to descend to even get into the water, or the steeper climb up on the other side. There are a few gnarled trees growing out of the sudden eight foot slope, but they don't look strong enough to support me if I lose my balance on the way down. As I dance toward and away from the edge, a woman between fifty and sixty years old grabs my hand and leads me down, toward the water. She is shorter than I, barefoot, and very strong. My basketball shoes slip and she steadies me, reaching her hand to my backpack so it doesn't topple me over. I want to thank her, but she speaks a different dialect than the few words I've learned. My "city words" would be understood as plainly as if I spoke to her in English. Instead of words, the woman and I exchange smiles and waves. She doesn't walk back up the slope, though. In fact, she is joined by several more people from this town. I think that watching a dozen foreigners either climb into a canoe or wade across the river is a great source of entertainment.

I will not take the easy canoe ride to the other bank with the ladies on my team. Instead, I roll my pant legs as high as they will go (mid-thigh), take off my white socks and black Nikes, and wade into the calm, brown water. Half-way across, I remember the Bible stories of Elisha slapping a river with his cloak and watching it part like the Red Sea had done for Moses. I wish I had a cloak right now because the water is a bit deeper than I expected. The seat of my pants is soaked and I'm glad that my bedroll is swathed in plastic.

I've broken rule number one already: my shoes are not on my feet. I don't want them to get muddy, so I keep them off while I climb barefoot up the hill of oozing, orange slime. Thijs reaches for my arms and pulls me up the rest of the way. If Doug's limitless energy reminds me of a school boy, Thij's ambling, happy-go-lucky walk reminds me of a curious pre-schooler.

I'm pumped. The path is well worn through knee-high grass and I can easily pick my way through puddles. I can't escape the mud, though, but I can at least stay dry, even if it means walking into dry patches with burrs and thorns. My gray t-shirt reads ARMY in black letters and I contemplate joining when I go home. This is fun. I'm able to stay in the front of the line and listen to the warbling birds. Occasionally, I hear laughter mixed with a strange clattering sound. I'm surprised to see that we're trekking parallel to the river; groups of young girls are washing pots and laundry, using the sand as steel wool or dish soap or both.

After an hour of gradually muddier trails that lead away from the river and up into the mountain, we stop for lunch. I have never eaten a cucumber sandwich this quickly. The bread is soggy in places and the "Laughing Cow" cheese spread is warm, but it tastes better than mint-chocolate chip ice cream. I get to shrug the sweaty bag from my back for an entire half hour and am amazed at how light I feel. Instead of relishing my weight-loss, however, I sit on a cool boulder underneath the shade of a spongy birch tree. Lindsey and I lean against each other and swear that the last hour rates among the Top Ten Best Workouts Ever. Look out Jane Fonda and Thighs of Steel, make way for Hikers of Iron.

I suddenly realize that I have not yet found a hiking stick! I inform Doug of this travesty and we scour the area. He spies an especially thick specidmen amidst a pile of brush and saws it off, peeling away the rough bark with his Craftsman knife to make me a smooth handle. Now I am prepared for anything the jungle may throw at me.

Almost anything, that is.

I am recognizing that Nike did not have muddy trails in mind when they designed my Nike Airs. The bright orange mud has long since caked into the tread on the soles of my shoes, rendering them as smooth as ballet slippers and half as helpful. The hiking stick gives me traction uphill and so far I haven't fallen, but it doesn't protect me from the wetness of the mud. I wish I had wrapped my feet in plastic before pulling on my shoes this morning. I also haven't come across any of the bridges Shannon warned me about. And did I mention that this pack is a little heavy?