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from there on a path to San José. There might even be someone left in Curiplaya.

I hunted around for something for breakfast but found nothing. I decided to try to retrieve the pack once again. It would be worth investing an entire day looking for it as long as there was even the slightest chance of finding it. There was food in the pack, along with matches, a map, and a flashlight. If I could only find it, I'd be set.

It was no easy task. I started walking up-river. The route took me over jagged cliffs and smooth rock faces. I walked for two hours, climbing higher to progress and then back down to see if I could reach the shore. The stony walls were steep and smooth. I lost my footing a few times but luckily was caught by trees and bushes. Finally, from a cliff that towered fifty feet over the river, I spotted the raft in the water, still beating against the rocks. I was positive that the pack must be nearby.

At that point the bank of the river was a thin strip of land. I had no choice but to take the risk and started slowly climbing down, clawing at the sharp rocks. I took tiny steps, groping with my foot for a hold that would support my weight, my body covered with cold sweat. I said a silent prayer, Don't slip. Don't fall. If I broke an arm or leg, I didn't stand a chance. The last time I had gone rock climbing, I had fallen but had been saved by a miracle: Uncle Nissim's little book had been in my pocket. Now it was in the backpack. I should never have left it there.