The Tikal-ian Job

Daniel

Epic is a word we have worn out. Tikal still deserves it. Sixty miles across the Belizean border in the high heat, and El Remate, open piers, clear water. The name means "the end." We floated, then watched Barcelona lose to Chelsea. Any cold beer after fifty miles is a miracle.

The climbs into Tikal were terrible enough that we put the bikes on a minibus, partly so the descents home would be ours, partly in case we had to outrun a guard. The only thing worse for a bicycle than Central America is being luggage. We arrived around four. A ticket after 3:30 is good the next day too, and the gate is twenty kilometers from the temples, so you sleep nearby or you sleep inside. Ten dollars to camp by a hotel felt like a lot. We went in.

After five, the guards did not want large bags that looked like camping. Logan asked what the cabins were. A hotel, the guard said. You can store your things if you stay. Logan told him we would, and winked at us in a language I don't speak. I started to leave. He explained it in words. Ray found a clearing with two good trees. On nights like that, the trees beat the room.

We were quiet for fifteen minutes. Then the stove was throwing fire and we were laughing. A flashlight in the distance ended it. Granola, hammocks, birds, and then something in the canopy that sounded like a Ringwraith. I don't believe in those. I believe in cats. The screaming stopped, which was worse, and started again, which let me sleep. Ray's alarm was 3:30. Temple IV at first light, alone, briefly, on the tallest ruin in the hemisphere. The sunrise tour came up the stairs behind us. We hid under scaffolding from a renovation. A guide found us, asked what we were doing, and after some pleading let us stay for the sun.

The green stuff is the jungle. More than a dozen centers over sixteen square kilometers. Endor was filmed here. We saw the acropolises, the six great temples, El Mundo Perdido, the Plaza of the Seven Temples, and we talked our way past the unpunched tickets three or four times. That's the price of the corner you cut.

Thirty-two kilometers home, most of the gear already in El Remate, and still a fifteen-degree climb that did not care how light we were. A pastor gave us cold water. Then the crest, and miles of descent, drafting, faster than forty. "Sweet vortex, Logan." "Thanks, Ray." A lake, a hostel, and the next day nobody wanted to start until noon, which is the worst hour, toward Cobán.