"I promise you, you'll see the sun again . . ."

And so we come to the end. Almost. After the Hike of the Kapul Liver we hiked for a couple more days and asked lots of people lots of questions, but I'm sure you don't want to hear about every time I fell in the mud or every time I asked, "So, what language do your children speak when they are angry?"

By Thursday night we had finished all of our work, and we were staying in a village that was a 30 minute hike away from the airstrip where we were supposed to get picked up at 10:33 am on Friday (pilots like to be precise, even when they are in the jungle). We got up early on Friday, said good bye to the people who had been so hospitable, and eagerly set out on our "last hike". But when we got to the airstrip, all we could see was white, white, and more white. The airstrip is surrounded by mountains, but you would never know it, the fog was so thick. Well, we sat down to wait for the fog to clear so the plane could land, and when late afternoon rolled around we were still waiting, and we had yet to see more than a faint silhouette of a mountain. Sadly, we trudged back down to the village where the hospitable people graciously cooked some sweet potatoes for us and let us fill up their house for another night.

On Saturday morning we said goodbye for the second time to the people who'd taken the opportunity to be even more hospitable, and set out on our second "last hike". Again, we arrived at the airstrip and saw nothing but white, but I refused to believe that the whiteness could last throughout an entire second day, so we waited hopefully, always thinking that perhaps in one more hour we would see a patch of blue sky and hear the plane approaching. It pains me to tell you that at the end of the day we had almost forgotten what blue looked like and we were beginning to wonder whether we had imagined the mountains surrounding the airstrip. Dejected, we sheepishly walked back into the village, where PNG hospitality did not grow weary and our hosts graciously cooked us sweet potatoes and greens and let us take over their house again.

On Sunday morning we said goodbye for the third time (I was beginning to have some real empathy for Noah, who announced a coming flood every day and slept in a dry bed every night . . . I wondered how many people were thinking, "Sure, you just keep thinking a plane is going to land here . . . we'll see you again tonight!") and started our third "last hike". But that day was different. We had known it was different since the moment we woke up and saw determined strands of sunlight bravely fighting their way through the clouds. We were even reminded again what blue looked like, as the more valiant sunbeams succeeded in piercing the clouds altogether! When we arrived at the airstrip, my heart leaped as I saw the mountains! The actual, real live mountains, not just silhouettes, and not just figments of my weary imagination! I simply cannot describe to you the agony of the next 30 minutes as we watched the sky constantly changing, and holes in the clouds coming and going before our very eyes. Would the plane be able to land? That was the burning question that each of our minds was asking but none of our tongues dared to articulate.

Well, it was able to land, but the soaring joy that filled our hearts as it touched down was soon replaced by bitter disappointment as we discovered that, due to a problem with the plane, we would not be able to fly home in that plane. We called back to Ukarumpa on the plane's radio to request another rescue, and walked back to the village again, where, needless to say, we were well cared for.

On Monday morning, as people waved good bye to us for the fourth time, it was all I could do not to call out, "See you tonight!" But I restrained myself, and I am happy to report that I did not trespass on their hospitality again that night, and our fourth "last hike", was truly our last hike! The rescue plane arrived, as scheduled, and left two mechanics behind to look after the first plane while it took us home!

That is my story. Yes, it was tough, frustrating, and at times even scary. Was it worth it? Absolutely.

Why outhouses should be deep . . .

Now, where were we? Ah, yes, I was venturing out to find the outhouse. Nearly wandered into a pig house at first, but was warned in time by vague snorting noises from within. Found the appropriate building, stepped inside, and before I knew what was happening I had broken through the floor and found myself in the curious position of having one entire leg beneath the floor. But before you start gagging or close your browser in disgust, let me assure you that (to the exceedingly great relief of my body, mind and heart) this was a new, deep outhouse. So new and deep, in fact, that although I was in up to my hip, not even the tip of my toe came into contact with any objectionable matter. I managed to pull myself up with a dry leg, and only a small knee scrape to show for it.

We worked hard collecting data that night, because we knew we had a lot of hiking to do the next day. People told us that it would take us a day and a half to walk to the next village, and there were no villages in between! There was, however, a "bush shelter" about a third of the way there, where people sometimes spend the night if they are out working in a garden far from the village. So we hiked as far as the bush shelter the next day, and spent the night there. You can see pictures in the slide show, along with pictures of the vine bridge we got to cross on the way! Very fun.

We got up early in our bush shelter, before 5 am, and started hiking while it was still dark. Again, we had to use our headlamps, but there is something much friendlier about morning darkness. It is a hopeful darkness.

That was another long, tough day of hiking, but we had an exotic snack on the way. The guys who were hiking with us saw a kapul, which is kind of like an opossum, in the trees high above us. After a very exciting hunt involving much running, climbing of trees, and shouting in the Setaman language, they shot it with their slingshots and a couple of them ran ahead of us to cook it. A few hours later, when we caught up with them, they dug it out of the ground where it had been cooking on hot stones and we all sampled this Papua New Guinean delicacy . . . I even got to try the liver. Here is one of the hunters, telling the story in his own words:

Hiking to Dimtikin

The pilot and the newly unstranded backpacker flew away . . .

. . . and we set to work, having finally arrived in the Setaman language area (or, so we thought . . . we're still not entirely sure which villages ought to be classified under which languages . . . give us a little more time to work on that!)

We got lots of good data that night, and some the next morning as well, before we set out on the first hike of the survey. People in the village told us that the hike usually takes them 2 or 3 hours, but that it would take us 5 or 6 hours. Fair enough. I have yet to meet a Papua New Guinean of any age who couldn't outhike me blindfolded. So we left around 9 am, figuring that would give us a good 6 hours and we could still arrive in the next village by midafternoon.

Six hours later

It had been a pretty tough six hours, constantly going up and down steep hills, crossing rivers, dealing with ankle deep mud and slippery roots . . . but when asked if we were getting close, the guys who had come with us to show us the way replied, "Nogat, em i longwe yet." (Which, if you haven't guessed, means, "No, it's still far away.") OK, well, it was still midafternoon . . . we had plenty of daylight left . . .

Three hours later

It was around 6 pm, and the sun would be setting in about half an hour. There was still no sign of a village, and on the rare occasions when our guides spoke there was an ominous absence of anything resembling, "We're almost there." As the sky darkened and the jungle insects began waking up and announcing their presence, I heard the last thing I wanted to hear: thunder. Thunderstorms are relatively rare in PNG, but I have noticed that thunder usually signals a torrential downpour in the very near future. This thunder didn't lie. Soon we were not only walking in absolute darkness, but also through pouring rain that made the ankle deep mud even deeper and the slippery roots even more treacherous. We stopped and got out our headlamps, which helped immensely, but our progress was even slower than before, now that we had to step by feel almost as much as by sight.

I really don't know how long we trudged on that way. It must have been a couple of hours, because I think it was around 8 pm when we finally arrived in Dimtikin village. As we approached the village, people came out to meet us with flashlights, and several guys grabbed our arms and helped us through the last few hundred meters. We were ushered into a large house with a toasty fire in the center, and given taro roasted in the coals, which I find delicious under any circumstances, but after an 11 hour hike it really is indescribably amazing.

Deeply thankful that we had arrived with all of our bones in tact, I changed into dry clothes and ventured out to find the outhouse, thinking what an adventurous day it had been. Little did I know that the day's adventures were not over . . . at least, not for me!