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National Geographic : 1964 Aug
Contents
fectly safe for parachuting might also be too soft for an airstrip. There was only one sure way to find out. We dropped the bag of panel markers, long strips of red and yellow cloth for ground to-air signaling, and climbed to 14,500 feet for our first jump run. My hands tightened on the door jambs as I felt the blast of air against my cheek. A cloud drifted toward us and passed swiftly underneath. Then, three-quarters of a mile below, I saw the valley and wooded shelf to its north with three slanted, grassy clearings, one of which already contained our duffel and panel-mark er bags. I could see nothing moving. I had hoped to think of something amusing and memorable to say to my companions be fore I jumped. Peter and I exchanged a last smile. All I said was, "I'm going." With that I pushed hard with both hands and was gone, launching myself outward and downward in a spread-eagle posture. The roar of the aircraft engine died rapidly as I fell toward the Vilcabamba. I allowed myself to fall free-perhaps for 2,000 feet-before I pulled my rip cord. I felt a tremendous jerk. Earth, sky, and horizon blurred together, swaying up and down. The swaying stopped. I looked down. The valley seemed dark and bristly, like the mouth of a Venus flytrap waiting to catch me. The plane buzzed faintly somewhere above the big nylon canopy. I grasped the para chute's two wooden steering toggles and ma neuvered back and forth over the shelf. From 500 feet I saw small game trails running through the grass. The woods were a tangle (Continued on page 278) 273
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