“You’re young enough to be my grandson,” Phyllis confides to me in the bumpy van ride through verdant waves of palm, ceiba and tiger bush.  Our driver plows through muddied water of the washed out dirt road.  Phyllis frowns.  “I don’t like caves, and I’m not a good swimmer.”

Did the Actun Tunichil Muknal cave poster, complete with whip scorpions, skeletons of the sacrificed, and photos of tourists swimming into a murky mausoleum not deter her?  Nevertheless, I promise to stay close.  In my ignorance excitement boils over, blind to the path ahead that will harm both body and spirit.

In the potholed parking lot, rain pelts us as we don our plastic hardhats.  I am the lone Canadian in a group of older Americans.  A two-minute trail takes us to Roaring River.  Swift riffles heaving from the cloudburst betray a deadly undercurrent.  There is no bridge. … →