The Cruz del Condor Expedition: The Beginning

I'm over this adventure stuff. My knuckles are infected scabs, my right calf pierced by cactus, and I'm dangling like a piñata from a rope dropping into Peru's upper Colca Canyon, the deepest gorge in the world. The winds carrying three hungry condors far above spin me like a fluttering leaf.

The rope slips and I drop five feet, jerking to another halt. Above me, Peruvian mountaineering guide Carlos Zarate peers over the edge of the cliff, fumbling with a carabiner. He's trying to lower me, but the rope — or something up there — keeps kinking. While he doesn't speak English, I know enough Spanish to realize he's swearing. Some of the Poles on the ledge below me are doing the same. Only they're swearing in Polish. I'm stuck in the middle of the cliff and attempting to communicate.

There's one person to blame for getting me into this mess — Yurek, Jerzy "Yurek" Majcherczyk. Dangling literally at the end of my rope, I blaspheme his name into the deep void below.

Yurek and I first met nearly twenty years earlier on an expedition down Ecuador's Rio Quijos. It was one of twenty-four major rivers he and a team of Polish university students explored in a thirty-three-month, twelve-country river-running rampage throughout Central and South America. The crown jewel was a first descent of Colca Canyon, from which they had barely escaped with their lives.

He's back now, twenty-seven years later, to explore and map the canyon's top twelve miles, which drop from 10,000 feet near the village of Madrigal to 7,250 feet at an oasis-like cluster of palm trees and huts called Sangalle. It's one of the world's true blank spots, and that's why one of the dry bags we're lugging around contains the official Explorer's Club flag, a badge of honor, of sorts, bestowed upon us by New York's esteemed Explorer's Club. If the organization deems an expedition worthy of its flag, by all means it must be worthwhile.

Still, knowing about Yurek's first Colca encounter, I should have said adios to this, his most recent exploration proposition. But Yurek can be convincing, calling and emailing several times. "Eu-shene, Eu-shene, you must come," he infectiously enthused. "It is virgin section of canyon." So I found myself signing on.

But right now I have other things to think about. Like how to get out of this mid-air mess.

There's nothing I can do. I'm being lowered, instead of rappelling myself, which means I'm at the mercy of Carlos above. Spinning around mid-air, I take in my surroundings. Downstream, the canyon twists and turns steeper and deeper into a tight incision, right where we're heading. It's been cleaved in two by the Rio Colca, with hardly a plant in sight. I spin ninety degrees and face the far cliff across the river. The rock is dark brown and ribboned with streaks of white quartzite. Four thousand vertical feet of sloping, crumbly rock rises into the sky. I'm glad to have my helmet on.

Another twist and I'm staring at the closer cliff again, whose overhang keeps it just out of reach. A few handholds cling to the cliff face like spaghetti noodles to a fridge. Perhaps I can reach one. The sense of grounding would at least beat these helpless gyrations.

The rope slips, dropping me another few feet. The holds are now out of reach. So much for that idea.

Carlos pokes his head over the cliff rim above, his thick, horn-rimmed glasses flashing in the sun. He doesn't look frantic, which is a good thing. More like the concentration of someone taking an exam. I see his elbow move above the horizon line, as well as errant strands of rope. He's working on something, which is good. Fate out of my hands, I take a breath and try to relax. It had been a long day, considering I woke up this morning in Beijing.

Beijing to the Bowels of the Earth

I hadn't heard much from Yurek for several years before receiving a call from him just three months earlier in May of 2008. He wanted me to join him on an expedition down the Colca's Cruz del Condor, he said, the only section that had never been explored. He emailed me photos showing pools of water and rock-strewn cascades, book-ended by towering canyon walls. The photos might as well have been in black and white for their dreary lack of color.

Yurek was planning it to be a canyoneering expedition, but the kayaker in me was aroused. I'd rather be in a boat, I reasoned, than hiking, climbing, rappelling, and swimming. So I signed on, shipping a kayak down to Arequipa.

But life throws you curveballs. That July, the chance arose to work for NBC at the Summer Olympics in Beijing, right when Yurek was planning his trip. They wanted me for my paddling and journalism background, to help the announcers craft their storylines during the kayaking and canoeing events. So I emailed Yurek my regrets.

A few days later the phone rang again.

"Eu-shene, Eu-shene," he said in his all-too-familiar, thick Polish accent and dialog devoid of pronouns. "I have all figured out. We push trip back two weeks and wait for you there. You go to Beijing and then fly straight to Colca. But you must sleep on plane."

I wish I had listened to his advice.

With my wife's approval — she had been on a couple of trips with Yurek as well — I went for the six-week-long combo meal. I'd fly from Colorado to Beijing, and from there straight to Arequipa, Peru for a six-hour truck ride across the Peruvian altiplano (or puna; Spanish for high plain) to the world's deepest canyon. With any luck, I'd return home in time to coach my daughter's soccer team.

While fellow NBC staff packed their laptops and recorders, I packed my camping and paddling gear — including drytop, spray skirt, neoprene shorts, helmet, breakdown paddle, floatbags, throw rope, and rescue kit — and shipped it all to New York for Yurek to bring to Peru.

After examining the pools in the photos, I also suggested he take a few pack rafts on the expedition. Weighing just four pounds each, the craft, invented by an Alaskan grandmother for her son's adventure racing exploits, would be perfect. Team members could use them to shuttle themselves and their gear across and down the river wherever possible, while I merrily paddled along in my kayak. When it came time to portage, we could simply roll them up and carry them.

Our plans ironed out, I bid him adieu on the phone, agreeing to meet him at the put-in in just over three weeks' time. For now, it was on to Beijing.

After sidestepping Serena Williams and other stars at the Beijing Capital International Airport, I hopped a bus to the Olympic Village, which slowly picked its way through the city of eighteen million. My role was that of a "statistician," helping the announcers, who arrived straight from the Tour de France, with broadcast coverage of the paddling events. My job was to track down and feed them stories: the algae sticking to sprint boat rudders; the Australians naming the two main rapids "Wok and Roll" and "Stir Fry"; German kayaker Jennifer Bongardt appearing in Playboy; and French kayaking superstar Fabien Lefevre launching his own line of cologne. NBC had shipped five thousand pounds of Starbucks coffee grounds to its Beijing headquarters just to fuel our coverage.

Our sport was about to get a Yao-Ming sized boost thanks to NBC's...