Left on Paradise by Kirk Adams Page A

almost by itself deep into the main compartment. After tightening her bootlaces, Kit adjusted her backpack to distribute its weight and balanced her step with a shovel doubling as a walking stick. Finally, she took a long drink from a bottle of spring water secured to her belt.
    Others neighbors gathered nearby. Every adult wore boots (only children were indulged sneakers) as colonists prepared to cut their way through vines and thickets of unpenetrated forest. All adults carried backpacks and most also brought crates, water jugs, shovels, picks, or axes. Ryan and John wielded machetes and two mothers tended children rather than supplies. Tarps, tools, pots, pans, and other common-use items were stuffed into already heavy packs (though a few of the larger items were secured for later collection). One of the younger men carried brick-sized bundles in his hands—each of the double-wrapped and waterproofed packages tucked beneath an arm for additional protection. Both packets looked to be composed of dried weeds.
    “Hilary,” Ryan called to a thick-shouldered brunette with thin hair and a square face, “you have a minute?”
    When Hilary asked what he needed, Ryan displayed his map.
    “Compare these trails,” Ryan said as he used a grease pencil to trace routes across a laminated map. “It’s four times as long if we circle around the beach, so we’ve decided to cross that hill. We’ll probably top it about right ... here.”
    Hilary ran her forefinger over several breaks in the hills. “That’s not a bad place to cross,” she said. “The hill’s a little lower there and it’s not too far from our destination. But it might be better to climb a little further south, closer to the stream.”
    Ryan looked puzzled.
    “I know what you’re going to say,” Hilary said. “It’s a higher point and a steeper climb. I agree. Still, if we climb alongside the creek, we assure ourselves of a steady water supply, a sure reference point, and a direct climb. It’ll be steeper going up, but we won’t get lost in the forests—and we won’t need to cut through as many thickets and vines. Remember, there aren’t any paths on this island. We cut as we move.”
    Ryan nodded. “It’ll be faster?”
    “Half the time,” Hilary said. “Believe me, I’ve cut through the forests of Costa Rica. It’s always better to stay near a stream. You can never have too much water.”
    Ryan presented both options to the neighborhood and Hilary’s plan won unanimous consent. A few minutes later, loose items were secured and scraps of litter stored in trash bags as the pilgrims began their trek toward a stream that emptied into the lagoon close to New Plymouth. When they reached the stream—which was several feet wide at its final run into the sea—they stepped into several inches of cool water. John Smith was the first to splash upstream as he used one arm to pull vines from his path and the other to cut away every branch that impeded progress. Logs were pushed to one side and rocks kicked away. Ryan stayed to the rear, helping compatriots step safely into the water. Often, he fell behind while checking for fallen equipment or collecting scraps of discarded litter.
    The hikers soon found that the creek bed required careful navigation. Large stones were staggered up the stream, often carpeted with thick layers of velvet moss from which red-leafed plants also climbed upward. A thick woven canopy of green vines hung overhead—knotted between trees by the twisting and climbing of new shoots—and flat leaves thick as banana peels pushed away by slow-moving settlers sprang back like waving palms in an Easter processional. White-blossomed orchids fell away when brushed, their fragrance clinging for a moment to man, woman, and child as the brightness of the tropical morning lighted the stream and the glimmer of splashing water recreated the first joys of Eden. Bright-feathered tropical birds startled by the first sounds of human laughter and