In the middle of an October blizzard, sixteen thousand feet up on the slopes of Denali, Skip Hutchins peered out of his tent and saw only the steamy Ecuadorian jungle and the eyes of Nusiri. Out of the morning mist she came, fresh from bathing in the river. Her small but graceful form strode purposefully toward her father's hut, where Skip was waiting. Coming up the hill she loomed larger, the mist suddenly clearing, to reveal . . . the bearded bulk of Dave McRae.

Skip's Adventureland partner edged his way through the tent flaps, shaking a dusting of snow off his hair, beard and parka. "Cold enough for you?" he half-joked. "One look at your face and I can tell where you wish you were right now."

Skip gave a weary half smile. "I remember when we used to think this was fun. Whatever happened to the joy we used to get out of climbing?"

"A change in the weather, for one."

The day had started out one of those clear, crisp-blue Alaskan fall days, perfect for the last climb of the season on Denali, known to non-climbers as Mount McKinley. Adventureland was the wilderness touring operation run by Skip and Dave. Mountain climbing was just one of the activities they offered to well-paying clients the country over, and abroad as well. From mountain climbing in Alaska or the Alps, river rafting from the Sierra to Sarawak, to ecotouring in Ecuador or New Guinea, Adventureland had an excursion for just about any wilderness taste.

The group for this expedition was typical, a party of twelve, the maximum Skip and Dave would guide. The clients were the usual collection: a professional couple in their thirties, a family of four, two middle-age divorcees working through their mid-life crises, a retired widower in his early sixties, and three college kids from Seattle, two male and one female. Though Skip was willing to take novices on some of the less demanding climbs, such as Shasta or even Rainier, on a Denali trip everyone had to have the requisite previous mountaineering experience.

Considering the lateness of the year, it came as no surprise that the weather had taken a sudden turn. They had been blessed with crystal clarity for most of the climb, and every member of the team had summited and been a part of the experience that is the rooftop of North America. But as so often happens, the bit of haze that built up as they turned for the descent had closed in and turned to flurries, rapidly picking up fury and becoming a full-blown blizzard by the time they'd reached high camp and had hunkered down in their tents.

Skip offered Dave a cup of instant cocoa, which he gratefully accepted and they talked awhile of the climb and the weather. On any tour, conversation naturally turned to plans for the next one. As the Alaskan climbing season was drawing to a close, it was time to look forward to its exact opposite, Adventureland's popular Headhunter Excursions, ecotours into Ecuador's Oriente, the wild Jivaro Indian country in the headwaters of the Amazon. As Skips eyes brightened in anticipation, Dave grew suddenly quiet.

"Something wrong?" asked Skip, noticing the way his friend was staring absently into his cocoa.

Dave slowly nodded. "You're not gonna like it," he said. "I wanted to wait till after the climb to break the news, but I guess now's a good a time as any." He took a sip of hot chocolate and went on. "Got a call from Manny Mueller. Seems Pan Pac's getting fed up with corporate and national politics. They're pulling the plug on Ecuador."

Pan Pacific Tours had been the parent corporation of Adventureland for the last six years. The company's financial support had made it possible for Skip and Dave's wilderness outfitting operation to branch out beyond its home territory of California and neighboring states, and take clients on world-class expeditions to exotic corners of the world, like Malaysia and the deep jungles of Amazonia. Manny Mueller, "Pac Man" to Skip and Dave, was their contact with the corporation. Skip had always been content to let Dave handle the business affairs. He busied himself with expedition logistics such as equipment and supplies. At Dave's words, the cocoa sank like a lead weight in his stomach. He sincerely hoped Dave hadn't meant what he was afraid he had.

"What do you mean, pulled the plug?" he asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

"Just that. The head honchos at Pan Pacific are tired of walking the tightrope between the Ecuadorian government and the oil companies. PetroEcuador is still reeling from their breakup with Chevron-Texaco, who in turn is still in litigation from the environmental lawsuits over the past decade, everything from rainforest destruction and decimation of native populations to cancer rates a thousand times normal in some places. Pac Man's not even sure anymore whether it's PetroEcuador or Chevron-Texaco that we lease the landing strip outside of Macas from. On top of which was that malaria scare we had last season."

"It was dengue, and that lady had been in South America for two weeks before she hooked up with us and caught a vacant spot on our tour at the last minute."

"I know, but anyway, the corporation's pulling out of Ecuador altogether. Too much liability. They say we can stick to something less politically sensitive, like Costa Rica."

"Every mom and pop tour company from here to Tierra del Fuego does Costa Rica. What we offer isn't just a chance to meet the Jivaro. We provide a unique cultural experience. And we've already got this season's trip booked. The orientation meeting is next week."

"That trip goes as scheduled," said Dave. "Don't worry about that. But afterward, we'll have to get something else lined up. Hey, we don't have to go through Pan Pac. We did tours on our own for years before we got involved with them. We can do it again. We'll plan it out while we're down there. Hey, cheer up. Three weeks from now, you'll be back in Ecuador with—" He stopped himself, but not in time. "What the heck," he continued, "them's the dangers of getting involved with the natives. When they say a portion of the proceeds goes to benefit the native peoples, I don't think your situation's what they have in mind."

He downed the last of his cocoa and leaned toward the door. "Well, I'd better go check on ol' Mr. Rappaport, make sure he's not frostbit. He was complaining of his fingers and nose getting numb. I got him bunked with the two mid-lifes. I'll make the rounds and be back in a bit."

An icy blast blew him out the door and into the tight cluster of five dome tents, little nylon igloos, high on the windswept slopes of Denali, the High One, leaving Skip once more to his gray gloom.

Three weeks. It would take just about that long to shuttle Lucille, Adventureland's bush plane, from Talkeetna, Alaska to Quito, Ecuador, catch a commercial flight back to home base in Anaheim, California, meet the next group of clients at the orientation meeting and get together all the paperwork and supplies they'd need. Fortunately, he'd been down a few months ago to do some repairs on the wilderness hut they used, and for other, more personal, business.

Then, they'd get the whole group on a commercial flight to Quito, and from there, fly Lucille into the bush, where adventure awaited the clients and Nusiri was awaiting him. He didn't know how to tell her that his first trip of the season might be his last.