The bus pulled into Tikal around 4:45 AM. Although the sun was on its way up, the jungle was still swathed in inky blackness, and as we hiked the trails I navigated by following the faint shadow of the person in front of me. There wasn’t much to see, but the sounds were incredible: birds, unnamed and unknown animals crashing through the trees nearby, and above all the howler monkeys in the canopy overhead. In the middle of the night, the roar of the howler monkey was almost spectral. It was a deeply creepy noise to have surrounding us. “Bloody things sound like the devil,” said an English guy on the trail ahead of me.

A little after 5 AM, we saw the temple:
 

It’s hard to describe how suddenly these things appear. The jungle is tall and thick, and it’s difficult to see even the tallest temples until you’re practically on top of them. Although we could see where we were going, it was still very dark, and the temples were mainly huge silhouettes against the slate sky.

After having walked for a half hour or so, we climbed Temple IV, the largest structure of Tikal, at over 230 feet tall. There’s plenty of seating at the top, and everyone on the tour (several dozen of us) got a chance to sit and see the stunning sunrise.

… or would have, had there been one. The sun, it seems, doesn’t often put on much of a show at Tikal. There’s usually too much mist in the jungle to see much of anything until the midmorning heat has burned it off. Instead, we got to see the mist gradually lighten over the jungle below us.
 

Eventually, we ended up ditching the tour (which was a terrible disappointment our guide guide, a friendly man named Luis) and wandering around Tikal on our own. It’s an amazing place, with six huge temple structures, dozens or hundreds of smaller buildings, and many more yet to be excavated, all meshed in by the jungle.

Our guidebook spoke of warriors and battles, kings and queens, victories and betrayals, and even human sacrifices - all had taken place on the ground on which we now casually walked. Hundreds of thousands of people had been born, lived, and had died here, centuries earlier. Their descendants are still very much part of Guatemala, but they themselves are long gone. Now, the only remnants of this once powerful culture are the remains of the massive structures they built to honor themselves and their gods.

Although in many ways she’s a failure as a cat (she’d probably run from a mouse if ever she were to see one), she does have really cool eyes.

Still, even for those of us who put it off longer than most, the our camp years eventually do end - and once they do, it’s startling just how quickly you’re forgotten. Charlie and Kristen were both on staff last summer, so both of them knew quite a few people who had stuck around. Me, on the other hand: even though my own final summer was just three years ago, there are only a handful of people left who ever worked with me. With that in mind, I had decided that while Charlie and Kristen visited with people, I’d spend my time wandering around and taking pictures. I’d walk the trails I’d walked so many times before, cool my feet in the river, and try to reclaim some of the peace I’d once experienced in these woods.

But here’s the interesting part about going to camp with the intention of being antisocial: it’s trickier than you’d think. Even if nobody knows you, even if you’ve been out of the loop for years, there are still people excited to introduce themselves and share with you the things that make this place special to them. “Have you ever worked here?” they ask excitedly, and I fight the temptation to detail the summers I spent here, the things I did, the traditions I helped establish. I used to be important, I want to tell them. But that’s not the way this place works. Just as I believe we all leave our mark in some way, I also believe that in the end, most of us don’t get to claim it. And so I smile, and let them tell me about the things I used to know.

I went late to the campfire that night. Instead, I spent my time taking pictures in the twilight, leaving the shutter open for a long time to let the light make its imprint even in the dark. I got there in time to hear the prayer. “Dear God,” shouted the person leading the campfire, echoed by dozens of others. “Thank you for this most amazing day.” I listened to the sounds of children and adults thanking God for the beauty of the day and of their lives, and joined in.

You may notice, if you’ve been here before, that plash looks completely different and that all the previous posts are mysteriously unavailable. This is because I decided to shelve my own blogging software in favor of Wordpress, which is infinitely more capable (although, I’d like to think, a tiny bit less awesome). A goodly number of them may find their way over here eventually.

Although if they never do, at least you’ve got a new site to look at while I’m busy not updating it.