Reflections While Dangling Over a River Gorge
Here I was, dangling from a flimsy rope bridge above a chasm. I could see the foaming rapids and cruel rock shards a hundred feet below.
One of the strands of rope holding the bridge together was in the process of slowly twisting apart. The wooden planks over my head were smoldering from the burning oil that had poured over them when the signal lantern smashed.
On one side of the bridge were the members of a cannibal tribe, watching me hungrily, trying to decide whether their hunger for me would overcome their fear of the fire and the gorge.
On the other side were the members of the Nazi expedition that was exploring these lands looking for the lost temple that contained some relic or other Der Fuhrer wanted for his very own.
As I was just about to fall to my death, I understood everything in a moment of pure, crystal clarity. This whole predicament was entirely my fault.
It never would have happened if I’d had apple juice instead of orange juice with my breakfast the day before yesterday.