Submission to Outside Magazine
Outside magazine has a place where you can submit one photo with a short, 300 words of less, story to go with the photo. They take there best for the magazine. I am planning on submitting the following. Julie, would you mind taking a crack at editing?

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Luckily, the ruins of la Cidudad Perdida, the Lost City, is in Colombia and not Japan. If it was in Japan, I would have to walk one step behind our guide, Walter, for the rest of his life until I saved his life in return. I do not want to have to hike that path again.

I fell in the first of eight river crossings. I was swimming, or more accurately, aggressively floating to a large rock to try and pin myself. Walter dove in after me. Later he told me that he has almost died five times in that river and it has always been at the spot I fell in.

As soon as we made shelter I crawled under a blanket. I slept 28 out of 36 hours underneath a mosquito net. I had a cough, my joints ached, and I had the shivers. I wasn't sure if it was malaria, a cold, or sheer body exhaustion. I prayed to God, and I don't pray to God often, to make it exhaustion. I did not want to be the sorry son of a bitch that they had to carry out of the jungle.

It had rained for three days. The excess weight in my bag was both my and the jungles sweat. My notebook was wrapped in plastic, and then placed in my camera bag, which was wrapped in plastic again. Yet it was still moist. The internal lens misted over. My fingers and toes had wrinkled in the constant dampness. The pack weighed heavier every day. It rained as we climbed the last 1,800 moss-covered stones. The German, Volker, counted. He claimed that is what Germans do.

The military men liked my camouflage poncho; they claimed it made us brothers.

The ruins were round.