DAWN STEALS SOFTLY into the jungle. Only birds are boisterous at this hour, and all seem to commence the day in a frenzy of loud gossip. A light fog hangs over the Rio Chore, the ghost of the fleeing gloom. I am cold, yet reluctant to leave what little warmth my poncho offers. The ground is hard, and still l linger. Leaves, pregnant with dew, give up their wards of the night, and silver droplets rain down on a grateful earth . I hear our two Yuqui guides stirring up the fire. It is time to get up!