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For i nformation, contact U.S. Raid headquarters at 3 10-271-8335 or nfusilraid@earthli nk.net pulled low to keep out sun. We drank from clear streams, sang Waylon and Willie songs for the first time in our lives and stared up at a nighttime sky nearly white with stars. When we slept, it was a refreshing eight hours. "This is the Club Med Raid, " Francois laughed, buying a six-pack at a trading post. We drank the warm lager that night before a campfire. And as we sipped beer and relaxed and somehow forgot about the travails before the horseback, I couldn't help but agree. The hard part of the Raid, we agreed, was behind. We were wrong, of course. Club Med ended abruptly when we left the horses at Sani Pass and strapped on our packs for seventy miles of mountaineeri ng. We felt rested and eager. Tent and sleeping bags were left behind in order to lighten our load. Leo quit, too tired to keep up. We'd anticipated the move. She'd been having trouble with uphill segments since well before Champagne Castle, pausing every few ' steps to rest. Leo said she was sick, Francois said she was out of shape, but the end result was that Leo's inability to race hard had become a dis traction. I carried her pack during one ten-mile midnight slog, hoping she would move faster with less weight. Without Leo the plan was to move as qUickly·as possible. The path was north, to the top of Thabana Ntlenyana (at 11 ,500 feet the high est point in Southern Africa). then east, out of Lesotho toward the Indian Ocean. Our goal was to complete the stage in two days. But in our joyful haste we turried due east one val ley too early and speed-hiked an hour before figuring it out. Trying to fix the problem by cutting the tangent between our location and the checkpoint only got us more turned around. As afternoon turned into a bri lliant sunset turned into bitter night, we tromped in circles, searching for the checkpoint. Checkpoint 15. I'll never forget it. Mountain, val ley, mounta in, va lley, turn around because we must've missed the checkpoint. Do it again. I took a turn navigating, hop ing that from somewhere in the recesses of my memory, knowledge of coordinates and azimuths would reemerge. But I could do no better than Bruno, the man who always held the map. Final ly, too frustrated and incoherent to attempt further navi gation, we stopped for the night. The temperature was below freez ing. Our feet were soaked from stumbling into streams. A raw wind raked over us as we lay against the side of a hill, our b.odies pressed together, front to back. "I am very sorry, Francois apologized, his groin seemingly seared into my backside, "but we must sleep close." There was no question of intimacy, it was a matter of survival. And in th a,t moment of despondence, promise emerged. Francois extracted a small tape recorder from his pack as we sh iv ered. Above the screeching wind, we heard his six-year-old daughter recit ing a poem in French. I have no clue what she said. All I remember is a sweet, young voice talking to her daddy so far away. Wishing we were done but knowing we were just halfway into our adventure, we slept. It was a fit fu l half rest punctuated by dreams of warm blankets, heaters and piping