Noon on Yakushima Island. We have been hiking for nine hours, and are still far removed from our destination. Amidst the vines and boulders I spot something surprising right before my feet. For a confused instant I think someone dropped a toy skull on the trail, but then I realise that it is in fact a monkey’s head. Indi and I sit down on the forest floor and carefully wrap it in paper, hiding it inside one of our empty lunch boxes. It takes us half an hour to learn that the monkey skull is cursed.

Suddenly and completely, we lose track of the bright pink trail markers. We descend the wrong side of a hill, but, noticing our mistake and trying to hike around the perimeter of the hill, the trail remains elusive. For a while, the jungle looks the same in any direction, and we misjudge the severity of the situation. We continue descending at random, vaguely moving in the direction of the trail, intending to cross it a bit further down the mountain. Instead, it seems the distance between us and the path only grows, and I start to get nervous.

In the span of an hour we change tactics a dozen times. First we follow a little stream, believing it cannot but lead us to the coast. But as it descends into a steep ravine, we realise water flows where we cannot follow, and despite the beauty of the cut rock, we have to escape this dangerous place, where one misstep could send us tumbling down twenty metres onto the deadly granite. We follow another stream, then escape its ravine, try again. Always the same result: crags, undergrowth, no path. Miraculously, Indi remains remarkably calm. 

She is certain we will be okay. We have food. A sleeping bag. And time, although admittedly, not much. In case we fail to find our way, we can continue tomorrow. We can continue tomorrow, if we have to. But the worst thing we could do now is get hurt. I have to stay calm, patient, try not to rush this way and then that, losing my head. However, an hour later we are still no closer to finding a path out of this humid forest, buzzing so loudly with cicadas we can barely hear our own thoughts.

Climbing out of another ravine, I notice a curious pattern on the rocks at its edge. Suddenly it stands out to me that they are man made, and a similar pattern shows itself on the other side, from where we descended. We have found the foundations of a bridge which has long since collapsed, the debris cleared out by the water, but the supports still clinging to the edges of the little canyon, showing through the moss. A stone bridge means a road, and sure enough a flat surface, however overgrown with trees and vines, continues to the North, in the direction of the lost trail.

Encouraged by the stroke of luck, I regain my cool (which Indi had never lost in the first place), and set my mind firmly on getting back on the right track. Indi celebrates as well, but having stayed calm, she is not fired up by adrenaline now, like I am. We keep our direction north, trying to follow the shape of the island without moving up or down. We have to cross another stream, and then another, and we wonder where they all came from, and how we could have gotten so far removed from where we should be. After another half an hour of fighting the mountain, cut by its vines and betrayed by its dead wood, now past five o’ clock, Indi suddenly spots a pink marker on one of the tree branches. We are safe, she has found the trail again.

The next hour and a half we never lose track of the pink trail markers again, helping us rob the jungle of its precious monkey skull, its load far heavier than first surmised.