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When I registered at the tourist office, I saw from the logbook that I was the only outsider in town. I took no small pride in the fact. During the dry season, students from Manila flock to Sagada in order to escape the heat and smoke pot. They mingle with foreigners who come for the cultural sights and to smoke pot. I, however, had escaped the crowds with my off-season savvy. Cheaper prices, peace and quiet; why should life come to a halt because of a little rain? Three hours later I was bloody, trembling, and facing death that seemed all but certain. It had been my decision. At the office I fingered the laminated sheet on which was presented an array of guided activities. The manager watched me, chewing betel nut and spitting from time to time. My eye was drawn to the caves, in particular to the Lumiang Sumaguing Connection. It was 3-4 hours, an “intermediate to challenging” trek. True, I knew little more than that, but I decided to take the plunge. I wore a cotton t shirt, shorts, and hiking boots. My satchel contained a water bottle and some BBQ peanuts. The guide was dressed like me, only he wore lime green flip flops. I found him shy, far more so than most Pinoys I had met. He did not volunteer his name, so I had to ask. He told me it was Denver. “Like the American city?” “No, for American singer.” At the mouth of the cave we rappelled down some hundred feet. I watched Denver pull a lantern from his pack. He filled it with oil and got it glowing. It only took ten more minutes for me to realize I had made a terrible mistake. The limestone was wet and slick with bat dung. Stretches of relative ease were broken up by treacherous descents and traversals. Denver went first, climbing with one hand, lantern in the other. Every few feet he would pause, swing the light around, and I followed. I mimicked his movements as best I could, but often submitted to shuffling on my rump or on all fours. In this way we went silently through the network of caves and ravines. My entire being was focused on my next grip, my next foothold. Then, the inevitable occurred. An overhang loomed before me, and the only way forward was to climb around its outside, hugging it with hands and feet. Denver had accomplished this in three quick motions. I looked up at him. He looked down at me and beckoned. I knew I could not make it. He knew it too. “Left foot there,” he said. “Bring your hand around––” I slipped and fell back, down into the black. I will never forget falling those forty feet, or the relief I felt upon crashing into the water. I hit the ground, too, but the flood river had been just deep enough to break my fall. A few minutes later Denver had slid down from his perch. I was standing, shivering, in shock. “Sorry,” he grinned sheepishly. “Are you ok?” I nodded. We sat quietly for a moment. Suddenly, he grew animated. “The rocks are too wet after a monsoon. And floods too.” He made a whooshing sound and waved his hands. Then he lit a cigarette. “Yes, I am the only guide who will go after rain. Much too dangerous. But not for me and you!” He laughed, then turned serious. “Still, is better to have sandals or bare feet.” I removed my boots. Meanwhile Denver continued his lecture, telling me how the caves were often closed due to deaths and disappearances. I tried not to listen. I don’t remember anything else from our adventure. Only, when I emerged seven hours later with a bruised tailbone, blood-spattered head, and cuts running down my arms and legs, I nearly cried at the sight of the sun. I wanted to be angry with Denver. But at the moment we saw daylight, I felt nothing but unqualified gratitude. I gave him the sopping pesos from my wallet and my emergency USD. Spelunking, I decided, was one thing best left undone during the off-season.