The morning air was cool in the way it is in the high desert before the sun is fully up. A welcome respite from the usual heat that turns your skin into leather and your mind to mush. The party was always quiet in the mornings, other than the long relaxed snorts of horses and the jingling of gear being loaded into manties for the days journey.

Jack watched the porters and his guide Manuel, executing their daily toutine with absolute fluidity. No talking. No bickering. Just work and purpose, like a hive of worker bees.

The coffee was atrocious, barely coffee, but technically, it was coffee and out here that counts. The cook, Guillermo was a good man, but his style of grub left a bit to be desired. Jack often ribbed him about being the only Mexican in the world without taste buds.