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John’s ears had always perked up when I described my visits to the Yale library and the reams of unpublished—but neatly organized—information that Bingham had left behind for future historians. So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when he managed to talk his way into the Rare Books and Manuscripts Room. He caught the train up to New Haven and spent a delirious afternoon reading Bingham’s papers, skipping right over the 1911 Machu Picchu materials to focus on his more obscure expedition journals from the later campaigns. I wondered if the librarians thought they’d seen the explorer’s ghost.

“There’s some fantastic stuff up there at Yale,” John told me excitedly that evening over his third bowl of nonfat yogurt. “After seeing those papers I’ve changed my mind. Bingham was a serious adventurer.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Everyone knows about Machu Picchu and, less so of course, places like Espiritu Pampa and Choquequirao. That’s because Bingham wrote about those things in his books. But he went to dozens of places, some that almost no one else has gone to since. He was dealing with corruption, thievery, people of dubious character—and he was under a lot of pressure. He still managed to complete those expeditions and record massive amounts of data and information. That took great courage and determination.”

For someone who’d recently had his heart rewired, John had some fairly ambitious plans of his own. Evidently, his days humping eighty-pound packs up steep mountainsides weren’t over after all. He mentioned an archaeological site deep in the cloud forest of northern Peru, in a region far more remote than anything I’d seen, that he was hoping to explore when he returned from Australia.

“God, I’d love to get in there,” he said. “Almost no one’s allowed in—there’s no tourists, no infrastructure, nothing. You have to petition personally to the local INC office in order to enter the ruins. Who knows how long that’ll take, assuming they respond at all.”

“You know, I’ve still got some contacts in the adventure travel business,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Maybe I could make a few phone calls. I’m sure I know someone who knows someone.”

I reminded John that I was putting the story of our own peregrinations into a book. But it seemed a shame to hang up my hiking boots and return to the office life just because I’d managed to put my Bingham obsession to rest. Maybe there was some new parallel that I could latch on to to write another story—a story that would, naturally, require me to accompany John on his new expedition.

“I’ve got it!” I said. “Bingham started out as a martini explorer, and then turned out to be a real adventurer. I started out as a tourist, but then I turned out to be a real traveler, too. Right?”

“Actually . . .” John said, slowly scraping the remnants of yogurt from his bowl. “You remember how things work in Peru, Mark. It all depends on who you ask.”

Hiram Bingham III, photographed during his 1911 search for Vilcabamba, the legendary Lost City of the Incas. He found Machu Picchu instead. (Courtesy of the National Geographic Society)

John Leivers, the author’s guide. He’d survived more than one brush with death while indulging his passion for exploring Peru’s forgotten ruins. (Courtesy of Paolo Greer)

Francisco Pizarro, the Spanish conqueror of Peru. His shrewdness was exceeded only by his ruthlessness. (Library of Congress)

After Pizarro captured the Inca emperor Atahualpa in 1532, the prisoner offered one of the richest ransoms in history—a large room filled once with gold and twice again with silver. The entire Inca kingdom was mobilized to collect precious metals. (Author’s collection)

Pizarro executed Atahualpa, installing Manco Inca Yupanqui as puppet king of the Incas. Their friendly relations were short-lived—this early sixteenth-century illustration shows Manco attempting to burn a Spanish church. (The Royal Library, Denmark)

Many of Cusco’s ancient architectural wonders still stand, including the gargantuan walls of the