When I was little, I loved the old Tarzan movies that Dad brought home from his store, with Johnny Weissmuller fighting crocodiles and lions, discovering lost cities and rescuing the good explorers, all while punishing ivory hunters, evil chieftains, criminals and Nazis. In those movies, Tarzan lived high in a jungle plateau called the escarpment.
I remember how scared I was, when I was about five and heard my mother and a friend plan a hike up the escarpment.
“D’you think I can bring Nate?”
“Sure – it’s a long way up, but if he gets tired ...”
“NO!” I ran away and had to be coaxed out from under the basement stairs. Often as it figured in my dreams, I believed that the escarpment was guarded by great apes who dropped boulders on unwanted explorers. In the movie, the visiting safari ha
