Under a summer sky streaked with clouds left over from a morning shower, I stood at the edge of a clearing in the Yucatan jungle, ten miles up a rough dirt road leading in from the coast. Where I saw nothing a moment earlier, a figure appeared to my right, just an arm’s length away.

Five feet tall, with a bronze complexion and a high forehead sloping back from a prominent nose and deep-set eyes, he looked like he had stepped out of one of the stone friezes I viewed on the side of a temple at Tulum the previous day. Other than his clothes – white cotton shirt, dark slacks, and black leather sandals — he could have been a Maya who confronted Spanish conquistadores 400 years ago.

My wife, son, and mother-in-law, meanwhile, had walked over from our rental car. We drove to this remote spot in 1982 to see the partly excavated ruins of Cobά, once a thriving city of 50,000 that dominated the region and built a pyramid a hundred forty feet high, taller than the more famous one at Chichen Itza to the north. On that warm, breezy day, we were the only visitors.

We came on a tip from a friend in Los Angeles, after I related to him a visit the previous year to the thoroughly excavated and well-curated cities at Chichen Itza, Uxmal, and Tulum, also once deep in the jungle and forgotten by all but local villagers. My friend had been a Catholic missionary in Yucatan thirty years earlier, riding burros on dirt trails along the coast and into the jungle to visit villages where locals with ancient-looking rifles stood guard over sacred sites off-limits to outsiders. He urged me not to miss out on visiting this place at the next opportunity.

The Maya (as I will call him, since I never learned his name) pointed his left index finger at his chest, spread his arms in our direction, and finally extended his right hand toward the start of a leaf-strewn path leading into the jungle. He spoke a few words in a language I didn’t understand, very different from Spanish, and which I assumed to be one of the many native dialects still spoken in the region. I surmised he was offering to guide us.

Apprehensive, I turned to my wife Joan and asked in a whisper, “What do you think? Are you ok with following him?”

No taller than the Maya, she looked him in the eye, shrugged, then waved toward the path, which disappeared after just fifty feet or so into the dense, shaded forest. Brett smiled and nodded, showing the excitement of a twelve-year-old on his first adventure trip. Bonnie grimaced but didn’t object. With their acquiescence, I turned back to the Maya and gestured for him to proceed.

In moments, the forest enveloped us. Thin trumpet and dogwood trees mingled with sturdy ceiba and mahogany trunks. Plumeria vines burst with ivory blossoms. The path occasionally narrowed to a thread where the wet jungle encroached amid the smoky aroma of rotting vegetation.

While we walked, our guide pointed out stone ruins scattered about in the undergrowth. On our own, we would have missed most of them. Tree roots had broken them up and vines obscured them. Occasionally, he pointed to small hills, no more than ten feet in height, where centuries of jungle growth covered the remains of toppled structures. And, at every turn, he showed us the barely visible remnants of stone paths that once connected Cobά to outlying communities throughout the region.

The Maya spoke neither Spanish nor English, and we didn’t know a word of his language, yet I felt like I understood everything he explained using hand gestures, facial expressions, and occasional sounds. Those forms of communication apparently are universal, I thought. A pocket guidebook we purchased at Tulum helped too, allowing us to attach names and detailed identities to the more prominent ruins.

A steady breeze off the ocean kept the humidity down. It also kept the mosquitos away. Instead, the jungle teemed with butterflies — many sizes and colors, but mostly a striking variety with a four-inch wingspan, black with iridescent blue markings.

A half hour into our walk, we came upon Ixmoja, the central pyramid. Unlike the fine stonework and intricate decoration of its counterpart at Chichen Itza, this one looked as if constructed in a hurry. Its hundred twenty stairs, running the entire width of the structure on all four sides, were uneven and narrow, with varying heights and rough surfaces. Roots snaked out from between the stones and randomly draped the steps.

Climbing El Castillo at Chichen Itza, allowed in those days, felt safe. This pyramid looked much less stable and a lot riskier. Still, when the Maya gestured for me to follow him, I couldn’t resist the challenge. The others waved to me to go, though Joan’s smile looked pained.

I understand today a heavy rope provides some security for climbers. Not then. I watched where the Maya planted his feet and tried to follow closely. I assumed he had made this climb many times. Despite a few slips, we ascended without serious incident. From the flat top, where a ceremonial structure probably once stood, we looked out over a jungle that reached to the horizon in all directions — except the east, where we could see the turquoise blue of the Cozumel Channel in the distance. The shallow limestone shelf of the Yucatan Peninsula kept trees from sinking deep roots, limiting their height to about half that of the pyramid. From the edge of the platform, I waved at my family, who looked as small as jungle bugs.

Then, the Maya motioned to me to follow him back down. The stairs seemed scarily steep, much steeper than they looked or felt on the way up. A misstep could be disastrous. Seeing me hesitate, the Maya pointed at his eyes, then at his feet. The trick, I understood, was to focus precisely on where one stepped and avoid looking farther down the stairs.

With that, the Maya began one rapid step after another. Most stairs were uneven and just a few inches deep, too narrow to plant our feet firmly. Trying hard to focus on each next step, I followed close behind him. But, as we picked up speed, my caution evaporated and I felt like we flew down the face of the pyramid, our feet barely touching the stones. By the time we reached the bottom, sweat soaked my shirt and my heart pounded like that of a sprinter at the finish line. My rubber-soled athletic shoes had performed admirably. I marveled that he could make that descent in loose-fitting sandals.

Joan and the others applauded our feat. The Maya, deadpan serious until now, gave me a big smile.

After a brief rest, we continued on what turned out to be a roughly circular path. As we passed through an area of particularly large trees, the Maya paused, reached down, and picked up two round, brown seeds, each the diameter of a quarter coin but a half inch thick and circled by a pale white band. He held them close to his eyes, then acted out a person seeing visions or experiencing an altered state of mind. Finally, he conjured an image of a ceremony set there in the jungle. I wondered if the contemporary Maya still used these hallucinogenic seeds in religious or cultural rituals. He handed me the seeds and indicated to me to keep them. As I placed them in the pocket of my shorts, he nodded.

The path soon led us back to the road, within sight of where we had entered the jungle. I tried my best to express appreciation to the Maya for the unexpected adventure he provided us. I thanked him in English and Spanish, hoping he knew those words in one language or the other. Wanting to reward him, I looked to Joan, standing behind me, and asked for some Mexican currency.

I then turned back to the Maya, only to find him gone, disappeared, as quietly and suddenly as he had appeared two hours earlier. Confused, I asked the others, “Where is he? Did you see where he went?”

No one replied. They all looked equally puzzled.

“Did this really happen?” I asked. “Was he really here?” They all nodded. As we walked back to our car, I glanced back over my shoulder several times, thinking I might glimpse the Maya at the edge of the jungle, but I saw nothing.

Two days later, we flew back to Los Angeles. As we unpacked, I came across the seeds given me by the Maya. I still have them. One of these days, I’ll overcome my inhibitions and try them. Then maybe the Maya will reappear and guide me on an even more mystical adventure.