Omar said to me, “Lots of peccaries were here. Recently. The butterflies are eating the salt in the urine, see?”

The men gathered at the mouth of the jungle; dogs circling. This would be our camp, where the rest of the women would stay until we returned. A few of us ventured several yards in, hacking at branches and vines with our machetes to gather wood for the night’s fire; others cut lengths of palm frond to build a shelter.

Our movements freed up a couple of Brazil nuts—as big as small melons—that rolled by my feet, nestling against each other with soft knocks. With a rock, I broke open the hard, woody seed pods; brown segments the shape of orange sections scattered; I hammered at those to reach the sweet white meat of the nut. Everyone gathered and took several pieces; I even got a few muttered thank-yous from the women. They each wished us luck on the hunt, and we turned to leave.

I followed Omar and the rest of the men into the forest. His sure feet glided with assurance along the rich, sweetish loam of the jungle floor. Torso bent forward, progress smooth and economical, he moved with an awareness and anticipation of what was three, five, ten steps ahead of him, whereas my stiff, clunky body strained forward, at odds with everything, stalling at this pile of logs, that protruding root, battling curtains of lianas. I stopped, started, and hesitated while his rapid trot never slowed.

The men followed me in silence. Roped together, the dogs huffed at our sides, whining and yipping with their sensory overload. My skin shone with sweat, my hair dripped from the mist that drifted among us, an earthbound cloud. Occasionally the men paused, consulted in Quechua or Spanish spoken too quickly for me to understand; possibly on purpose. All I could think about was Omar asking me back in the village if I could run. As I walked I felt my belly, a hard, swollen ball, push against the rough fabric of my dress. Somehow I hadn’t been afraid in the canoe as we traveled to this hunting ground, but now I silently apologized to my baby for my foolhardiness, my youth and stupidity.

Omar held up one hand; we all stopped short, our breath ragged in the heavy air. We’d all heard it: a strangled cry of pain, almost human. The dogs lunged forward, slavering and yelping; the men restrained them, but they leapt again, wild for the hunt. We crept toward the pitiful sound.

A big black howler monkey lay on its back on the forest floor between two intertwined roots, its head and neck held flush to the ground by a metallic snare loop. Another, smaller snare lay empty nearby. Listlessly, it reached over and snatched up its dismembered foot, the toes long and furred and strangely graceful; it sniffed and rubbed the foot against its face, then threw it at us as we approached. Eyes bulging from their sockets, it struggled against the cruel wire, making a good show before howling weakly. Its head fell back among the lush moss in momentary defeat, black nostrils flared wide; flies already landing, beetles, too, all the carrion eaters whispering to one another and gathering from every corner of land and sky.