Finally, he jutted his chin out, and pointed toward the shore. Unlike several other areas where the bank was exposed, the water ran to the edge of the trees. “This it,” he said. “Sí, sí.”

There were no canoes or rafts tied up. No natives washing clothes. This wasn’t the off-ramp I was expecting. “Are you sure?”

He pointed at a solitary tree, one that didn’t look any different from the millions we’d already passed, and said, “I remember that tree.”

Remembering a tree in the Amazon jungle seemed a lot like remembering a grain of sand on the beach, but Diego exuded absolute confidence, and as we drew closer to the shore, it was obvious there was a well-worn path leading away from the water.

Juan Pablo jumped out and grabbed one of the long vines that dangled from the tree. Vern, who was awake and had been whittling a piece of wood for the past hour, threw him a rope. Once we were tied up, it took a few minutes to transfer our supplies to shore.

The sun was sinking low in the sky, and I figured we had an hour of light left.

Juan Pablo and Carlos slung on their rucksacks, then each grabbed two gallons of water. I shouldered my pack and grabbed the fifth and final gallon. Vern carried his pack and slung one of the automatic rifles over his shoulder. Diego, in addition to his pack, held Camila.

The path was wide at first but quickly narrowed, the jungle pushing in from all sides. The first thing to hit me was the smell. It was sweet and freshly washed, but at the same time it smelled musky, almost to the point of decay. It reminded me of the few times I’d been in a greenhouse. And it was noisy: a loud symphony of screams, whistles, snorts, hoots, hollers, squawks, and roars. Most of the orchestra seemed to be hiding in the towering canopy a hundred and fifty feet overhead.

There were several leafy trees growing beneath the canopy, stretching as high as forty or fifty feet—what Gina had once referred to as the “understory.” Huge networks of tangled vines clung to the trees, and it wasn’t clear whether they were climbing up the trees or down to the earth. The underbrush was diverse: tall grass, thorny bushes, gigantic ferns, thick green moss, blooming flowers (which I suspect were responsible for the sweet aroma), and a spongy white vegetation that I guessed was some sort of fungi. The forest floor was covered in a thin layer of green and brown leaves, exposed tree roots, seeds, scattered fruit, and broken branches.

It was a few degrees cooler under the cover of the canopy, but the air was heavier. And slow. Made of molasses. The jungle air drove Miss Daisy.