The river ahead flows level for a hundred yards, and then descends in precipitous steps. Swirling white eddies funnel around sharp-edged boulders. Logs and debris have become trapped all along the way, beached on shallows or pinned to boulders by the current. There’s even a dead tree, stripped of its bark, with long, naked branches reaching out like the useless arms of a stranded swimmer.

Ernesto paddles up, and there’s a brief conference. We could try a portage, but it’s apparently an arduous and time-consuming thing to drag a dozen canoes through thick rain forest. Ernesto and the chief decide that the rapids don’t look too dangerous, and we should risk shooting them.

The chief, P.J., and I have the dubious honor of going first. The chief speaks to us, and Ernesto translates. “He will steer. You two keep low. The higher you sit, the more”—Ernesto searches for the word—“unstable your canoe will be. Keep the nose pointed downriver, and if you see a rock, push off before it smashes you.”

All the other canoes form a semicircle and watch as we inch forward.

“Ready?” I ask P.J.

“I always knew you were trouble, Jack Danielson,” she replies, tight-lipped. “How did I ever let you get me into this?”

“What’s life without a little spice?” I ask, trying to hide my own fear. I signal to the chief that we’re ready, and he gives a quick thrust with his paddle. The current grabs us and down we plunge, into the rapids.

The water roars around us like an angry creature with a sore throat and an empty belly. Now it’s a snake, now an ogre. It coils and hisses and sprays us with venom. Enormous white fingers reach over the sides of our dugout as if trying to climb in and devour us.

The chief does a masterful job of steering from the back, picking out safe channels where the water funnels through rocks cleanly. We move in jerks and starts and sometimes in spine-jarring drops, when the bottom seems to fall from under us and we plummet a foot or two before smacking back down.

When we’re almost free and clear, the current suddenly pins us to a boulder. The water pressure may flip us or snap us in half at any moment. The chief paddles valiantly, but he can’t extricate us. I lean way out and push my paddle against the boulder. P.J. joins me. Inch by inch we’re able to shove our canoe forward till the current catches the stern and the boat swings away.

We shoot out through the last gate of boulders, and the roaring water subsides into placid river again.

“We made it!” P.J. shouts and lets out a whoop of pure triumph. The chief emits an answering triumphant bellow, and I pound my chest and give my best Tarzan imitation.