to a fierce whine, they couldn't have been
moving at more than five miles an hour in the straightaways, and a
fraction of that around the bends. The plan was to take the river
as far into the mountains as they could before striking off on
foot, unless they saw something in the jungle to necessitate
premature disembarkation, specifically, any sign of Hunter's
passage. In an ideal world, Gearhardt's son would have left signs
to indicate his trail, carvings or flags on prominent trees, but
under the assumed circumstances, they couldn't count on being so
fortunate. And that was one thing none of them seemed to want to
talk about. Leo's son had drowned up in the mountains ahead,
and none of them knew why or how. What in the name of God were they
doing following in his footsteps at all?
But deep down, Galen knew why. The nature of
Hunter's discoveries was far too amazing to leave unexplored, which
was why even now, despite the cramp of fear in his gut, he could
hardly contain his anticipation. Somewhere in the vast uncharted
cloud forest was a species of raptor that had never been
documented, perhaps one that no man had ever even seen.
Galen slapped his neck and readjusted the
mosquito netting that covered his head and shoulders to keep those
pesky stingers at bay. The last thing he wanted was some bizarre
tropical disease.
As they rounded a bend in the brown river,
he caught a glimpse of the mountains, which rose straight ahead in
sheer, jagged cliffs, their upper reaches invisible beneath a mass
of clouds. That was where they were going, straight up into those
clouds. And somewhere up there, protected from human intervention
for millennia, was the ornithological discovery of a lifetime.
A contented smile had barely graced his lips
when he heard the thrashing of leaves above him. Before he could
even look up, he felt raindrops on his shoulders and arms. The air
became water, and the surface of the river appeared to boil. It had
been too long since his days in the field. He had forgotten how
quickly these tropical storms descended.
Galen tried to remember where the pack with
his poncho was loaded, but in the span of seconds, it no longer
mattered.
II
8:56 a.m.
When they had come under siege by rain
without the slightest warning, Sam had been prepared. Her shoulders
and hair were still damp beneath her slicker, but at least she
wasn't soaked to the bone like some of her other companions, who
hunkered down in their seats in their rain gear or under tarps.
Only their guides appeared unaffected. Santos still stood at the
bow in only his cutoff jeans, a sheet of water covering his bare
skin, poling them around hidden obstacles as the river grew more
tumultuous. At least the rain had brought a respite from the
assault of the mosquitoes. No longer did animals chatter from the
dense canopy. Even the birds had ceased their relentless chirping
to bed down in whatever dry alcoves they could find.
These storms were unpredictable. Sometimes
they lasted just a few minutes, while other times it could pour for
weeks on end. There was no way of knowing until it simply ceased as
suddenly as it started. It had only been raining for four hours
now, but already it felt like an eternity.
Sam occupied herself by watching the bank
slowly disappear to either side as the river rose. The runoff
carved channels through the mud and whole sections of earth fell
away from the forest, exposing roots and rocks, which tumbled into
the water. Branches and trunks raced toward them from ahead and
banged against the aluminum hull. Progress slowed as the current
grew stronger. The motors had begun to whine and issue a darker
black smoke that reeked of burnt oil. They would only be able to go
so much farther before they would have to rest the engines.
The stream that had once only been twenty
feet wide was now closer to thirty, and flowed thick with muck. At
a guess, they had traveled maybe twelve miles, which put them
halfway to their first checkpoint, a
moving at more than five miles an hour in the straightaways, and a
fraction of that around the bends. The plan was to take the river
as far into the mountains as they could before striking off on
foot, unless they saw something in the jungle to necessitate
premature disembarkation, specifically, any sign of Hunter's
passage. In an ideal world, Gearhardt's son would have left signs
to indicate his trail, carvings or flags on prominent trees, but
under the assumed circumstances, they couldn't count on being so
fortunate. And that was one thing none of them seemed to want to
talk about. Leo's son had drowned up in the mountains ahead,
and none of them knew why or how. What in the name of God were they
doing following in his footsteps at all?
But deep down, Galen knew why. The nature of
Hunter's discoveries was far too amazing to leave unexplored, which
was why even now, despite the cramp of fear in his gut, he could
hardly contain his anticipation. Somewhere in the vast uncharted
cloud forest was a species of raptor that had never been
documented, perhaps one that no man had ever even seen.
Galen slapped his neck and readjusted the
mosquito netting that covered his head and shoulders to keep those
pesky stingers at bay. The last thing he wanted was some bizarre
tropical disease.
As they rounded a bend in the brown river,
he caught a glimpse of the mountains, which rose straight ahead in
sheer, jagged cliffs, their upper reaches invisible beneath a mass
of clouds. That was where they were going, straight up into those
clouds. And somewhere up there, protected from human intervention
for millennia, was the ornithological discovery of a lifetime.
A contented smile had barely graced his lips
when he heard the thrashing of leaves above him. Before he could
even look up, he felt raindrops on his shoulders and arms. The air
became water, and the surface of the river appeared to boil. It had
been too long since his days in the field. He had forgotten how
quickly these tropical storms descended.
Galen tried to remember where the pack with
his poncho was loaded, but in the span of seconds, it no longer
mattered.
II
8:56 a.m.
When they had come under siege by rain
without the slightest warning, Sam had been prepared. Her shoulders
and hair were still damp beneath her slicker, but at least she
wasn't soaked to the bone like some of her other companions, who
hunkered down in their seats in their rain gear or under tarps.
Only their guides appeared unaffected. Santos still stood at the
bow in only his cutoff jeans, a sheet of water covering his bare
skin, poling them around hidden obstacles as the river grew more
tumultuous. At least the rain had brought a respite from the
assault of the mosquitoes. No longer did animals chatter from the
dense canopy. Even the birds had ceased their relentless chirping
to bed down in whatever dry alcoves they could find.
These storms were unpredictable. Sometimes
they lasted just a few minutes, while other times it could pour for
weeks on end. There was no way of knowing until it simply ceased as
suddenly as it started. It had only been raining for four hours
now, but already it felt like an eternity.
Sam occupied herself by watching the bank
slowly disappear to either side as the river rose. The runoff
carved channels through the mud and whole sections of earth fell
away from the forest, exposing roots and rocks, which tumbled into
the water. Branches and trunks raced toward them from ahead and
banged against the aluminum hull. Progress slowed as the current
grew stronger. The motors had begun to whine and issue a darker
black smoke that reeked of burnt oil. They would only be able to go
so much farther before they would have to rest the engines.
The stream that had once only been twenty
feet wide was now closer to thirty, and flowed thick with muck. At
a guess, they had traveled maybe twelve miles, which put them
halfway to their first checkpoint, a
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