for national Geographic News
Conservation biologist Stuart Pimm is a member of the National Geographic Society's Committee for Research and Exploration (CRE). An accomplished scientist, teacher, and author—and a passionate birder—Pimm recently traveled to Brazil to meet up with a National Geographic expedition in search of a rare bird, the grey-winged cotinga. This is the second page of his account from the frontlines of conservation.
<< Page One: How the Expedition Came About
Friday, December 5, 2003: We lunch improbably in a luxurious home on the Fazenda Itatiba high in a valley a few miles from our intended camp. "It won't be like this when we get to camp!" we joke with the fazenda's administrator, Argélio.
The helicopter cannot carry everything we need in one trip, but will ferry the team and equipment in short trips between the fazenda and the camp.
We've hired a private company this time. I just wish its pilot wasn't wearing shiny black shoes, pressed black trousers and a white, starched shirt with epaulettes that vaguely suggest a naval uniform. I fly on helicopter surveys across the world each year. Most pilots wear fatigues or tattered shorts, repudiate fashion, and have flight helmets that sport small insignia that hint of a previous life ("Da Nang", for example) that one never brings up in conversation.
There's a break in the clouds and I'm off. Knowing the risks, I ensure that my tent, pack, water bottle, and the remains of last night's pizza are with me. As we cross into the next valley, the clouds break. Over the landing spot, it's bright sunshine. The pilot doesn't land and circles around. I jab my finger energetically at the flat area of grass and smooth rocks on which we had landed in August.
As we land, I know from experience that he should keep the engine running, holding the helicopter under power in case it slips. He reduces power and I prepare to get out. He signals me to stay inside the helicopter. OK, I understand that rule: he wants to shut down completely. Hell no, he then gets out.
If wind tips the helicopter, the still-rotating blades will hit the ground and the resulting shrapnel will turn me into hamburger. I get out, grab my gear and move well away from the helicopter. I notice I've a companion, a worker from the fazenda. In a minute, the pilot is off.
Fifteen minutes later, he's back in our valley, but isn't coming this way. He lands a mile or more below us in a depression. We wave. We strip off our shirts and wave them. Through the binoculars, I watch Alline and Maria Alice unload gear and the helicopter leaves. We will never see it again.
A silence descends. I slap on the sunscreen I had the good sense to pack. My companion calls Maria Alice on our radio. "I told at the pilot it wasn't the right place, but he said your site was not safe," she tells me. "So, why didn't he then come to fetch us?" I ask.
"I screamed at him that he had to. He ignored me and left," Maria Alice said. "Well," I reply, "you have too much stuff to walk up to us, we'll have to come to you." "Your companion is called Gilmar," Maria Alice tells me. He wasn't expecting to stay and has nothing but the clothes he's wearing.
Between us, we can just manage to pick everything up. It takes us three hours to reach Maria Alice and Alline. By that time, the sun has turned to rain and we're sodden. The route is partly a bog filled with tussock grass six feet (two meters) tall. A few yards takes us five minutes—and another five to get our breath back.
