Expedition Diary: Inside a Rain Forest Quest

Stuart Pimm
for National Geographic News

March 5, 2004

(Page 4 of 4)

Gilmar is talking to them on the radio. He takes off his shirt, puts it on a stick and waves it. I take off my blue rain jacket and do likewise.

How on Earth are they going see us in the middle of this mountain? We wave vigorously and, improbably, they do. Now all we have to do is wait.

I spend the afternoon looking, listening. Abundant black-and-golds call. We're above an exposed ridge, where the wind stunts the trees. This is supposed to be the gray-winged's prime habitat. If it were here, I would hear it.

By 5:00 p.m. our rescuers are within shouting distance in the valley below. At 7:30 p.m., just as it gets dark, six of them enter our camp. They'll guide us out in the morning.

Tuesday, December 9, 2003

It blew hard last night, but there was little chance I would lose my tent—it had seven men sleeping in it. Still, the wind snapped one of my tent's poles and it's oddly misshapen at first light.

After a few days of isolation, the number of people around camp—ten of us—seems strange. There's a trail bar and a cup of tea for everyone, one lump of sugar in each cup. That exhausts all our food, but we're happy.

To run out of food before leaving would have been inexcusably bad form. To leave our equipment behind would have been worse. Luckily we just have enough helpers to carry it out.

The hike out is downhill all the way, sometimes steep, sometimes through dense bamboo thickets, but mostly through forest with a closed canopy that shades the forest floor and keeps it free of undergrowth.

Every step, I'm watchful of my feet and use every handhold the trees and vines afford. This is not the place to sprain an ankle.

An hour down, I see a bright orange frog on the ground. It's about the size of a dime. As I admire it, others see another, then more.

There's a colony of about a dozen of the frogs within a few yards. Bright and conspicuous, they are advertising that it's not a good idea to touch them. When our companions do touch the frogs, we warn them not to touch their eyes or lips with their fingers.

"What are they?" we ask. "Does anyone know?" Maria Alice has a colleague at Rio de Janeiro State University who is a frog specialist, and we'll ask him later. We've done this before and the answer has sometimes been that no one has seen the species before.

We descend down into the valley, below where the black-and-gold cotingas whistle. Soon we're hearing a frenzy of bellbirds—crow-size, white cotingas, that sound like cracked bells.

The forest canopy is now far above our heads, and the going is more open, flatter. We come to a real trail.

For the first time in days, we can stride along, rather than tentatively place each foot down. I feel warm. My clothes are drying.

Three hours after we started, we're in the open pasture Gilmar and I saw from the mountain yesterday. We hike along another trail, find another clearing, and hike some more. Then, in the next clearing, there's a tractor.

How many people can you fit on one tractor? Ten—and their equipment—is the impossible answer.

We ride down a narrow valley trail that a 4x4 would not navigate, then around the granite domes of Três Picos. Not fast, not elegant, but warmer and drier with each slow bumpy mile. Eventually we stiffly walk the last few yards to the hot showers.

By 7 p.m. we're on the beach in Rio, discussing Maria Alice's plans for the next leg of her expedition.

We should already be at the new site, near the town of Araras, about 250 miles (400 kilometers) away. Maria Alice will need a day to regroup, check the equipment, buy food, and most important, find another helicopter pilot.

I will now miss Araras, for I must leave on Friday night. In any case, my body demands I spend tomorrow soaking in a hot bath and drying my gear.

Thursday, December 11, 2003

Two day later there's so much excitement in Maria Alice's apartment as we pack the food and organize and check the equipment. In an instant, they're off, and I'm alone.

I wash my gear, write my notes, check my e-mail, and enjoy a beer on the beach. After dinner I listen to the BBC World Service.

I'm not expecting a phone call, but Maria Alice has excellent reception from high on the ridge at Araras—exactly where the team should be, exactly where I should be. "Wish you were!"

Friday, December 12, 2003

This morning, the phone rings again. "We have gray-winged cotingas calling all around us," Maria Alice tells me. You really should be here!"

Yes, I think, I really should be.

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Stuart Pimm is Doris Duke Chair of Conservation Ecology at the Nicholas School of the Environment and Earth Sciences at Duke University in North Carolina. He is also Extraordinary Professor in the Conservation Ecology Research Unit, University of Pretoria, South Africa, and a member of the National Geographic Society's Committee for Research and Exploration.

For pictures, a map, and more on Brazil's Atlantic forest, see "The Rain Forest in Rio's Backyard," from the new issue of National Geographic.

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