jotted down notes from their trip and added it to my growing notebook on Morde’s adventure. When Amy saw my notes lying around the house, she sometimes asked where all this was going. At first I didn’t know and I told her so. “Only sniffing around,” I said. But soon I started to believe that I was onto something bigger than myself, bigger than anything I had undertaken before, and eventually, despite all the reasons to say no, despite all the trappings of the good life I lived, I just kept wondering—what if? What if I really managed to retrace Morde’s journey? What if I traveled to Honduras? What would I discover? Did I have the guts to actually try?
“YOU WANT TO do what?” Amy asked the night I told her my plan.
We were having a drink at the dining room table of our Brooklyn apartment one early-winter night in 2008, while Sky was asleep in the back. It was mostly quiet, except for the occasional car that groaned past on the street below and the footfalls of our neighbors overhead.
“I want to find the White City,” I said. “Ciudad Blanca!”
She laughed, swallowed a sip of red wine, and, though she’d heard many of my phone conversations with people about the city, searched my face for a sign that I might be joking.
“I’m serious,” I said.
“Yeah, I bet the others who went out there were serious too,” she said. “How many did you say?”
“I don’t know the exact number.”
She took a strand of her blond hair and began to twirl it, winding it around an index finger and then letting it go.
“Your hair,” I said.
“I can’t help it.” She let the strand drop. “You don’t even know how to camp!” she said.
True: I’m not a backpacker or a trekker or even much of a hiker. I have a bad back. I have lived in New York City for more than fifteen years, so the idea of going to the rain forest might as well have meant heading off to Mars.
“I’m more qualified for this kind of trip,” she said before reminding me that she had gone on Outward Bound as a teenager in the High Sierra.
“You were like sixteen,” I said weakly.
“Yeah, but I spent twenty-six days in the mountains. And three of those days I was completely alone!”
“Still—” I said, but she cut me off.
“How many days have you spent camping?” she asked.
The answer was probably twice—and I’d hated it both times.
We sat there in silence for some time.
“What about your explorer?” she asked finally.
“Morde?”
“What happened to him?”
“He’s dead,” I said.
She nodded, as if to underline my obvious lunacy.
“But he didn’t die in the jungle,” I said.
“That’s comforting!”
We laughed uneasily together at that, poured out the last of the wine, and listened as a siren rang out on the street below.
“I feel old,” I said as the noise died down.
“Is that what this is about?”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“I’d just like to do this.”
“When?”
“Soon, I guess.”
“You don’t have a plan, do you?” Her green eyes widened. She couldn’t believe it. “You’ve lost your mind. You have.”
I told her that there was still a lot to do.
“You and the man-eating, what, jaguars?” she said after some time. “I can just see it.”
“They don’t eat people,” I said. “Jaguars don’t.”
“Sure they don’t. Wait until they see you!”
The Mountain That Cries
A RCHAEOLOGISTS SAY THE rain forest is one of the worst environments to dig for human remains. Left to the sodden air, a body is stripped to the bone within eighteen days. The downpours and the resulting streams work away at the crumpled skeleton, breaking it apart piece by piece. The water erodes the bones and ferries them away. Animals take what they want. In a matter of weeks, there is nothing left. The body vanishes.
This is to say that you must want something desperately to even think about venturing into the Mosquitia, 3,300 square miles of relentless
“YOU WANT TO do what?” Amy asked the night I told her my plan.
We were having a drink at the dining room table of our Brooklyn apartment one early-winter night in 2008, while Sky was asleep in the back. It was mostly quiet, except for the occasional car that groaned past on the street below and the footfalls of our neighbors overhead.
“I want to find the White City,” I said. “Ciudad Blanca!”
She laughed, swallowed a sip of red wine, and, though she’d heard many of my phone conversations with people about the city, searched my face for a sign that I might be joking.
“I’m serious,” I said.
“Yeah, I bet the others who went out there were serious too,” she said. “How many did you say?”
“I don’t know the exact number.”
She took a strand of her blond hair and began to twirl it, winding it around an index finger and then letting it go.
“Your hair,” I said.
“I can’t help it.” She let the strand drop. “You don’t even know how to camp!” she said.
True: I’m not a backpacker or a trekker or even much of a hiker. I have a bad back. I have lived in New York City for more than fifteen years, so the idea of going to the rain forest might as well have meant heading off to Mars.
“I’m more qualified for this kind of trip,” she said before reminding me that she had gone on Outward Bound as a teenager in the High Sierra.
“You were like sixteen,” I said weakly.
“Yeah, but I spent twenty-six days in the mountains. And three of those days I was completely alone!”
“Still—” I said, but she cut me off.
“How many days have you spent camping?” she asked.
The answer was probably twice—and I’d hated it both times.
We sat there in silence for some time.
“What about your explorer?” she asked finally.
“Morde?”
“What happened to him?”
“He’s dead,” I said.
She nodded, as if to underline my obvious lunacy.
“But he didn’t die in the jungle,” I said.
“That’s comforting!”
We laughed uneasily together at that, poured out the last of the wine, and listened as a siren rang out on the street below.
“I feel old,” I said as the noise died down.
“Is that what this is about?”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“I’d just like to do this.”
“When?”
“Soon, I guess.”
“You don’t have a plan, do you?” Her green eyes widened. She couldn’t believe it. “You’ve lost your mind. You have.”
I told her that there was still a lot to do.
“You and the man-eating, what, jaguars?” she said after some time. “I can just see it.”
“They don’t eat people,” I said. “Jaguars don’t.”
“Sure they don’t. Wait until they see you!”
The Mountain That Cries
A RCHAEOLOGISTS SAY THE rain forest is one of the worst environments to dig for human remains. Left to the sodden air, a body is stripped to the bone within eighteen days. The downpours and the resulting streams work away at the crumpled skeleton, breaking it apart piece by piece. The water erodes the bones and ferries them away. Animals take what they want. In a matter of weeks, there is nothing left. The body vanishes.
This is to say that you must want something desperately to even think about venturing into the Mosquitia, 3,300 square miles of relentless
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