Once Lost, Always Lost?

 

Part 30 of 31

They Found Another Body

Rivers really are great things, no matter how toxic they appear to those who come in contact with them in the course of being dumped by criminals, or those unlucky enough -- alcohol? -- to find themselves thrashing and dying apart from crime. It's a bitter thing that what was set before us as a great blessing — rivers, the channeling of water, water accumulated, a good home for fish, turtles, frogs, etc. — is so often a heartbreaker for people.

Naturally it didn’t have to be that way. Humanity could’ve found better ways of dealing with the river, going for safety and security. Huge fences. Guards posted every hundred yards, etc. Personally, I'm a big believer in the buddy system, which makes us responsible for one another. There's a big difference between that and going it alone. If you're bobbing and about to go down, at least there would be a witness.

But we as a species had a choice and blew it. The good news, the silver lining, being this: You can always do it differently starting whenever you like, now! We shouldn't be making the same old mistakes as if we haven’t learned a thing. Of course not everyone who goes to the river alone ends up dead. I actually like going to the river alone. Fishing, reading, whatever, and so far I’ve always come back alive. The real lesson might be as easy as be more like me.)

There are times though when bad things happen. You’re at the river and just happen to meet up with a murderer. He’s not doing anything so he murders you. And throws you in the river. I'm thankful that's never happened to me, knock on wood. Must not have happened to you either. We, apart from our brothers and sisters who’ve had bad luck, are the survivors. Could they have survived too? Yes, had they not been there, or had they been like me. Everything seems to come down to this: If you have no business being there, stay the hell away. Let your sad ending be a lesson for the future.

Now I live in the Big City. Back when I used to go to rivers I lived either in a small town or something other than the Big City. Which isn’t to say the Big City is crap. But there’s a lot more desperadoes in the Big City, each one looking to carve another notch on his belt in honor of you. He reasons it out like this, “I’m killing all the people I want and just hope my belts hold out." This is why I have not yet gone to the river in the Big City, and probably won't.

Let us turn now to our friend with the map, pointing his big stick to the rivers of the Big City — which is a very helpful map; I’ll take a photo of this with me next time I go to the river just in case I get turned around. This guy evidently has a nose for news, knowing about our various sons and daughters who’ve been lost in the river, and an interest in bringing them back. I think he deserves our thanks. Because whatever grief we're facing, it could've been worse without him happening along as he did.

Jones

 

Part 28 of 31

The Found Another Body

Let’s go back to where it started, with people getting sick and tired of it, fed up with bodies being found in the river. Then it so happened that a guy whose actual name was Jones was a victim. Whether it was by foul play or his own personal date with destiny or the Angel of Death, Jones’ body was found in the river.

One thing seems certain: Jones never had an enemy in his life, unless we’re talking about the normal scuffles and fights we get into in school when we’re very young. In this case they did go back and talk to all his playground enemies and most of them could barely remember him and the ones who could remember him had watertight alibis. "I live in the other hemisphere of the world" was one of the best alibis, but maybe a little too convenient, but they let him go since he's lived there since 1959.

Closer to home, friends and relatives said Jones was generally a happy man. Being average in every way, how could he not be? He had the standard wife, the standard 2.4 children, a house with a roof, a job that was good enough, cars, trucks, TVs, etc., basically everything you need to make life a decent thing to behold, and something you’re glad to get up everyday to face again. Most of us wake up hoping our life will be as good as it was yesterday or better. And whereas sometimes we wake up and it isn’t as good or better, we keep going. Jones’ story was like that, but according to the reports he hadn't seen a negative thing in years, not even ordinary potholes in the road. We've had hail and his shingles are fine.

There was literally no reason Jones shouldn’t be with us still. Could it have been a fishing accident? He didn’t fish. Did he owe someone money? No more so than the usual guy whose credit is impeccable. You pay your bills and it’s not fun, but if it’s too much you cut something, one of the streaming services, the grandkids’ ballet lessons, your wife’s towel budget. Think of the cuts we could all be making. I watched a movie on one of my streaming services that I didn’t enjoy. If that’s the kind of movies they’re putting out these days, bare bosoms and hanky-panky, to heck with it!

Well, how ever it happened, it happened. Jones was found in the river. No apparent foul play, the water wasn’t any higher that day than anywhere else and it’d been a dry summer. And we covered his childhood acquaintances; they all live in another hemisphere, another state, or are above suspicion.

Again, there isn’t a single legitimate reason for Jones to be dead in the river. And that’s why the outpouring of sentiment has been 100% in his favor. The crowds are having fits, they're outraged as well they should be. And something’s got to be done, short of diverting the river, because we need the water. The mayor threw up his hands. The police shrugged their shoulders, saying, “Don’t blame us!” No, no one’s blaming anyone. We just have to be more vigilant. And keep our eyes wide open. Because if someone throwing our citizens in the river for no reason, we consider it our business to find out why. And once we’ve found out why, we’ll put a stop to it. And do what it takes to bring justice to Jones.

Think about it, fellow citizen, if it was Jones this time, next time it could be any one of us. Perhaps even you.

So Many Disgusting Hands

Part 16 of 31

They Found Another Body

We know deaths come in more stripes than drownings. Drownings (or being brutally murdered and tossed in the river where someone ultimately notices you) are just the theme of the month. Because it’s what we’re forever hearing on the news, “They found another body in the river today.” It’s literally never, “We found another accident victim on the interstate," because those are always obviously there, never needing to be found.

Have I ever gone to the river looking for bodies? Yes, I have. But only halfheartedly because I'm the world's worst pessimist. Not that I want to find anyone, but I figure I'm as good as anyone, why shouldn't I be Johnny on the spot when someone floats by? Then there's the quandary, What would I do then? By the time I go for help and return, it'll be way downstream and I'll look like a liar. Or, duh, I could use my phone. But under that kind of pressure, I'd be a basket case, potentially. "Uh, is this the sheriff's office? You're not going to believe this, I hardly believe it myself..." "Get to it," they interrupt, "State your business." I'm like, Wow, I wasn't expecting rudeness, and hang up and refuse to answer it when they call back.

Before everyone had phones I used to live in a town with a river just outside of town, and went there whenever I could. Thing is I never found anyone there either. But we used to go there once in a while when the water was high and throw bottles with notes in it in. Never heard back from anyone either, so my life hasn't exactly been charmed. That'd be another way to call the sheriff. If you throw someone in the river, there's no statute of limitations. And even it the note takes 50 years to reach them, the sheriff could still show up. But in 50 years I'll easily be dead, and they, stumbling along, could find my skeleton washed up in a beaver hole. No one I knew before.

In short, we never found a body.

Here, though, since I’ve pretty much become the spokesman for the dead washing up in rivers, keeping track of them and encouraging them to come forward, that’s what I’m known for now. I wasn’t so bold when I started this. And now this weird public mantle's been bestowed on me. I’m really not worthy. And when I say that, it’s not false modesty. Not only do I not deserve this, I’m pretty sure I don’t want it. I just want to write my corny articles and find my way back to obscurity.

And yet it’s come to this. Everyone who’s ever lost anyone, presumably now they have a real glimmer of hope, however small, that someone, anyone, I, might help bring their loved ones home. So they’re writing, calling, stopping me on the street, the police sometimes coming to pick me up, not because I’m in any trouble, but because an assembly is outside the station clamoring to hear from me. All because I wrote a few articles online. I hate it, yes, but you know, if they ever start bringing me pizzas, I might embrace it.

Still, germophobia betrays me. I don’t want to touch people. I don’t want people touching me. And yet they’re reaching out, like they really think I have a clue where their loved ones are buried or are floating. I don’t have any idea whatsoever! This is false hope! Which is better than no hope at all, although it’s that too. Still, I’m a living spokesman, so they keep reaching, one dirty hand, two dirty hands, three dirty hands, full of germs! Is there a beaver hole in the house? Asking for a friend.

But, really, that’s just what I need, one of these people reaching their dirty feet up here. Better not. Whoever reaches their dirty feet up here, I’ll purposely put your loved one’s name in the circular file and not look for him or her ever again! Even if I see them, I’ll let them float on by. All the way to Texas or Pakistan, wherever the river comes out first.

IF, One Of The Biggest Small Words

Part 11 of 31

They Found Another Body

I remember when we were kids they were always trying to teach us about words, then slip in life lessons in such a killer way that we’d never forget them. I don't know if you remember that. I’ve lectured about it in motels, mostly for focus groups that help struggling blog writers. Most of them had no clue what I was talking about. And yet I still finished the lecture.

It goes like this. The teacher writes on the board 10 words that are real jawbreakers. Big huge complicated bug-like words, lots of Ks and Js and Xs, like Polish, bigger, harder words than we've ever heard. I remember accommodation, wherewithal, purloined, recommended, xylophone, landfills, and stalactite. She said, “How ya like the looks of them jawbreakers, eh?” And everyone of us knew exactly what she was talking about: If I’m supposed to understand words like that and know how to spell them, let me out now, this is officially my last day of school...

But her educational wiles weren't quite over. It turned out what we thought was the main course — the bullseye of her strategy — was just the warm up act for something more challenging and devious. (A lot of kids dropped out that day, but my square parents wouldn’t allow me one little bit of personal freedom.) The teacher was just warming up for a mental jawbreaker to burden us with. “Well, listen to this, children, the biggest word in the English language (and this is possibly true for other language groups) is “IF.”

Oh! I remember having a cow when I heard that! It was like I was drowning in the river and couldn't catch my breath. I had a cow and I’m not even built with the female off-ramp. Despite that, I did give birth to a full grown cow, something from the magical powers of disbelief. We were in fact so beside ourselves, the fact that that schoolhouse and teacher weren’t burned to the ground or killed, respectively, were miracles as mighty as the feeding of the 5,000. And this was after lunch break.

The teacher's explanation was lame. “IF” is the longest word — her contention — because IF you have a plan, IF you have a purpose, IF you need to borrow $40 million to pay the taxes on a vacant mall site, your challenges have just begun. And so, thereby it is proven — by hook or crook — that IF is one of the biggest words...

Trying to keep bodies from popping up in the river requires a big IF too. IF you’re thrown into the river because you stiffed a guy on loans… IF you’re thrown in the river because they've shot you … that represents a failure along the way, a bad decision, or something. IF they simply took you because of a false identification, there’s a reason there too, but not as good. You shouldn’t have looked like everyone else. IF you’re that average, fluff up your hair, wear a turban, dress in purple, anything. Go nude jumping a rope. Do whatever you can to stay out of trouble (1), and (2) Make sure you have follow-through for your plans. Don’t end up in the river and you'll just wonder, What IF?


This goes for everyone, the guy from the Amazon River, Joe Average, Grizelda the Green Witch, and even the late Abraham Lincoln.

The Poor House

Part 10 of 31

They Found Another Body

You know how I said my plumber also gives me legal advice he learned in night school? Well, the same guy rounds out his careers by sharing financial planning with me. I turned to him some years back when I was very embarrassed and, frankly, depressed. Down to several potatoes manifesting strange spots and softness and needing dog food, everything was so bad I had to take on a paper route. I seriously thought I'd reached the end of my rope. But whereas most people at that point let go the rope, I hung on for dear life and was able to cinch it up, a loop here, a loop there, and pretty soon I had a makeshift chair as I hung. My plumber, Dick, was pleased, and ever since has witnessed my turnaround with other potential clients. "If this guy did it, anyone can!"

To this day, Dick frequently gets handsome rewards from my survival. But, Dick or no Dick, I’ve always had a sense about me that life is worth living even if I should briefly descend to the absolute pits. Fortunately, my definition of “absolute pits” has never been set in stone or I surely would’ve been gone by now. But instead I’ve learned a certain tolerance for complete despair, although, to be frank, despair's never complete, just as it's never enjoyable. Still, I can honestly say I’ve never yet gone a full year without food or shelter. So things could be worse.

And that’s why every now and then I give a little something extra to Dick for his financial advice. A lot of his advice is right in the middle of the target, common sense: You never want to spend your money so much that you can't climb out of the morass. And you don't want to leave money lying around as a target for thieves. Instead, go for the median, a kind of common sense middle, not too much, not too little. If you can keep your bills tamped down, not adding unnecessary things — the common sense definition of that being something you’ve lived without till now — you’ll have more money for later. And if you’ve been stupid in the past (on this point I haven't), you pay off the sharks who continually circle.

Dick has some points about sharks that are worthwhile. Don’t get involved with them in the first place! And if you ever have, try to get out as soon as you can. Get smart. Try a disguise. Disguises aren’t just for Halloween, but can be a way of life. Next, remember, every road leads somewhere. If you don’t tell anyone where you’re going and if you just disappear, always have the discipline never to leave clues where you are; that's to your advantage. It's something to consider carefully though. Because at the very least you still have to deal with the government, welfare, Social Security, etc., which leaves tracks. My solution to you, a strictly amateur bit of advice, is pray that fairies exist, because any time you can sock away three wishes with very few strings -- giving up your firstborn, etc. -- it's good insurance.

But, on the other hand, say you've really screwed up. You're cornered and there's no moves left. Even then you have one final possible residence. And that's the Poor House. Which in my experience stands for the last place on earth when there's nothing left. Your life is one of total embarrassment, but you still hope to live. (It might not actually be the last place; monasteries still exist.) But the problem with the Poor House is it’s only a label that “stands" for the last ditch place, it doesn't seem to be a physical place.

And, unfortunately, when people tell you where it is, and you’re optimistic you might find it, the directions seem to always route you somewhere near the river. Definitely time for professional help. Or a monastery. There might be a divine plan, giving you the chance to disappear into the loving arms of a monastery where you are so good they literally beatify you and you're St. Loser, the guy who gave up everything and lost the rest. You have nearly nothing and you're super happy, and now ... you inspire others, sometimes in a positive way, sometimes -- how regretful! -- negatively.

The Frog, No Idea

 Part 4 of 31

They Found Another Body

Here’s a case where they actually did find a body in the river. Whether it was floating, dang it, they didn't say. Sometimes they float and sometimes they don’t, so six of one, half dozen... If you had only your keys and 50 cents likely you'd still be bobbing. That's some good information to remember, your chances of survival are always better if you're broke. And if you can keep your head up, that helps, trying not to get blinded by the sun. Oh, hell, do it however you want, but you're better off staying in drydock. Try to think of the survivors and community. We want it wrapped up as soon as possible, live or die. And think of the community's grief; it's incidental, yes, but there's something there, even if you're just a lesson for others.

I’m very interested in the things of grief, whether personal or shared. You might've heard me brag about that a few times, that one of my hobbies is being something of a student of mankind, with a minor in grief management. Have you heard me say that? People ask me about it all the time. They see my poker face at solemn events. I stand there like a tree, my hair lightly tossed in the breeze. My eyes are farseeing, yet I appear silently consumed by the grief. They ask, "Have you learned anything new about life?" I usually say, “You have no idea.” Because that’s how it is. I’m moving through life in a never-ending pursuit of knowledge, of our joys, sorrows, wisdom, and follies. I’m understandably proud of the whole schtick. I love your insightful question.

Anyway, back to the guy, I don't think we had a name for him ... Frogman or just Exhibit B. What do you think, heaven or hell? For dogmatic reasons — I’m sort of the anti-dogmatist — I don’t come down on either one quickly. We must examine the totality of life, and whatever we decide, if it would cause more grief for the survivors, we must — if we are merciful — tell them the opposite. Keep it light, cheery, but not too cheery, you don't need to smile, just be there for them, comfort them, and give them peace, whatever you have to say. Then flip a coin, that's his destiny.

His life was already a hell, no doubt. From the looks of it, and I don’t have the files on this case I'd like, and I’m sure I'd cling to every nugget that presented itself, he had some contact with trouble. Examining the artwork, we discern Thug A, the guy at the door, was working on the guy for vengeance or a payoff. Our hero (B) was in trouble and knew it. But he wanted to survive. But the guy with the gun wanted his cut, wanted what he thought was coming to him. Or, check that, if operating on instructions from Mister Big, whose interests present certain hopeless demands, that put him in No Man's Land, headed for the water.

Let’s say he couldn’t pay back Mr. Big. Mr. Big has him offed through Thug A. Thug A drags the body of B to the river and tosses it in.

However it happened, Frogman aka B ends up in the river, and when they hauled his body in an actual frog was found in his pocket, very much alive! Proving without a doubt that every time something horrible happens, something good can and perhaps might come out of it, if the whole story gets a full hearing. Inspirational.

Our Bullets Will Chase You

Chapter 18 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Turning the Corner

Pitacunca (the Jivaro medicine man, whom they called Pete) led the way in his canoe, making giant strokes. Up de Graff reflected on Pete's size (massive), his strength (the embodiment of strength and deviltry), and considered his own security as a white man. He didn't believe he could trust them but didn't completely believe that his rifles would be enough to save himself and team. He calls the Jivaros cunning, knavish, and diabolical, with the courage of wild animals in battle but purely looking out for their own interests. I'm myself a nice guy to everyone, but I'd rather not have overnight guests.

In a few hours they were at the western mouth of the gorge, the Pongo Menseriche. They saw some monkeys and decided to take down some for food for the rest of the trip. They were after the howling monkey, called cotos. Those with shotguns were bested in the hunt by those with blow-guns. But they still ended up with around two dozen of them. Up de Graff himself got three, but his were more of a mess (shotgun spray) than those taken with a blow-gun. We used to get rabbits with a shotgun. And it's worth mentioning one of my own adventures, cleaning rabbits while wearing my mom's fur coat. It was a mess and she was mad.

It was Pete's advice not to try the passage of the Pongo that night, but to lash the canoes together, then they'd run the minimum of risk. After dark, then, they moved a ways upstream and pitched their camp on a sand-spit. The two white men kept watch, one at a time, spelling each other every couple hours. Their biggest fear was losing their allies, "who were liable to disappear if the fancy took them." But all slept soundly. And they heard the Pongo's mighty roar on the night air. That'd be great, white noise like thunder.

They were in the luck with the river the next day. It was just right for passing back up the gorge, the canoes strapped together and a log between them. Sweeping clear of the eastern mouth of the gorge, they came in full view of their camp and were greeted by their fellow explorers. Since Up de Graff and Game were a day late, the others had almost gone out looking for them (as planned). They were also glad to see the extra plantains. And Up de Graff himself appreciated the hot coffee and milk the others had. That might've been coconut milk though, probably was, we haven't see references to cows.

Pitacunca took one glance at the camp and the explorers and turned around. He and his people retreated 20 yards away, sat down, and started a dismal wailing chant in a minor key. They seemed distraught at the sight of so many white people as well as their kit. It seemed to Up de Graff that they would never stop "yowling." They continued for about a half hour, then settled themselves by the campfire.

Up de Graff needed to wait for the water to go down at the Pongo before leaving. So for safety sake he showed how accurate they were at shooting small game, as a warning to the natives, particularly the Huambizas. Get this: He said, If the Huambizas "really aroused our anger, even though they might be half a dozen miles up-stream and round three bends, we should sent our bullets off to chase them and them to sleep." But when the natives started getting restless, the explorers decided to get going, choosing to risk the river instead of the people. You see your chance, you take it. Better to get up a head of steam than lose your own head. Let's head out, folks, while we got a head to head out with!

So they set out, and waged eight hours' war against the seething waters.

Gelatinous Mass, Happy To See Me

 

Chapter 15 (2nd part) of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Pongo Menseriche

The explorers were on their way back to meet the rest of the team. The water was swift and they made good time. By Up de Graff's watch it was only an hour and a half to get there. They found all was well on Mitaya Isla. Their three fellow explorers had benefited by a good rest. I'll probably take a nap myself after finishing this. I woke up last night at midnight realizing that yesterday's (July 17) "Head Hunters" blog wasn't yet written! So I had to climb out of bed and suffer the slow waking up of my laptop to get it done. And in the middle of the night I don't know Pongo Menseriche from Peter Piper Picked a Peck. But through drowsy eyes and the current heatwave got the bastard done...

Up de Graff remembers the few days there chiefly by having lost his pants. (For the graphic I put pants on him, to stay on the right side of the Blue Laws of decency now or in the future.) He ran up against a tiger armed only with a half-barreled double-barreled shotgun. (It was originally a double-barreled shotgun but down to half barrel since the other one and a half had been blown off another time.) How he lost his pants was this: He was swimming the river with the half-barrel double-barreled gun, looking for turkeys which were settled in the trees. But the tiger was only 15 yards away. The tiger looked at him and slunk off. And his pants must've slunk off too.

Morse later found Up de Graff's "damned old pants" stuck in the mud, and filled them with turtle eggs, probably the less said about that the better. Could've been, "Is that turtle eggs in your pants or are you just happy to see me?" It'd be interesting in a slow dance with Sally Ann back at in high school. She feels the bulge, not hard, not even a consistent clump, but fairly gelatinous and diverse, but so as not to embarrass me thinks, "He's got a package all right, most likely jello and carrots, either that or nasty old turtle eggs..."

They continued on several trips as two parties during August 1899. About this time they started having some difficulties again with food. Up de Graff saw his hardtack barrel about empty. The last few biscuits had "whiskers" on them, which I think means mold, about two inches in length. Finally they all arrived, both parties, at Borja and were ready to attack the Pongo Menseriche. They erected a permanent camp on an acre of land. They planted Indian corn and yuca. There were no signs "as yet" of headhunters. If someone tells me the headhunters aren't here "yet," I'm concerned. I honestly don't think I'd look great with a detached shrunken head and fake beard a foot below my chin. But you know how it is, we're always our own worst critic.

Ed, Game, and Up de Graff explored the Pongo in the small canoe. Whirlpools and eddies were such that the craft was tossed like a feather, but it was spared destruction by its lightness. The main current of the Pongo initially is indistinguishable, looking like it's going upstream as well as downstream. There's a mighty gorge estimated about 1,000 feet high. Maneuvering corners is hard, with the currents in the center going strongly downstream. But currents on the sides go upstream by a backwash from the main stream's pressure against the ravine's walls. Then whirlpools. In such a kaleidoscope of motion, the lighter the craft, the easier the passage. I would've had to pee, which also would've passed easily.

Try Not To Wet Your Pants

Chapter 15 (1st part) of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Pongo Menseriche

The plan that July night in 1899 after leaving the stores cached in their new base opposite Borja (near the Pongo) was to go back to Mitaya Isla, where Ed and Pedro were with some of the stores. The explorers made great time, the current carrying them the whole distance in a mere hour and a half, easy after the previous three days' slog.

The satisfaction of merely glimpsing the Pongo Menseriche, the gorge, made them light-hearted, so they were definitely up for it. Even now I feel light-hearted about them arriving, and we're talking 1899 and it’s all ancient history! But you gotta love the ancients, the bizarre stuff they put themselves through -- hard knocks a'plenty -- sometimes they died, sometimes they got the girl, and sometimes they just let out a whoop and a holler and if everything fizzled out to nothing they went back to work.

Indeed, with these guys it was still terrific hard work traveling at night with a strong current going fast. There's places on the Marañon river where it's live boiling water, the wicked swirling of currents around rocks, and you're also watching for fallen trees. The roar of the waves is so great it's like a train, then peaceful and steady. A lot of it you have to judge by sound. Definitely not for newbies, greenhorns, or river virgins.

If you're ever going to do it -- say you and your buddies want to relive the adventures of this book to the extent that that's possible -- it'd definitely be to your advantage to patiently build your skills on rivers closer to home. And if you don't have any rivers suited for decent practice, please, at the very least put a boat on some logs and get some kids to pull on it with ropes for, whatever, 20 minutes. Then you'll be ready for the real thing.

Because, no joke, think how perilous this would be. It's not a simulator, not a video game, it's three things: you, the river, and life and death. You're steering a relatively fragile craft through the many perils of the place and there's no forgiveness, no do-overs, no "my bads"; everything has to be just right in one take. It’s not TV, it's real life...

Your fleshy meaty paws grip the meaty paddle, you flash signals between yourselves, maybe a goofy grin and crossing yourself. Two thumbs up means good, the look of consternation and hair standing on end means not so good. Then you come 'round a corner and find yourself on a snag in boiling water, what do you do? Again, possibly prayer, violent oaths, crossing yourself, re-situating your fleshy meaty paws with a meatier grip and hoping to goodness everyone knows the signals.

Then you're off again, thinking, "We're gonna make it!" when suddenly the canoe's spinning in circles at a 45 degree angle! Now you're thinking, "I'm gonna wet my pants one way or the other!" And don't forget the fact, those snags aren't just odd branches but entire trunks of hundred-foot trees. Which could lift the boat high in the air. Or snap it clean in half. I just mentioned wetting your pants, now you've lost all control... That's why you needed to make sure you took care of business earlier rather than later, because you never know, later might be too late, and later than that could bring, would bring an endless stream of tragic, painful, soul-crushing regrets.

Holy Hell, One Thing After Another

Chapter 7 (1st part) of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Hunger

When Up de Graff was at the deserted shack, abandoned by the Yumbos, he concluded that the people of the Amazon country are full of surprises, in this case the old disappearing trick. He told Jack, but all the complaining in the world wouldn't help them. They took action instead, packing and heading back to the canoe. By evening they'd arrived and weren't surprised to see the canoe gone. Come on, Yumbos, sometimes life calls for a little consideration!

They thought it over in the morning, the penalties there for stealing canoes, and found it wisely abandoned not too far downstream. Up de Graff considered this a period of suffering, with too much dependence on the Yumbos, and except for a stroke of fortune they might not have saved themselves. They headed back upstream in search of them. But they didn't make the same rapid progress as they'd made with them, although they learned bit by bit how to pick up speed. My brother taught me a lesson like this once on how to ice skate faster, "Run on your tippy tip toes!" Which is great till you crash and burn.

Suddenly they noticed a dead alligator, which meant something bigger was near. Jack called out, "Let's get out of here!" That's when they saw the biggest anaconda they'd ever imagined. The estimated length was between 50 and 60 feet. Up de Graff, in the stern and out of reach of the rifles, called to Jack to shoot. The noise of getting to his gun alarmed the snake, and as it twisted in the water and quickly vanished, the boat was nearly wrecked in the waves. Snakes like that, what can you say, they're too big for their britches. Like trying to put an 18-wheeler in the downtown parking garage.

One other night they'd tied the canoe to an overhanging branch. After supper they put their things back in it. It was close by as they slept, but something bad was about to happen. Up de Graff writes, "Hour after hour the water fell away, hour after hour the rope tightened. For a long time the stores must have resisted the gradually increasing pull of gravity as the canoe little by little approached the perpendicular, having long since reached the rope's limit." Then, early in the morning, everything they had except two machetes and some molasses slipped "in a fateful avalanche" into the water. No one likes "I told you so," but I would've insisted on fitting anything in the tent we couldn't afford to lose.

They were now 60 days up river from the nearest post without food or the means of getting it. Jack muttered, "Holy Hell." That's right, Holy Hell. I would've cussed a blue streak worse than that -- all the usual words -- for whatever good it might've done. It steels your resolve, I think. It brings your emotion to the fore and you feel your determination mount. That's the answer to any do-gooder who gets on your case for cussing.