NAVIGATE THE JUNGLE

NAVIGATE THE JUNGLE
a newly minted trip leader takes on tropical mud, bugs, and rainstorms.

I Stood With My toes at  the  EDGE of my Grandmother’s grave. My younger brother, Bentley, 27, turned to me, solemn in his funeral suit, and said, STOOD “Grand mommy traveled. I want to go overseas like she did.”

My grandmother had been all over the world, and I’d followed in her footsteps. Bentley, though, had never come along, instead opting to explore stateside.

Now he wanted me to take him somewhere tropical, where we could do our exploring by trail. We settled on Tayrona National Park on the coast of Colombia. It’s a far cry from the Chicago high-rise my brother calls home and the Caribbean coast’s dense jungle offered plenty of hiking.
It would be my first time leading a trip. I was nervous, but I’d backpacked in plenty of places and listened to my grandmother’s hard-earned travel advice on plenty more— I figured it couldn’t be tougher than any other trip I’d done.

So when Bentley, my boyfriend John, and I landed in Santa Marta, we immediately hailed a taxi for Tayrona. For our first few days, I’d planned a rolling, 5-mile out-and-back to a beach campground—a gentle introduction to the terrain.

Equipped with a GPS and a map from a local ranger, we hit the trail, chatty with the adrenaline of being somewhere new. Around us, the jungle’s babble was deafening. Insects buzzed, howler monkeys leapt between branches over our heads, and caimans slithered under the bridges we crossed.

It was like being in the rumbling belly of a living thing. As we plunged deeper into the forest, the trail split, and both options led through thick mud. We peered at the map, but it was too pixelated to be much use. GPS? Satellite reception petered out beneath the dense foliage. Worried the group might start to question my preparedness, I quickly made a decision and charged toward the wider trail— and dropped knee-deep into the brownie-batter sludge.

I tried to pull free, but it sucked me back in with a loud slurp and I lost my balance, face-planting in the muck. The boys choked back laughter. I tried to join in but could only make a show of it. Was this even the right route? How were we going to move 3 more miles in this mess?

I eventually extracted myself, noting how fortunate I was to have missed the horse droppings I now saw just inches from my face. Then I remembered: According to my research, there was both a horse trail and a hiking trail.

I sighed and led the group back toward the split. What I was sure would be one footpath turned into a mud choked network of them. The dense jungle walls leaned toward us, reaching out with ten drilled vines and branches.

It all looked the same, and the sameness was dizzying. Without landmarks or any useful navigation tools (I hadn’t packed a compass, thinking the GPS would be sufficient), I really had no clue which way to go. I pressed forward anyway (I was the leader), and after a while, one sound cut through the jungle’s chatter: the ocean. I grinned with relief, and announced that we could keep the sea to our right and reach our beachside camp, no problem.

But as we walked, following one trail after another, the heat grew more and more oppressive, and the mud sucked at our boots. When we noticed
local hikers going barefoot, we followed their lead (unfortunately, our Spanish was too poor to ask them for directions).

We were moving faster, but the jungle found other ways to grab at our feet.
We tiptoed over thorny vines, the tails off leering snakes, and ants with gargantuan mandibles. A wound in this environment could easily lead to infection. But I decided staying on schedule without shoes was better than risking a night out here.
Even our shoeless pace—a ha lfmile per hour—was half as fast as we’d
planned. John and I settled into a weary trudge. And by our sixth hour of hiking, even Bentley, who’d spent the rest of the trip cracking jokes, grew quiet.

Looking at my barefoot, ragtag group, I felt like a failure. I’d read that this was the dry season, but never considered that when a place gets 49 inches of annual rainfall, “dry” is a relative term. Now we were exhausted, and I still had no idea how far we were from camp.

Then, just as the sun started to hang low, the jungle opened, and our beachfront campsite appeared in front of us.
Hooting with joy, we ran toward the campground’s leaky pavilion to hang our hammocks as thunder broke across the sky and raindrops pelted the sand.

The next morning, we woke to clear skies and a symphony of birdsong. We spent the morning exploring the coast before packing up to head back to the trailhead. I still felt blindfolded by the dense foliage, but now knew to follow the sounds of the sea.
I thought about how my grandmother would have handled this place and smiled—wherever she was, I was sure she’d been laughing at us the whole time. She’d have figured out immediately what took me a whole day: In a tropical jungle like this one, what you hear is just as important as what you see. Still, the next time navigating by noise is the only option, someone else can lead.

Source: BACKPACKER

By Meg Atteberry