An Expedition into the Brazilian Amazon that Almost Ended in Disaster

Summer 1999: My goal was to venture as deep into the unknown as I possibly could. I believed that such an expedition might bring me the clarity I needed in choosing a future career path—something I badly needed after just graduating from college. I wanted to find a place truly off the map, somewhere wild and untouched.

At the time of my research, I had no reports, travel blogs, or internet information to guide me. All I had was a restless imagination, ignited by The Lost World by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The book tells the story of an explorer’s fictitious journey to a hidden land deep in the Amazon, so isolated that dinosaurs had managed to survive. After reading it, I discovered that Doyle’s inspiration came from a real place—where mysterious, flat-topped mountains, known as tepuis, rise thousands of feet above the dense jungles of northern Brazil and southern Venezuela.

Determined to find such a place for myself, I went to the local library and found an Almanac of Geography. Flipping to the Amazon Rainforest section, I focused on the largest unbroken stretch of forest in northwestern Brazil. One name stood out: Pico da Neblina Reserve—the home of Brazil’s highest mountain.

This was a land of remote jungles, prowling jaguars, and indigenous tribes with little to no contact with the outside world. It was also a land of bandits and narco-traffickers. I knew this journey would demand every ounce of strength and courage I had.

This was where I wanted to go, and I had set my mind to it. Now, the real challenge was figuring out how to get there.

Location of Pico Du Neblina

I knew that an expedition of this scale would require both time and money. I had plenty of the first but none of the second. To fund the journey, I took on as many night shifts at the grocery store as I could after graduation, saving every dollar with the Amazon in mind. I also recruited a friend to join me on the expedition—someone equally eager for adventure and willing to plunge into the unknown.

After scouring newspaper articles and conducting endless research, I discovered that Pico da Neblina was in a region controlled by FUNAI, Brazil’s Indigenous protection agency, which strictly regulates access to the reserve. Gaining permission to enter would not be easy.

Determined to make it happen, I set off for Brazil ahead of my friend to try and make the necessary arrangements for the expedition. But beyond logistics, I also wanted to take in the country itself—after all, this was my first trip to South America, and Brazil is an incredible place.

In Maceió, I visited the FUNAI office to inquire about permits for the Pico da Neblina Reserve. The response was immediate and discouraging. I was told that permission had to be requested months in advance and, even then, was rarely granted. On top of that, they made it clear that entering the reserve without authorization would result in arrest.

At that moment, I realized that trying to navigate the bureaucracy from a desk in the city was futile. The best course of action was to head straight into the Amazon and figure things out on the ground.

Before setting off on the Amazon expedition, I spent time with Brazilian friends in Rio, Maceió, Recife, and Fortaleza. They graciously hosted me in their beachside homes and went out of their way to show me a great time. My days were spent jogging along the beach, teaching English classes, and immersing myself in the vibrant energy of Brazil.

One of the highlights was attending Carnival in Fortaleza—a whirlwind of music, dancing, and nonstop celebrations. I was already having the time of my life, but when my friends from the U.S. joined me, the adventure became even more unforgettable.

At our Brazilian friend’s beach house near Recife

To reach Pico da Neblina, our first step was to travel to the biggest city in the Amazon region. This meant taking a grueling 20-hour bus ride from Recife to Belém, the gateway to the Amazon River. From there, we would board a river ferry and travel upstream for an entire week to reach Manaus. Once in Manaus, we would figure out our next move.

Belém is a sprawling city at the mouth of the Amazon River, where the Atlantic Ocean meets the world’s largest river by volume. So much freshwater flows into the sea that, even over 100 miles offshore, you can still drink freshwater straight from the ocean’s surface. The river carries vast amounts of sediment, slowing as it spreads across the delta and creating some of the world’s largest freshwater islands.

After spending a few days in Belém, we made our way to the river harbor, searching for a public ferry heading up the Amazon toward Manaus.

Sleeping on a hammock on the boat

The boat port was chaotic, hot, and thick with pollution. After asking around, we found an old, rickety boat with a three-level deck that, we were told, would take us to Manaus. As the largest city in the Amazon, Manaus is accessible only by boat or plane, making it the perfect launching pad for our journey to Pico da Neblina.

The trip upriver took a full week. Our boat, powered by a massive, smoking diesel engine, puttered along at a slow, steady pace. During the day, we did our best to escape the brutal heat, seeking shade and passing the time with endless games of cards. But no amount of distraction could fully prepare us for the oppressive heat and humidity, made even worse by the fact that we were crammed together like sardines with dozens of other passengers.

Meals were simple—twice a day, we were served feijoada, a basic combination of rice and beans, occasionally accompanied by a chicken leg. The highlight of each day was sipping a warm Coke on the top deck, watching the sun sink below the endless green horizon.

The Amazon was immense. At times, the river was so wide that the opposite bank disappeared from view, leaving nothing but water and sky. Occasionally, pink river dolphins—boto—would appear, gliding effortlessly through the boat’s wake.

At night, the sleeping deck transformed into a sea of hammocks, packed so tightly that people swung both above and below me, with barely any space in between. The air was thick with humidity, the steady rocking of the boat punctuated by a deafening chorus of snores.

Crowded conditions 

Typical river village

Passengers carried all sorts of exotic cargo—live turtles, colorful parrots—either for food or to sell at market. The boat stopped at random river towns along the way, where the air buzzed with the sound of lively Brazilian dance music blasting from nearby bars. These stops were brief but offered glimpses into the isolated river communities that thrived along the Amazon’s banks.

Our boat pressed on both day and night, its massive diesel engine rumbling steadily as we drifted deeper into the jungle. After dark, a watchman stood at the front of the deck, sweeping a powerful spotlight across the water, scanning for floating logs and other hazards that could spell disaster for the slow-moving vessel.

Halfway to Manaus, our boat broke down, leaving us stranded on the river while we waited for a replacement. After what felt like an eternity, another boat finally arrived, and we continued our journey upstream.

When we finally reached Manaus, it felt like stepping into a forgotten city. At the time, Manaus was a rundown, impoverished backwater with few foreign tourists. Despite its gritty appearance, we welcomed the chance to escape the suffocating heat. We indulged in the luxury of air conditioning, spent time at a shopping mall eating ice cream, and even caught a few movies—simple comforts that felt like paradise after a week on the river.

While exploring the city and its jungle outskirts, we kept searching for leads on how to reach Pico da Neblina. A travel agency we visited offered no real help—they wanted an exorbitant amount of money but lacked any concrete information about the reserve. The FUNAI office was equally unhelpful, reiterating that we needed permits and warning that the approval process would be long and complicated.

Frustrated but undeterred, we decided that the only way forward was to keep moving closer to our goal. We remained hopeful that, somehow, things would fall into place.

Looking for caimans at night

Outside of Manaus, on the Amazon River at night, we joined a local boatman on a nighttime excursion into the dark, murky waters. As we drifted along the river, he methodically swept his flashlight across the surface, searching for the telltale red reflection of caiman eyes glowing in the darkness.

The stillness of the night was interrupted only by the rhythmic hum of insects and the occasional splash of something unseen moving beneath the water. Then, suddenly, he spotted one. Without hesitation, the boatman leapt into the river, vanishing into the blackness. Moments later, he emerged, wrestling a thrashing caiman out of the water with his bare hands. The rawness of the moment—the sheer skill and fearlessness of the boatman—was something I would never forget.

Me holding a small jacare

One night, outside of Manaus, we crossed the Amazon River and ventured into a swamp, searching for caiman—or as they’re called in Brazil, jacaré. The boatman had shown us how to spot them by shining a flashlight across the water, looking for the eerie red glow of their eyes. Fueled by adrenaline and a bit of overconfidence, I decided to try grabbing one myself.

I reached down and caught hold of a small jacaré, but before I could get a good grip, it twisted violently, wiggling loose—and fell straight into my crotch.

Panic hit me instantly. The little reptile thrashed and squirmed, its sharp teeth snapping dangerously close. In sheer terror, I reacted the only way I knew how—I hurled it away from me. Unfortunately, I didn’t think about where I was throwing it.

The jacaré flew straight at my friend, who let out a scream and nearly toppled off the boat trying to dodge it. The boatman, unfazed, just laughed as he calmly retrieved the jacaré from the floor of the boat. I, on the other hand, took a deep breath and decided I’d leave the caiman-wrangling to the professionals.

One night, while hanging out at a bar in downtown Manaus, we met a charismatic Brazilian man who introduced himself as Bad Wolff. He had a larger-than-life personality and spoke with the kind of confidence that made it hard to tell whether he was brilliant, insane, or just a compulsive liar.

When we explained our plan to visit Pico da Neblina, he immediately claimed to be a guide and offered to take us there. Everything about him screamed red flags. His stories were riddled with holes, and he seemed completely full of crap. First, he claimed to have been born in the U.S., conveniently in the same city where my friend Tim and I had gone to college—Duluth, Minnesota. But when we pressed him for details, he conveniently forgot everything about Duluth.

Despite not believing a single word that came out of his mouth, we decided to hire him. Maybe it was because we were young, naïve, and inexperienced. Or maybe it was because he made us laugh, and we liked him. Whatever the reason, we had no other leads, and at that moment, Bad Wolff was our only hope.

He didn’t ask for much money, which was good because we didn’t have much to give. He also claimed to have a Yanomami friend who would join us—someone who knew the land and could serve as our eyes and ears in the jungle.

It was a gamble, and we knew it. But in the wild unknown of the Amazon, sometimes you have to take a leap of faith.

Badwolf holding a turtle on the Rio Negro boat

Our first real test of trust with Bad Wolff came when he asked us for a $70 deposit to secure some “personal provisions” for the trip. We figured that $70 wouldn’t kill us. If he turned out to be a scam artist and disappeared with the money, then at least we’d have our answer—and in a way, we’d be better off, since we wouldn’t be blindly following a thief into the depths of the Amazon.

We decided to take the risk. To be honest, I didn’t think we’d ever see him again. But to my surprise, the next morning, Bad Wolff showed up at our hotel—grinning, confident, and, oddly enough, sporting a brand-new hairstyle.

It turned out that part of the “personal provisions” he needed for the Amazon involved getting a perm and a fresh hair dye job. He seemed incredibly proud of it, though we weren’t sure if a jungle expedition warranted a makeover.

More importantly, he wasn’t alone. Standing next to him was Legislao, his Yanomami friend, the man he had promised would be our guide into the heart of the rainforest.

With our unlikely team now assembled, we made our way to the boat docks in search of a public ferry to take us up the Rio Negro to our next destination—São Gabriel da Cachoeira, the last major outpost before the true wilderness began.

Our Group Traveling on the Ferry up the Rio Negro, from left-me, Bad Wolff, Tim and our Yanomami guide-Lesgislao

To reach the Pico da Neblina Reserve, our next step was to travel another week by boat up the Rio Negro to the remote Amazon outpost of São Gabriel da Cachoeira. Once there, we planned to make arrangements for the final leg of our journey, relying on the help of our Yanomami guide Legislao’s family and friends.

Unlike the Amazon River, the Rio Negro was an inky black, almost eerie in its stillness. We noticed an absence of the pink river dolphins we had occasionally seen before. The water was known to be more acidic, which made it less hospitable to aquatic life compared to the Amazon.

As we pushed deeper into the rainforest, civilization faded. The villages grew fewer and farther between, and in their place, we saw vast, unbroken tracts of untouched jungle stretching endlessly along the riverbanks. The further we traveled, the more it felt like we were truly leaving the modern world behind.

São Gabriel, a small village nestled along the Rio Negro, sat in a stunningly beautiful region. Jagged hills jutted out of the dense jungle, their dark silhouettes rising above the treetops. Along the riverbanks, stretches of white sand beaches contrasted sharply with the black waters of the Rio Negro, creating a surreal and almost otherworldly landscape.

Upon arriving in São Gabriel, we stayed in a small, ramshackle cabin belonging to some of Legislao’s relatives. The hospitality we received was immediate and generous. On our first night, the family prepared a feast of freshly caught river fish, accompanied by a cold two-liter bottle of Coke—a rare and welcomed treat in the depths of the Amazon.

As we finalized our preparations for the journey ahead, Legislao’s nephew agreed to join us on the expedition. He would serve as an extra hand, helping to carry supplies—including the all-important sack of rice that would sustain us deep into the rainforest. With our team now complete, we were one step closer to the unknown.

Dusty little town of Sao Gabriel

Map of route taken in reserve

Me holding someone’s pet parrot

The Vehicle we took into the reserve

Rough roads

In São Gabriel, we checked in with the Pico da Neblina Reserve HQ—a surprisingly informal setup. Despite its modest appearance, the office proved invaluable. They had a vehicle and a boat available for hire, but more importantly, we finally had access to real, concrete information about the reserve. After weeks of uncertainty and guesswork, it felt like we were making real progress. Even better, the cost for transportation was reasonable and didn’t strain our already tight budget.

With our plan in place, we stocked up on rice, beans, and other essential provisions to sustain us during our time in the reserve. After a few days in São Gabriel, we set off into the jungle.

The journey began with a long, bone-rattling ride down a rugged 4WD track, plunging us deeper into the rainforest. After several hours, we arrived at a hidden boat with an outboard motor, tucked away in the dense foliage. One thing I had come to learn in the Amazon was that motors were worth their weight in gold. To protect them from theft, owners would often conceal their boats deep in the jungle, making them as difficult to find as possible.

Leaving our vehicle and driver behind, we boarded the boat and traveled up a small tributary of the Rio Negro, heading deeper into the reserve and closer to Pico da Neblina. With each passing mile, civilization faded behind us.

At this point, we were completely on our own. We believed we were self-sufficient, fully stocked with food and fuel, and led by experienced guides who could navigate the area with ease.

We would soon learn just how severely mistaken we were.

Traveling down river

At first, luck was on our side. The weather was perfect, our motor ran smoothly, and we made steady progress deeper into the reserve. As we traveled upriver, we passed through untouched stretches of primary rainforest, spotting monkeys in the treetops and occasionally a Yanomami fisherman casting his net into the water. But for the most part, we were alone in the wilderness, moving further from any sign of civilization.

Eventually, we arrived at a small outpost where a FUNAI representative lived. He was a frail, toothless old man, officially tasked with Indigenous tribal protection in the region. We needed to check in with him before continuing our journey.

He informed us that visiting Indigenous communities required official FUNAI permission, which we did not have and would not be granted. However, when we explained that our only goal was to climb Pico da Neblina and that we had no intention of entering any Indigenous villages, he seemed to accept our plan.

We camped outside his wooden shack for a few nights, waiting for approval to continue. During our stay, we were taken aback by his unsettling behavior. He proudly shared his vast collection of decaying porn magazines stashed beneath some loose floor boards and he made some disturbing comments, boasting about his experiences stealing the virginity of young Yanomami girls. The contradiction was staggering—this was the man in charge of protecting Indigenous communities, yet he showed no regard for their well-being.

It was a disturbing insight into the unchecked power dynamics in such a remote region. With no oversight, people like him operated without accountability. The encounter left us deeply uneasy, but we had no choice but to press on.

Me at the FUNAI station

We spent a few days with the FUNAI representative, enduring the brutal equatorial heat. By midday, the air felt suffocating, thick with humidity that clung to our skin. The only relief was the river, where we tried to stay submerged as long as possible.

But even the water had its dangers. We knew better than to stray too far from the shore, fully aware of the unseen threats lurking beneath the dark, mysterious surface. Crocodiles, piranhas, and venomous stingrays were enough to keep us cautious, but the most unsettling creature of all was the candiru—a tiny parasitic fish rumored to swim up a man’s urethra and become lodged inside. Whether myth or reality, the fear alone was enough to make us extra careful.

On land, a different set of hazards awaited. Venomous snakes slithered unseen through the undergrowth, scorpions and stinging insects lurked in the foliage, and the ever-present risk of mosquito-borne diseases—especially malaria—was a constant concern. Jaguars, though rarely seen, were also part of the jungle’s unseen dangers.

Everywhere we turned, the Amazon reminded us that we were just visitors in a world ruled by nature’s raw and untamed forces.

Me holding a capybera we traded for clothes with Yanomami indians

While staying near the outpost, Yanomami from nearby communities visited us to trade. We exchanged extra clothes for wild game—mainly capybara and stingray. The stingray was edible, but the capybara was unbearable. Its strong, gamey flavor and oily texture were exactly what I imagined a giant rodent would taste like. I barely swallowed a bite before vomiting it back up—some jungle foods were best left to the locals.

Freshwater stingray that we ate-with stinger removed

Traveling down river

Well-rested and ready to push forward, we ventured deeper into the reserve. The landscape began to change as towering tepuis appeared on the horizon, and for the first time, we caught a glimpse of Pico da Neblina. We had now left all villages behind, surrounded only by endless rainforest.

Wildlife became more abundant. Monkeys were everywhere, and at one point, while resting near the shore, a curious capuchin monkey stopped just a few feet away, staring at us motionlessly. I scrambled for my disposable camera, but it failed to capture anything worthwhile.

As we followed the narrow, winding rivers deeper into the reserve, the waterways began branching off in different directions. A nagging worry crept in—I suspected our guides were lost. They insisted otherwise, but as darkness fell, they finally admitted the truth.

Looking at our map, we weren’t even sure if we were still in Brazil—it was entirely possible we had crossed into Venezuela. Just as uncertainty was setting in, we spotted a thin plume of smoke rising from the jungle. Following it, we found a Yanomami hunting party camped along the riverbank for the night.

With no better option, our guides decided to approach them and ask for permission to camp alongside them.

Hunting party camp roasting monkeys

Yanomami Camp

Yanomami with Giant Black Piranha

The Yanomami hunting party was visibly stunned when a group of foreign gringos pulled up to their camp. They were seated in hammocks strung between trees in a small clearing, gathered around a makeshift barbecue made of branches. Grilling over the fire were half a dozen monkeys. Our Yanomami guides explained that the monkeys were not for eating—they were being offered to their ancestors.

Despite their initial surprise, the Yanomami welcomed us. Communication was a slow process—our Yanomami guides translated to Bad Wolff in Portuguese, and he, in turn, translated to us in English. After some discussion, they agreed to let us camp with them for the night.

Within minutes of our arrival, they asked if we had anything to trade. The chief of the hunting party greeted us and eagerly examined our belongings. I quickly learned that it was considered rude to come empty-handed, but fortunately, we had brought extra clothes for situations like this.

Tim had a pair of bright pink water shoes he had picked up in Santarém. The chief immediately took a liking to them and offered to trade a jungle chicken in exchange. We agreed, and he proudly strutted around camp wearing his flashy new footwear. The sight of a Yanomami hunter in a loincloth and neon pink water shoes was surreal.

That evening, the crisp smell of burnt monkey lingered in the air as we sat among the hunters. Some wore traditional loincloths, while others had on dirty, tattered Western clothing. Their tonal language was unlike anything I had ever heard.

One of the Yanomami invited us to go fishing for giant black piranhas. As he baited his hook, he showed us his hand, which was missing several fingers—casualties, he explained, to the razor-sharp teeth of piranhas. We managed to catch several, which we cooked alongside our bush chicken for dinner.

The night felt like something out of another world—trading for food with an Indigenous hunting party, eating by firelight, surrounded by the deep, endless jungle.

Chief presenting us a bush chicken for the pink water shoes

Tim presenting the pink water shoes to the chief

That night, we cooked piranha over an open fire and ate alongside the Yanomami. They mostly spoke among themselves, paying little attention to us, their conversation flowing in a tonal language we couldn’t begin to understand. We sat in silence, absorbing the surreal atmosphere of the jungle around us.

Midway through the meal, Tim nearly choked on a piranha bone lodged in his throat, hacking and coughing until he finally managed to swallow it down. It was a reminder of how unfamiliar and unforgiving even the simplest things could be out here.

We stayed close to camp, never venturing far—the jungle was too thick, too dense, and too easy to get lost in.

Tim in his hammock

We were as far from civilization as we could possibly get—this was, without a doubt, the most remote place I had ever been. That night, the chief invited us to a party in his village, explaining that it was a few days’ walk through the jungle. The idea intrigued us, but our focus was locked on climbing Pico da Neblina. We didn’t have enough food, money, or time to do both, so we graciously declined.

I don’t think the chief ever fully understood why we wanted to climb a mountain for fun. Our guides also seemed hesitant about the invitation. Legislao, in particular, expressed concern. He warned that once we left our boat behind and ventured into the interior, we would be completely at the mercy of the hunting party. He even mentioned that some Yanomami still practiced cannibalism, though mostly in inter-tribal warfare. Whether this was just exaggeration or not, we were in a place where anything seemed possible.

That night, I was jolted awake by a loud thud. Disoriented, I looked around and saw Tim lying on the ground, groaning in pain. His hammock had come undone, sending him crashing three to four feet onto the hard earth, hitting his head in the process. He let out a pained scream, and within moments, the entire Yanomami camp was awake. But instead of concern, the incident sent them into fits of laughter.

Still dazed and embarrassed, Tim angrily muttered profanities under his breath. Though the Yanomami didn’t understand his words, our guide warned us that some in the group didn’t like his tone and no longer wanted us there. A few even began talking about taking our belongings. The atmosphere had shifted, and tension crept in. Fortunately, the chief—still gloating over his prized pink water shoes—stepped in on our behalf, calming the situation before things escalated.

It was still dark, and there was nowhere for us to go. Apologizing seemed the safest option, so we did what we could to smooth things over. The rest of the night passed uneventfully, but we knew we had overstayed our welcome. At first light, we quickly packed up, skipped breakfast, and slipped away, pushing off down the river with barely a word of goodbye. A few members of the hunting party were awake, and an unpleasant exchange took place between our guides and some of the men. I could see the tension in our Yanomami guides’ faces—something had gone very wrong.

Once we were safely away, Legislao finally admitted what had happened. He told us we were lucky to escape and that some in the party had seriously considered harming us and stealing our possessions. Worse still, he confessed that a few had even joked about cooking us alongside the monkeys.

It was a chilling realization. We had been one bad decision away from a nightmare.

Thankfully, our motor decided to cooperate, and our guides now claimed to have a better sense of where we were. They assured us that by nightfall, we would reach the trailhead.

The heat was relentless. The sun’s rays blasted down on us, and though the temptation to strip down was strong, we kept our long-sleeve shirts on—for protection not just from the sun but from bees and other stinging insects.

At one point, our progress was halted by a fallen tree blocking the river. We pulled up alongside it, and as our guides began hacking it apart with an axe, I suddenly felt sharp stinging pains shoot through my body. Within seconds, I realized what was happening—the tree was infested with army ants, and now they were swarming our boat.

Panic set in as the tiny, relentless creatures bit into our skin. Tim and I wasted no time—we leaped into the river, desperate to wash them off. The water, usually filled with threats, suddenly felt like the safer option.

The mountains

Pico du Neblina

By late afternoon, we arrived at an unremarkable stretch of riverbank, where our guide proclaimed, “This is the trailhead.” There were no signs, no markers—just dense jungle pressing up against the water’s edge. This would be our campsite for the night.

We pulled ashore, and Tim joined the guides in taking the boat further upstream to hide it in the bush—a necessary precaution to prevent theft. The rest of us stayed behind, setting up camp and preparing for the night.

About 30 minutes later, Tim returned, his face pale and shaken. He struggled to find the words before finally blurting out what had happened. As he stepped off the boat, he had nearly placed his foot on a jararaca—one of the most venomous snakes in Brazil. In a place this remote, a single bite would have meant certain death.

The snake struck at him, but in a split second, Legislao reacted—grabbing Tim and yanking him back into the boat just in time. The close call had rattled him, and for the first time, the full weight of where we were and what we were up against truly set in.

Cooking Armadillo

In the morning, we began our long hike toward Pico da Neblina. Supposedly, we were following a trail, but there was little evidence of one. The jungle swallowed any obvious path, and what we did follow seemed to branch off in random directions, dissolving into the undergrowth. We had no choice but to trust our guides and push forward.

After a few hours, we stumbled upon a makeshift camp filled with garimpeiros—illegal gold miners. Some of them were barbecuing jungle animals over an open fire, and we stopped briefly to share a meal. Once again, armadillo was on the menu.

The Amazon, and particularly this reserve, was rich in gold, attracting desperate prospectors who operated in hidden camps like this, panning and mining illegally along the rivers. Their presence had put them in direct conflict with Indigenous tribes, whose lands were being invaded, overhunted, and poisoned by mercury runoff. This had fueled a cycle of violence—tit-for-tat killings were common in these lawless frontiers, where disputes over land and resources often ended in bloodshed.

Out here, murder could happen with complete impunity. Even if someone was caught, who would enforce the law? The deeper we traveled, the more we realized that in this part of the Amazon, there were no rules—only survival.

Our camp

For the next few days, we hiked deeper into the jungle, gradually gaining elevation. Each of us carried our own food and supplies in heavy backpacks, and the relentless heat and humidity made every step exhausting. We were constantly drenched in sweat, and despite our best efforts to cover up at night, we remained covered in itchy bug bites.

We didn’t cross any more camps—there were no signs of other people. The jungle surrounded us in every direction, and without any clearings in the canopy, everything looked the same. Occasionally, we’d reach a stream where we could filter drinking water, but the sediment was so thick that our filters clogged quickly, making the process exhausting.

Legislao, who claimed to have been to the area before—though I wasn’t sure if I believed him—told us we would reach Pico da Neblina in a few days. He warned that we would soon face non-stop rain, something we had surprisingly avoided so far.

He also spoke of dangers ahead. One stretch of jungle, he claimed, was so infested with venomous snakes that we’d encounter one every few feet. Another area, he warned, was home to a hostile pygmy tribe known to attack outsiders with poison darts.

Rather than scare me, these stories only fueled my excitement. But I also knew that, like so many things in the Amazon, there was a good chance they were exaggerated. Or at least, I hoped they were.

Tim in front of a massive tree

Rabid Monkey attack

We occasionally heard monkeys chattering high in the canopy, but they were elusive, rarely revealing themselves. That was until one decided to attack our guide’s nephew.

Rounding a bend in the trail, I was stunned to see what looked like a rabid monkey latched onto Legislao’s nephew, aggressively trying to bite him. The small creature had wrapped itself around his arm, clawing and snapping its teeth while he struggled to shake it off.

For a moment, chaos erupted as he desperately tried to pry the crazed animal away. Eventually, he managed to land a solid whack on its head, sending it scurrying back up into the trees. We stood there in shock, watching as it disappeared into the jungle, still screeching furiously.

It was a bizarre and unexpected encounter—a reminder that in the Amazon, danger didn’t always come from the things you expected.

Teeth and fur

Our food supply was running dangerously low, and it became clear that we wouldn’t have enough rice and beans to make it to the top of Pico da Neblina and back. Our guides assured us that we could find more camps along the way to trade for food or that we could hunt, but I had little faith in either option.

Water became another growing concern. We hiked long stretches without finding any, leaving us severely dehydrated. At one point, our guide cut open vines with his machete, allowing us to drink the small trickle of liquid inside—just enough to keep us going.

Despite everything, we stubbornly pressed forward, even as a growing sense of dread set in. Tim and I both knew we were pushing our luck, and even Bad Wolff, who had talked a big game, was now pleading with us to turn around. But we weren’t ready to admit defeat just yet.

That moment came when Tim suddenly started vomiting. Whether it was food poisoning, dehydration, or heat exhaustion, we didn’t know, but he was in bad shape. We stopped on the trail, convening to discuss our options. The decision was clear—it was time to turn back. The mountain wasn’t worth dying over.

Regretfully, we never made it to Pico da Neblina. Worse still, we had no idea how close we had gotten, as the thick canopy had blocked our view the entire way. Defeated but alive, we turned around and began retracing our path back toward the boat.

Bad Wolff feeling defeated

Cooking fish at camp

Every night, we tied our hammocks and mosquito nets between nearby trees, sleeping suspended above the damp jungle floor. We didn’t carry tents, just a simple rain tarp in case of downpours. Sleeping in a hammock was surprisingly comfortable, allowing for a cooling breeze at night—but it also left us more exposed to whatever prowled the jungle after dark.

One night, while camping in an especially remote section of towering forest, I woke suddenly to the sound of something large moving through our camp. The fire we had used for cooking had long since burned out, leaving the jungle in total darkness. I strained my eyes but saw nothing—only blackness all around.

The sound continued. Slow, deliberate rustling, the unmistakable noise of something heavy shifting through the undergrowth. It was too large to be a monkey. My heart pounded as I lay motionless in my hammock, listening. The unseen presence lingered for a while before eventually fading into the night.

In the morning, we found fresh tracks in the dirt surrounding our camp—jaguar tracks. Our guide studied them closely, then confidently proclaimed that they belonged to a black panther, which he ominously described as a man-killer.

Whether it was truly a black panther or just a jaguar, the realization hit hard—we had been stalked in the night. And had it chosen to attack, we would have never seen it coming.

Torn shirt we found

Gold miner camp

The next morning, as we made our way back toward the garimpeiro camp we had passed days earlier, we spotted something unusual along the trail—a torn shirt lying near fresh jaguar tracks. At the time, we didn’t think much of it, assuming it was just discarded clothing left behind by someone passing through.

But when we arrived at the camp, we were met with panic. A frantic garimpeiro told us that one of their companions had been killed the night before by a black panther. He described the attack in chilling detail—there was almost nothing left of the man, just a severed limb.

A heavy silence fell over us as we processed what he was saying. Then, a disturbing realization hit us: the shredded shirt we had seen on the trail might have belonged to the victim. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

It was a brutal reminder of the unforgiving reality of the jungle. We had spent the night being watched by the very predator that had taken a life just miles away.

When we finally reached the river, I felt a wave of relief wash over me—our boat and motor were still there, untouched. It seemed like, despite everything, we might actually make it out of this place and live to see another day.

We set off downriver as dark thunderclouds loomed overhead, and for the first time on our journey, rain began to fall. The downpour was relentless, soaking us within minutes. But just as quickly as it began, our motor sputtered and died.

We had run out of fuel.

It was almost laughable at this point—first food, then navigation, and now fuel. It seemed we had failed logistically on every level. With no choice but to wait, we huddled under a tarp as the rain pelted us, soaking everything. The jungle around us grew dark.

Then, something remarkable happened. When the rain finally stopped, and the moon broke through the clouds, the river and forest transformed. The jungle came alive in a way I had never seen before. The sounds were deafening—frogs, insects, and unseen creatures filled the air with an overwhelming chorus. Fireflies flickered between the trees, their tiny green lights reflecting off the wet leaves, creating an almost surreal glow.

Despite being wet and freezing, I sat in awe of my surroundings, captivated by the magic of the moment. Then, a deep, guttural sound echoed from the riverbank. At first, I couldn’t place it, but Legislao turned to me and calmly explained—it was a jaguar calling out in the night.

We floated silently down the river, carried by the current, drifting in total darkness except for the moonlit jungle around us. Hours passed this way until, at last, we caught sight of the FUNAI station—the place we had stayed when we first entered the reserve.

Exhausted beyond words, we steered the boat toward shore, stumbling onto the rocky riverbank. Without hesitation, we collapsed onto the ground, completely drained, but overwhelmingly grateful to have made it back.

Collapsed in exhaustion after arriving to the FUNAI station

We spent a few days recovering at the FUNAI station, regaining our strength and restocking our supplies. With food in our bellies and a safe place to rest, the exhaustion from our failed expedition to Pico da Neblina began to fade.

During our stay, some of the Yanomami we had previously traded with invited us to visit their village. However, when we brought it up to the FUNAI station chief, he immediately shut it down, telling us we didn’t have permission. He explained that visiting a Yanomami village required an official permit from Brasília—something we clearly didn’t have.

Thinking quickly, I decided to try a different approach. I told the chief that we were anthropologists interested in studying the Yanomami for research purposes. His demeanor instantly changed. “Well, why didn’t you say so before?” he said. “Anthropologists are allowed to visit, but not tourists.”

I was fairly certain he was making up the rules as he went, but I wasn’t about to argue. If this was our ticket in, we were taking it.

Before long, we set off in our boat, the FUNAI chief joining us, heading toward a nearby Yanomami village.

Yanomami Tribe

Me with some tribal members

Me and the chief

As soon as we arrived, the entire village came out to greet us. Their faces were painted in intricate designs, and while most of the women were topless, many also wore pieces of Western clothing—a mix of tradition and outside influence.

I quickly realized that, beyond curiosity, we were being sized up for our trading potential. The Yanomami chief, who stood barely half my height, welcomed us as we laid out the items we had brought as gifts. But before anything could be exchanged, the village shaman stepped forward to inspect each item.

He was the last line of spiritual defense, ensuring that nothing we offered carried bad energy. One by one, he held each object, murmuring prayers and consulting unseen forces. If the spirits deemed an item to be evil, it was rejected. Almost everything we brought was accepted—except for a pair of sunglasses and a shirt I had donated. Without explanation, these were handed back to us. The spirits had spoken.

In return, the village presented us with stunning handwoven baskets and intricate beaded necklaces. One necklace, shaped like a parrot, was especially beautiful. The trade felt fair—not just an exchange of goods, but an exchange of goodwill and respect between two vastly different worlds.

Tim and I with the chief and his wives

Tribal lady

Us posing with the tribe

Tim and I leaving the tribe with our new presents

We eventually made it back to São Gabriel, once again staying with Legislao’s family. While we were relieved to be out of the jungle, our return came with one last disappointment—someone, likely Bad Wolff, stole $100 of our remaining funds along with one of our disposable cameras, which held half of our trip’s photos. We never confirmed who was responsible, but in the end, it didn’t matter. We were just happy to be alive.

From São Gabriel, we boarded the week-long public ferry back to Manaus, retracing our long journey down the Rio Negro. From there, we caught a flight to Recife, where we spent a final few days with our Brazilian friends before returning home to the U.S.

In total, we had spent just over a month in the Amazon. While we hadn’t reached the summit of Pico da Neblina, the experience had been far greater than the climb itself. We had ventured into one of the wildest places on Earth with almost no money, survived incredible challenges, and lived through an adventure that we would never forget.