At 12,000 feet, southbound out of Quito, Skip finally felt at home. He sat comfortably in Lucille's pilot seat, hands resting on the big wooden control wheel that was the same one Ford had used as a steering wheel on the Model T. As could be expected, the first impression of Lucille at the Quito airport drew apprehension on the part of a few clients, notably Mr. Jaffee, the psychiatrist, and Ms. Barrett, the teacher. The antique Tin Goose, sheathed in corrugated aluminum, squatted on the tarmac like a giant silver mosquito. The retired Frank Callahan, though, had been a pilot himself in Korea, and had had the pleasure of flying a classic Tri-Motor, an ancient plane even then, in his training days. He could attest to its airworthiness. The classic plane made Josh Miles, of course, feel even more like Indiana Jones than he already did.

Quito had been a good icebreaker for the group, exploring both the colonial Old Town, Quito's historic district, which was a World Heritage site, and the modern "new town," whose heart was Mariscal Sucre, a colorful blend of upscale shops, trendy cafes and loud bars. The district was also known as "gringo land," but it appealed to the local Quiteños as well.

Now Skip guided Lucille and her passengers between the Cordillera Occidental and the Cordillera Oriental, the twin backbones of the northern Andes, a world of fire and ice, with snow-capped volcanoes passing by like welcoming friends: Volcans Cotopay, Illiniza and Tungurahua. After an hour, he crossed the eastern cordillera over Rio Verde Falls, and then resumed his southern course with peaks El Altar and Sangay off his right wing. Below and to the left was Jivaro country, beginning at the rapids below the Shuar's sacred waterfalls, and ending where those swift waters gave way to placid, meandering rivers, winding their way to the great Amazon.

Macas had a good airport on the west edge of town, but Skip wasn't going quite that far. After a too-quick but thoroughly enjoyable two-hour hop from Quito, he lined himself up for the rough dirt landing strip that Adventureland leased from Petro-Ecuador, a narrow slice cut out of the jungle, on the banks of the Rio Upano. Mount Sangay could be seen brooding above the afternoon haze, a sentinel guarding the jungle at its feet and the secrets contained within.

A corrugated storage shed held the supplies and equipment Skip had cached, as well as their two outboard canoes. "The boats are tribal-built," explained Skip, "by the Cofan, north of here. They use a traditional dugout for a mold, to fashion these fiberglass replicas. Saves on trees."

With clients, guides and gear stowed aboard the low-slung, lightweight but stable craft, they headed up the Rio Upano, and an hour later, turned up a narrow, still tributary, where the canopy closed in overhead, creating a grotto-like, leafy tunnel.

Josh Miles was the only one to voice a complaint about the oppressive heat and humidity. "I'm from Florida, but that's nothing compared to this," he said, mopping his brow with the back of his hand. He had been sweating profusely since stepping off the plane. Everyone else, though perspiring and as hot as he, were taking it all in stride.

"Don't forget," said Skip, "we're practically sitting on the equator. There's two seasons here, hot and wet, and hotter and almost as wet. Be glad we're not down in the lowlands."

Twenty minutes later, though, the banks had opened again and a refreshing breeze blew down from the Andes. Around a bend they could see a large, thatched structure at the crest of a low rise. "We're home," announced Skip.

The twenty-four by fifty-foot thatched shelter was laid out like a traditional Jivaro hea: oval in shape, with seven-foot-high palm stave walls leading to a fifteen-foot high thatched roof. It had no windows; light and air instead came from the inch-wide gaps between the staves, which in the old days also provided a way to see and shoot marauding enemies. Dirt floors—"I told you this was traditional, not some fancy eco-tourist wilderness lodge with European chefs and hot tubs"—and a doorway at each end of the house. One modern concession was kerosene lanterns, which replaced the old copal torches.

As the guests unpacked, Dave cooked up a local meal of manioc, tortillas and roasted plaintains, while Skip disappeared up the river. He returned an hour later, holding the hand of a petite young woman with light brown skin and dark eyes. Her black hair was cut with straight bangs framing her round face and wide, flat nose, and fell across her shoulders and midway down her back. She was wearing a pampayma, the native dress of wild cotton, wrapped around one shoulder. Skip dropped her hand as he approached Adventureland's hut, but not before catching the mildly amused look of Lillian Barrett, the school teacher.

"I want you to meet Nusiri," said Skip. "She's our native liaison here. It's her father's household we'll be visiting tomorrow. She's fluent in the Shuar, Achuar and Huambisa dialects of Jivaro, she speaks passable Quecha and Spanish and what she claims is a 'bit of English,' but as you'll see, she's getting quite good at it."

He led her into the hut and they all sat on stools and benches, Nusiri sharing a bench with Skip, sitting quite close. Together, they told her background story: how young Jivaro, like most native peoples these days, were influenced by the ever-growing volume of non-natives coming into the jungle: missionaries, foresters, oil workers and the recent influx of tourists. Most tribes were slowly becoming acculturated, their young often opting for a modern life in the frontier towns rather than the traditional jungle ways. Nusiri and the young man she'd married had been such forward-looking Jivaros. After they were married, Pinchu moved them out of the jungle to Macas, the capital of Morona-Santiago Province. Pinchu found work as a construction laborer and Nusiri began to learn Spanish and English. They'd been there less than a year when tragedy struck. Pinchu lost his footing while carrying a heavy load of roofing tiles on his shoulders and fell from the scaffolding, thirty feet to his death. Nusiri, who had never been happy in town, promptly returned to her father's home in the familiar jungle. She's met Skip three years ago when he was scouting for touring possibilities in Ecuador's Oriente. To her, he represented a bit of both worlds, the modern one she'd tried and found interesting but not to her taste, and the wild one she knew so well.

After a brief introductory visit, Skip ferried her back home. He didn't return until late.