"NOW THIS IS WHAT the Amazon rainforest is supposed to look like," said Skip, as they flew across the southwest corner of Para State, somewhere west of Highway 163, the only thread of civilization in a rich green fabric of unspoiled nature. Looking at the unbroken forest below, he felt at last like he was getting "into the wilds."

"How did Fawcett end up all the way over here," wondered Zane, "if they were supposed to be heading east? This is far to the northwest. It makes no sense."

"Hey, I'm just the pilot. Jack Fawcett's quipu is our navigator," Skip joked.

After the drive yesterday back to Cuiaba, they'd taken off this morning on a scouting trip, following a heading toward that second set of coordinates. For safety, and to extend their range, Skip had stopped in Sinop, about two hours into the flight, to top off fuel. Since then, their heading had taken them steadily away from Fawcett's proposed route.

"Yeah, I've been wondering about that too," he continued. "By now, we're out of the Xingu River system entirely. We're following the Rio Teles Pires and its tributaries. What could have happened to make him change course so drastically?"

"Maybe he was kidnapped by hostile Indians."

Both Skip and Nusiri shot Zane disapproving looks.

"Indigenous," said Skip, a fraction of a second before Nusiri could. "And don't forget, you are half Shuar yourself. Be proud of your roots." He looked over to Nusiri. "I'm sorry. We should have come down more often, so he would have a better appreciation of where his heritage lies."

"It's okay. I'm glad he's growing up American. And I'm also glad that you were willing to move down to Ecuador with me. As it is, we have had the best of both worlds."

"But, getting back to Percy Fawcett, he was known to treat the native peoples he met with respect, and had a reputation for getting along with them. He was familiar with the Kayapo, whose territory he was entering. That's an Indigenous Preserve now. Same for the Menkragnoti. There was a reference to a tribe called the Morcegos, who were to be feared, but outside of Brian Fawcett's book, I couldn't find out much about them."

"Morcego is Portuguese for bat," said Nusiri. "It was probably a nickname. The Bat People. Our own people, the Shuar, that's not what we called ourselves. We were Untsuri Suara, Many People." She looked out the window to the wilderness below. "Most of these tribes, they just want to be left alone."

Skip scanned the view ahead. Narrow rivers snaked between thickly forested low hills. In the distance, rocky ridges rose above the surrounding terrain. "I think we're over the Munduruku Indigenous Territory now," he said.

A few minutes later, Zane announced, "We're here. According to the compass and my GPS, we should be right on top of Fawcett's coordinates."

"Nothing out there but more of the same. Nothing to see but jungle."

"If Fawcett had found ruins of a lost city or something, couldn't it be hidden under the jungle growth? We could come back with ground-penetrating radar or LIDAR and find it."

"Those things only work if you have access to them and know where to aim them. We'd probably need a trained archeologist on board. But I'll fly a bit lower and slower and circle around for a couple of passes. Another thing. Sometimes there are things out there that even modern technology doesn't show."

Skip did a slow, inward spiral, coming down another thousand feet over the course of two complete circles. He was halfway through the third, and about to call it a wild goose chase, when Nusiri called out.

"Down there, by the river. It looks like a few houses tucked into the trees, between those round hills."

As Skip brought them around, Zane snapped a few pictures with his camera, using the zoom to note what detail he could from this altitude. "Looks like they're built of stone, with thatched roofs. No people, at least not that I can see."

"If the thatching is still intact, they can't be that old." He remembered what Nusiri had said earlier about disturbing native peoples. With a strange aircraft flying overhead, they were probably all in hiding, if they were there at all. Still, if there was a village anywhere near those coordinates, they needed to check it out.

"Just might be what we're looking for. Then again, maybe not. Only one way to tell. That's why we're here, after all. We'll head back to Cuiaba, pack up and come back. We need to get on the ground. If we can find a reasonable landing site, that is. We can't just parachute in."

"Too bad Lucille isn't equipped with floats. We could just land on the river."

"I'll take that modification under advisement when we get home," said Skip with a wry smile. Truth was, he'd thought about buying a set of floats for years, but had never gotten around to it.

Miles of twisting, turning river, hemmed in by thousands of acres of solid forest. Skip was actually considering asking around the airport at Cuiaba if anyone had floats that would fit a 1933 Ford Trimotor. So far-fetched as to be out of the question, he decided, though back home an internet search might turn up something, given enough time and logistics and cash. Not to mention the installation.

"How about a dirt landing strip?" asked Zane in an offhand manner.

"That would be great. You wouldn't happen to have one handy, would you?"

"Matter of fact, yes," he said, pointing out the passenger window to the narrow scar sliced across the forest.

Skip banked that way and came in low and slow.

"But who would build a landing strip way out here?" Zane asked. "Drug smugglers?"

"Worse," said Skip, now noticing the rough crater gouged out of the rainforest, the muddy ponds of stagnant rain water, and the ugly color of the little stream that ran through. "Illegal gold mining operation." He shook his head in disgust as he brought the plane down as low as he could, and throttled down to just above stall speed. "Looks like they're long gone and moved on. And, as bad as this looks, it's something we can use."

As Zane snapped a few good aerial pictures, Skip took note of the location and heading, not only so they could find it again on tomorrow's return trip, but so that they might report the illegal activity to the proper authorities. Though, given the political situation of the country, he knew how that would likely turn out. He made one more low pass, then turned for their base back at Cuiaba.

∆ ∆ ∆

Most everything they needed for an excursion into the jungle was already aboard the plane, so the only things they really needed to do in Cuiaba were to gather their overnight bags and check out of the hotel in the morning. Previously, Skip had removed all but four of the original twelve passenger seats, leaving plenty of room for cargo. He had also taken down the narrow partitions between the cockpit and cabin, so that Nusiri or Zane, or whoever was in the first passenger seats, wouldn't feel separated from the rest of the family.

During the first leg of the nearly five-hour flight, to their refuel stop in Sinop, that had been Nusiri, as in their younger days. But on the stretch into the wilds, Skip wanted Zane up front, to observe the backwoods dirt strip landing.

"Come in low and slow, but watch the trees. Not too low. See how I'm lined up, this far out?" Skip checked ahead and out the side windows, both outwards and below, making sure to clear any tall trees. Something caught his eye. "Whoa. What's that? Somebody came up short at one time. There's a wreck down there, in the trees on my side. We should check it out later."

Skip continued his approach. "Flaps. Throttle back. Ease it down more. What wants to be a runway but didn't quite qualify is coming up. We've got plenty of distance, though. It was built to haul equipment for their clandestine mining operation. Okay, here we go. The terrain isn't going to be as smooth as it looks. And...we're down."

As Lucille touched down, she kicked up a cloud of golden-brown dust, bounded over small rocks, and slithered through a couple of mud puddles.

"Now is when we appreciate those big bush tires."

Skip wrestled the plane for control. Finally, he came to a halt, just past the midpoint of the landing strip. He spun the craft around and taxied back to the end, turning it around again, so that they would have the full length of the runway, facing into the wind, when the time came for takeoff.

It didn't take long to unload the plane and get ready for an expedition into the jungle. Before leaving home, they had prepacked their backpacks with clothes and supplies including trail foods and MRE meals, a well-stocked first aid kit, machetes, a folding camp shovel, and solar chargers for their phones, camera, and Zane's handheld GPS.

Because the river nearby would take them where they needed to go, they were able to make use of the ten-foot Newport inflatable dinghy they had brought, along with an old four-horse Evinrude outboard motor that had been in the family for years. To save fuel, it would be used on upstream runs only, and only to assist if the current was too strong to paddle against. Skip figured it would take two days if they left today and got a few miles downstream before setting up camp.

After assembling and inflating the wood-floored raft using the plane's power to run the air pump, the last such electricity they might have for awhile, they carried everything down to the river, following the foul effluent stream issuing from the mining pits that marred the landscape. Skip was glad they were walking away from that devastation. They set up to launch several yards downstream, where the water was not so dirty.

There was one thing left to do before departing. Skip and Zane made their way past the landing strip, into the trees where Skip had spotted the crashed plane. Nusiri said she would rather stay with the raft, arranging packs and equipment.

"Piper Cherokee," observed Skip. "Low wing. That's probably how they misjudged the trees. Hard to see directly below." Looking up, he could see where the plane had clipped the forest canopy, snapping one wing in half and flipping the craft upside down.

"I'll take this as a lesson," said Zane, with a sobering look on his face.

"Sometimes it's good to get shaken up. Keeps you on your toes. You can never be too careful."

Fortunately, there were no bodies or other remains to be found. What that meant, they could only guess.

"Somehow, I don't think they were involved with the illegal mining," said Skip, noting the empty infant seat still strapped in the back. He nosed around and held up a bible whose pages were already beginning to succumb to the jungle environment. "Might have been missionaries, headed for Jacareacanga, the nearest town with an airport. Might have run low on fuel or had some other emergency, tried to put down here, and couldn't make the landing."

He gave a last look around and slipped the bible into his pocket. "Let's head back to the boat. Your mom probably has it all organized and ready to go."

Minutes later, as ready as could be, they cast off into the river and paddled into the wilds.