Writings By Phil

Thoughts On This And That

Hypothermia In The Jungle!?!?

February 9, 1978

I crawled out of my jungle hammock early in the morning. It was just starting to get light. Before leaving on this excursion, I was given an old pair of boots which I endeavored to put on. There were no hooks for the laces, just holes. In the semi-darkness, with frayed lace ends compounding the problem, I had to rely on feeling more than sight to lace them up. I might as well had been blind!

We just had enough time to get our gear rolled up- dry, when it started to rain. It was just a sprinkle, but we had no place to shelter until it stopped, so we loaded the boat and cast off.

It was rainy season, and the river spilled out of its banks, filling low laying jungle, and climbed into the treetops. There were no rapids and it was sometimes hard to detect the current. To navigate upstream, we had to rely on bubbles and the slightest movement of water pulling at leaves to lead the way. Coveted strips of open water, where we could go fast, were broken up by tree branches sticking out of the brown spate. The tangle of small branches and vines sometimes blocked the whole river, like green walls, or snares, set to catch us, the brush impeded our progress.

Before taking my place in the boat, I put on my rain poncho, but took it off, for fear of it being torn to shreds, before the motorman gunned the outboard and crashed us through the first obstacle of the morning. Just as we made open water on the other side, the grey skies dumped a deluge of cold rain on us. It soaked us to the skin, and the forward movement of the boat created wind-chill that made it feel even colder.

I was in the front of the boat serving as navigator. My job was to point out the best way through the brush and watch for submerged limbs that could cause us to capsize if we were not careful. Most of the time I got it right, and found a way through, but there were times when we had no choice but to go straight ahead into a wall of brush and vines. Sometimes, we crashed through it. Sometimes we brought out the machetes and hacked our way through it.

In two hours time we arrived at the sawmill. It rained buckets the whole trip and the wind-chill had chased all warmth from my body. I stood at six feet, five inches tall, but weighed a messily 165 pounds, soaking wet! There was no insulation packed into my lanky frame and upon arrival, I was shaking and felt closer to hypothermia than I had ever felt in a Montana winter. We docked the boat at a steep muddy bank and tied it to a log. I scampered up the incline, not caring how much mud soiled my wet jeans or clung to my boots. I just wanted to get someplace dry! At the top, a thatched roofed shelter, built by the loggers, was a welcome sight. It would be our home for a couple days.

Two Bolivians were living in another shelter, close by. When the loggers left, these two stayed to keep on eye on some of the logging equipment that was left behind. They seemed glad to have company; they hadn’t seen anyone but themselves for weeks, probably since Alan Foster and other missionaries visited months before when planning the present expedition. They invited us over for a hot drink. I knew very few words in Spanish and had to rely on Alan to translate what was being said.

The men heated water in a makeshift kettle, an old tin can with a wire handle, over the smoky fire. I stood as close to the flame as I could without getting in the way and tried not to hog the enfeebled warmth. At least, its modest heat gave me hope that my epithet wouldn’t allude to that fact that this crazy gringo froze to death in the jungle! I wanted to stay there until my clothes were dry and my body quit shaking, maybe forever, but I knew as soon as I dried out and the sun displaced the clouds, I would, again, complain about the hot tropics.

When the water was hot, the man added Manzanilla tea and lots of sugar to the pot. When seeped, they poured it into a tin cup and handed it to me. The cup, like the water kettle, didn’t look too clean. In my mind, I questioned if it had ever been washed. I knew these men were offering us their best hospitality, and I certainly didn’t want to offend them. Besides, that liquid was hot and would warm up my insides, and at the moment, I needed that more than I needed a clean mug. The cup was hot, and I gingerly held it so it would not burn my fingers. I sipped it. Manzanilla tea was not my favorite, but being wet and cold, I didn’t care. It tasted good and warmed both my body and my disposition.

We thanked them and asked if they needed anything that could be brought up the next day when Paul Short and Matt Castagna would return. They wanted some yeast, coffee or tea, and alcohol. The latter was for giving shots, they said. I doubted that there was a syringe or vial of injectable medicine within 100 miles of the place. I had heard that the poor farmers and loggers would often resort to drinking rubbing alcohol if no other kind was available!

The Bolivians followed us back to our hut, through all the rain and slop, bringing an ax and shovel. Even though it was still raining, Paul and Matt left to go back down river. Our two new friends started to clear the weeds from our floor. Next they chopped us a supply of firewood. Then they sat around and talked for what seemed like hours. Being wet and cold, I wanted them leave so I could change into dry clothes. I’m afraid they were more neighborly than I. Maybe, if I understood Spanish and could have participated in the conversation my resentment would have been less!

When it finally stopped raining, I dug through my dirty cloths till I found a dry shirt, jeans, underwear and two pair dry socks. Yesterday morning they would have seemed too dirty to wear. Now, it didn’t seem to matter. In the rainy season, clean and dry could turn to wet and muddy quickly and without warning! I put on two pair of dirty, but dry socks, then stuffed my feet into wet boots. Que Dummy!*

A little later, I picked up my shotgun and went looking for a duck for supper. I thought I heard a whole bunch of ducks quacking, but they took off before I could seen them. To be honest, I was the great white hunter only in episodes of childhood reverie. Daniel Boone and Davy Crocket were two of my favorite frontiersmen. I grew up with guns in our home and enjoyed target practice, but reality was, the only living things I had ever killed with a firearm were gophers out on the Alberta prairie when I was in school there.

As I continued down the trail, I was startled by Alan coming the other way. I didn’t expect him to be there. In those unknown surroundings, my mind was more attuned to wild Indians, and jaguars, not to one of my coworkers! He saw I was spooked by his sudden appearance and cried out, “Don’t shoot!” I didn’t.

We walked together back towards camp. I heard more ducks quacking, but Alan told me that what I heard was not ducks, but blackbirds. I did wonder if “four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie” would taste good, but I didn’t waste a shotgun shell to find out!

Back at camp, sitting around with nothing to do was boring, so I walked down another road leading out of camp. Most of the way, the path was three to eight inches deep in water. I stomped through it against my better judgment, so once again, I had soppy socks.

We didn’t have a machete in camp and we really needed one. We started up river with three, but with the rain making them hard to hold on to as we hacked our way through the treetops, Paul let one slip into the dark mucky deep. About 10 minutes later, I let go of Alan’s, and it went to the same fate. Same thing happened to the last one!

I needed a piece of board around which to wrap fishing line. I found a cutoff board, left by the loggers, about eight inches long. I pulled out my brand new, shinny, Craftsman, lock-blade knife and proceeded to beat it through the board using a piece of tree branch for a hammer. I was splitting it with the grain, but the only thing I succeeded in breaking was the locking mechanism on the knife. Guess that piece of wood was too hard and too tight of grain, even for Sears Best! I was disappointed! I would have to wait months or more to see if Craftsman guarantees were any good. I hoped I wouldn’t loose it before I got back to the States.

The End

*Spanglish for, “What a dummy!”

This story was from the category Tales From Green Hell. If you would like to read more of my experiences in the jungles of Bolivia, please click on that link below.

More Writings by Phil

Phil Burns

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