There is No Beauty Without Terror

I’m in the middle of the Amazon jungle. The air is so thick and humid I can drink it. My hair has tripled in size, clothing stuck to my skin. The river looks crimson, the mineral-rich current swaying like a dancer.

Upon arrival, a man shows us a photo of a jaguar’s belly after he ate someone on the property. Our eyes widen, as we realize we perhaps bit off more than we could chew with this adventure.

I’m bathing in mosquito spray while my best friend talks to a yellow parrot on her shoulder. One of our guides bursts in and shouts, “Follow me! Girls there’s no time!” We chase him, as he runs faster than any mere mortal has the right to, and yell, “No time for what?” But he doesn’t answer.

In the meadow, there’s a cherry red helicopter waiting, the wind so harsh it blows my cheeks back from my face. I turn to my best friend and scream, “No! I’m terrified of heights!” But someone strong arms me, and I find myself stuffed into the helicopter, hovering off the ground before I can bolt.

My stomach is flipping. My palms are sweating. My ears are ringing.

We don’t know where the helicopter is taking us. We fly through a narrow pass, mountains hugging the chopper on either side, fog so thick I can’t see. Then gravity has its way with us. The pilot nose dives down a waterfall, 360 spinning round and round. A scream tears free from my throat while he chuckles through the headphones.

The clouds clear, the helicopter levels out, and I burst into tears at what we see. Hundreds of thick waterfalls tumble down jutting red and onyx rocks. The mountains look like a crystal cut open. Trees stubbornly grow on the cliffs. A ray of sun cuts through the clouds, and the river lights up in greeting.

Part of me thinks I died and commends my imagination for such a colorful afterlife.

“Welcome to Angel Falls,” The pilot says.

My heart cracks knowing a place of such raw beauty still exists—that the planet once looked like this. I press my forehead to the window. Jaguars, venomous snakes, spiders—there’s an endless list of what can kill me down below.

Synthetic beauty doesn’t require risk. It doesn’t ask for discomfort. It doesn’t demand friction.

But the cost of wild beauty is the courage to bear our terror. To give up control and learn to live in rhythm with nature rather than on top of her.

I feel embarrassed for how far I have come from understanding that rhythm but inspired knowing there is a way home.

The helicopter lands as the sun is setting. The rest of the group meets us, wind-swept hair and eyes glittering. “Come!” Our guide says before darting into the thick of the jungle. I swallow, looking at the setting sun. “I thought we weren’t supposed to be in the jungle at night?” We have no choice but to follow him, since we’re less likely to wind up in a jaguar’s belly if we’re in a group. We leap over rocks and squeeze between narrow tree trunks. I salute an emerald spider the size of my face.

There is a very questionable looking rope that hangs above the river. Our guide grasps it, monkey crawling across and says, “Don’t fall in! This is anaconda river!” The people are as wild as the land itself.

My friends and I all look at each other. Do we stay? Refuse to cross? There is no time to think. We chuck off our shoes. I climb onto the rope, crossing my ankles and shimmy across the river, refusing to look down as the rope bobs and twists with my body weight.

Rope after rope after rope. Three river crossings later, with calloused palms and a thundering heart, we make it to phantom falls. The last of the light pours through an opening at the cave ceiling. The rocks are so black they seem to absorb the light. It feels like a place untouched by humans, the kind that makes you want to whisper. I place my forehead to the smooth rock and silently pray.

Pray to reclaim the wild within, and to become a better steward of the wild without.

Our guide squints at the blackness sweeping the sky and says, “We must hurry.” He jumps and catches the rope, not looking back to see if we’re keeping pace. We’re huffing and puffing as we follow. Our clothes soaked through. Panic striking us. It’s dark. We can’t see what’s in the water or lurking in the treetops.

We haul ass out of the jungle, and for once in my life I understand precisely what adrenaline is for. Just as we make it out of the thickest bush, back onto the pathway of dry brush, we freeze. A single firefly floats in front of me, like a tiny star. Then another. And another. Until hundreds of fireflies are dancing for us, lighting the way home.

I start laughing. Uncontrollably. The kind of laughter that makes you think a rib will crack. Suddenly the terror is gone. Suddenly there is nothing but the cicadas and the swirling yellow light and my feet covered in mud. Nothing can replace the feeling of blissfully undone.

The cost of true aliveness is comfort and the willingness to endure friction.

Xx,

Your Friendly Neighborhood Scribe