Lost in the Amazon: The True Story of Five Men and Their Desperate Battle for Survival

By Stephen Kirkpatrick and Marlo Carter Kirkpatrick

In 1995, Stephen Kirkpatrick joined a five-man expedition into the remote jungles of the Peruvian Amazon. Kirkpatrick's assignment was to document an area of the rainforest that had never before been photographed, nor by most accounts, ever explored by white men.

Within hours of their departure, an inaccurate map and a series of bad decisions leave the group hopelessly lost in the depths of the Amazon jungle. What began as a career-making photo expedition quickly turned into a desperate struggle for survival.

The five men battle poisonous reptiles, hungry bugs, torrential rains, brutal heat, and an unforgiving landscape in an attempt to find their way back to civilization. They soon learn that survival is not only a physical, but a mental and spiritual challenge as well.

Lost in the Amazon is a gripping, sometimes humorous, and ultimately inspirational story about the human drive to survive, and about clinging to faith in the worst circumstances imaginable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 10, 2005
• ISBN: 9781418516284

Book preview

LOST

IN THE AMAZON

STEPHEN KIRKPATRICK

as told to Marlo Carter Kirkpatrick

Lost_in_the_Amazon_0001_001

LOST IN THE AMAZON

Copyright © 2005 Stephen and Marlo Carter Kirkpatrick

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by W Publishing Group, a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc., P.O. Box 141000, Nashville, Tennessee 37214.

W Publishing Group books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please email [e-mail].

All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from The New King James Version (NKJV), copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982, Thomas Nelson, Inc., Publishers.

Editorial Staff: Lori Jones, Ramona Richards, Beth Ann Patton, Deborah Wiseman,

Sue Ann Jones, Holly Halverson

Page Design: Lori Lynch, Book & Graphic Design

Published in association with Maura Kye at the Denise Marcil Literary Agency, Inc.,

New York, New York.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kirkpatrick, Stephen, 1954–

Lost in the Amazon / Stephen Kirkpatrick as told to Marlo Carter Kirkpatrick.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-8499-0015-8

1. Kirkpatrick, Stephen, 1954—Travel—Amazon River Region. 2. Wildlife photographers—United States—Biography. 3. Amazon River Region—Description and travel. I. Kirkpatrick, Marlo Carter. II. Title.

TR140.K535A3 2005

918.5'4404643'092—dc22

2004029446

Printed in the United States of America

05 06 07 08 09 QW 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Ryan Kirkpatrick

April 5, 1986—October 3, 2003

Gone, but not lost

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks go to our friends and colleagues Heidi Allen, Laurie Asmus, Jordana Finnegan, Elizabeth Lyon, Melanie Toler, Kenny Weaver, and Sissy Yerger, who invested their time, talents, support, and insight in this book. Each of them traveled to the heart of the Amazon with us in its pages, and we are grateful to have had them along on the journey.

Thanks to Bill Lamar of Green Tracks and Paul Wright of Amazon Tours for introducing us to the Amazon. We fell in love on Paul’s boat, the Delfín, proving that some adventures in the Amazon really do have a happy ending.

We’re also deeply indebted to our talented agent, Maura Kye, who made sure Lost in the Amazon found its way into the right hands; to our gifted and supportive editor, Kate Etue, who recognized something special in our story and helped us share it with others; and to the talented, hard-working, and warm staff at W Publishing Group.

Finally, a special thanks to Sean and Ian. You are not only the best sons a father could ask for, but the best stepsons a woman could be lucky enough to inherit.

PROLOGUE

November 12, 1995

The dense canopy and violent thunderstorm had killed any hint of daylight. I peered into the dark deluge, searching for any sign of my guide or the others.

Ashuco! I screamed into the rain. Ashuco! Where are you?

I saw only the jungle, thick, wet, and hostile. It surrounded me, pressed against my skin, threatened to suffocate me in its malevolent greenness.

Ashuco! Darcy! Esteban!

I stood motionless in the downpour, straining for a reply. The only response was the pounding of the rain, falling so hard and so heavy I wondered if I might actually drown while walking in it.

Ashuco!

My hoarse voice was weak and pitiful, barely audible to my own ears. How was it possible for rain falling on leaves to be so loud?

I scanned the foliage around me for machete marks, a footprint, any hint of human life.

Nothing.

I stumbled ahead into the choking, dripping brush, weighed down by my sodden boots and clothes, bent beneath the dead weight of the backpack that held my crippled cameras and the crushing burden of my disappointment.

This was supposed to have been my golden opportunity, the solution to all my problems, my shot at the big time. A better life not only for me but for my boys.

Poor Sean, Ryan, and Ian. I’d convinced myself I was doing this largely for them, that a successful expedition would somehow result in more time together, new adventures for the four of us to share.

Instead, I was leaving them fatherless.

My own words haunted me.

Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll be okay. God’s going to take care of me.

Poor kids. They would probably never believe in anything again.

A deafening clap of thunder rattled my teeth.

Unbelievably, the rain fell harder.

A hanging vine clawed my face. I reached up to yank it down and caught a pungent whiff of my own sweat.

God, I was so tired. So tired and so hungry and so bruised and so bugbitten and so wet.

Ashuco! I screamed with a raw throat. Ashuco! Where are you?

No response.

I was alone, lost in the jungle. And night was coming.

A sickening sensation rose in my gut. I struggled for control, fighting the irrational panic I felt welling up inside.

No, I realized, that wasn’t right.

The most frightening thing about this panic was that it wasn’t irrational. This fear was well-founded, justified, reality-based. Barring a miracle, I was going to die in this jungle. Maybe today, in this very spot, alone in the rain. I had seen the animals, the bugs, the rot, the effects of the constant heat and humidity.

I knew what the jungle could do.

The fear exploded into full-blown panic, a wave of dread that left me shivering in the tropical heat. It was followed by a hot rush of adrenaline that threatened to send me screaming into the jungle, crashing blindly through the wet foliage.

Run! some primitive instinct screamed. Get out of here! Just drop the gear and run!

But there was nowhere to run to.

Instead, I fell to my knees in the mud and groped at the zipper of my backpack. With shaking hands, I retrieved my battered journal and fumbled to a blank page. Clutching my shiny Fisher Space Pen (Guaranteed to write upside down, underwater, and even in outer space!), I hunched over the journal, struggling to keep the paper dry.

A splotch of bright red blood splashed across the page, spreading like a fungus. I choked back a sob. I knew it was nothing fatal, nothing even serious, just a little seepage from the deep gash on my torn left hand. But the sight of that crimson stain blooming on the page was horrific, a dreadful portent that triggered a fresh surge of fear.

I ripped the bloodstained page from the journal and threw it into the rain. It fluttered to the forest floor and lay there curled and limp, like a wounded bird. A single tear snaked down my scratched cheek, mixing with the rain and sweat. I scribbled in a wild, rambling hand.

This trip was a mistake, a fatal mistake. We are going to die here. All of us—Ashuco, Esteban, Darcy, Mario, me. The jungle is going to take us all.

Thunder rumbled, then exploded in an earsplitting clap that shook the soggy ground beneath me. Lightning illuminated the horizonless tangle of trees and brush, revealing in a flash my utter, complete aloneness.

I stared down at the journal. My words were barely legible, a black, spidery scrawl that looked like fear crawling across the page. Looming up at me were the words die here.

I ripped out the page and ground it into the mud, then forced the fear into a corner of my mind. I felt it waiting there, struggling to get out, to gobble up the last of my reason.

But I had regained enough clarity to know I could not allow those frantic, faithless scribbles to be my final message.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, then gripped the pen between white knuckles, waiting until the trembling in my hands quieted to a manageable quiver. Then I wrote.

November 12, 1995

By venturing off course, I fear we have put together a plan that could end our lives. Even if someone came searching for us, they would have no idea where to look. We are miles from the river, and the canopy is too thick for any hope of sighting or rescue by plane.

I still have faith. I’m praying and putting my trust in God.

But I have to be realistic.

Christians die just like everyone else.

CHAPTER 1

November 3, 1995

The shrimp completed a perfect somersault before joining the rest of its school in the middle of the plate.

I caught it, Daddy! my five-year-old son squealed, holding up the plate as evidence. He threw it and I caught it, see?

Good job, Ian, I said, ruffling his dark hair. You made the catch of the day!

The Japanese chef continued to chop shrimp and chicken into neat piles on the tabletop grill, then tossed huge, still-sizzling portions onto our plates. Ian giggled, his smile revealing a fresh gap that hurt my heart. I had missed his first visit from the Tooth Fairy.

This is really good, Dad, my eleven-year-old son, Sean, mumbled through a mouthful of chicken.

Yeah, Ryan, his nine-year-old brother, agreed. I wish we could come here every night.

But then it wouldn’t be special, I said.

Dinner at the Japanese steakhouse had become a tradition for the four of us. Whenever I embarked on a photo assignment, Sean, Ryan, and Ian could count on dinner at Bonsai the night before I left, and dinner at Bonsai—plus souvenirs—the night I returned. It wasn’t the finest restaurant in Jackson, Mississippi, but it was loud and energetic and promised an evening of knife-wielding, grease-blazing, shrimp-catching action—the perfect place for my boys and me to enjoy a night on the town.

With a final twirl of his knife, the chef left us to our meal. Ian peered at me from behind a plate heaping with food.

Can we get dessert, too? he asked.

Sure, sweetie, if you think you can hold it after all that rice.

If you eat a grain that isn’t cooked, it’ll grow in your stomach until you explode, Ryan said.

Really? Ian eyed his plate with caution.

No, Ian, he’s lying, Sean said. "But if the chicken isn’t cooked all the way, you might lay an egg."

I shoved chopsticks into my own mountain of a meal, smiling at the silly banter among my sons. Traditions were even more important now that we no longer lived in the same house.

In my fifteen years as a wildlife photographer, I had grown accustomed to the solitary nature of the work. But after a painful divorce and two years of coming home to an empty apartment, the solitude was beginning to feel suspiciously like loneliness. Knowing I would spend my last evening before leaving and my first night back home with my boys made my frequent, lengthy travels easier to bear.

Daddy, Ian said, I thought you already went to the Amazon. Back when I was little.

That’s right, Ian, I did. Three years ago, when you were just a baby. But the Amazon is a very big place. And this time, I’m going to a part of the jungle where no one’s ever been before—at least no one except the Indians who live there. I’ll be the first person to ever take a camera there.

That’s good for you, I guess, Ryan said. Is there any more shrimp?

Sure.

As I handed him the plate, I studied my sons’ little faces, relieved to see they seemed nonchalant about my upcoming trip. Then again, they had grown up surrounded by the trappings of my unusual career. While their friends’ fathers went to work at the bank or the law office or the car dealership, their father went to work in the swamp or the mountains or, now, the jungle.

So, what do you think you’ll see? Sean asked.

Well, I’m pretty sure I’ll see lots of birds. Parrots and macaws and maybe a toucan, like on the Froot Loops box.

Ian giggled.

And I’ll probably see monkeys. Sometimes they get mad when you come too close, and start throwing things at you—mostly their own poop. "Oh, gross! Monkey poop!" The boys dissolved into laughter.

Yep, but I have an advantage, I said, running a hand over my smooth, shiny scalp. Before I had taken to shaving it, my head had been covered with thick, dark hair, just like my sons’. Wipes right off.

A lively discussion regarding the consistency, aroma, and potential volume of monkey poop followed. Listening to my boys’ laughter, I felt a little of the familiar pretrip tension slip away.

They’ll be fine, I told myself. It’s only fifteen days.

Fifteen days of pursuing exotic subjects, capturing new images, losing myself in my craft. Fifteen days free of rejection slips, past-due bills, and thoughts of broken homes.

"Mon-key poop! Mon-key poop!" Ian chanted happily.

Fifteen days without my little boys’ silly jokes, the slightly sweaty scent that lingered in their hair, the feel of their slender little arms around my neck when they reached up to hug me.

Although the days of their reaching up to hug me, I realized painfully, were drawing to a close. At eleven and nine, Sean and Ryan were already tall for their ages. They would be long-legged and lean, like me. Still chubby and baby-faced, Ian shared his brothers’ wavy brown hair and stubborn cowlick, but he was the only Kirkpatrick in the bunch sporting blue eyes— a gift from his mother, my ex-wife.

Dad, are you listening? Ryan was asking. I said, what about snakes?

"Oh, yeah. Lots of snakes. I leaned in closer, making slithering motions with my chopsticks. They hang from trees over your head; they crawl across the trail in front of you; sometimes they even follow you in your canoe."

Ian’s jaw dropped.

"The biggest ones are the anacondas. They aren’t poisonous, but they’re huge—up to thirty feet long. They catch their prey and squeeze it to death, then gulp it down in one bite. The Indians claim there are anacondas there big enough to swallow people."

Sean chose that moment to poke Ian in the ribs with a chopstick, delighting in his little brother’s startled squeal.

Da-a-ddy, Ian wailed, Sean poked me.

Sean, don’t poke your brother, I said, suppressing a smile.

Sorry, Sean said with a grin. So do you think you’ll be able to catch one? An anaconda?

The other dads brought home briefcases full of spreadsheets and paperwork; their dad brought home specimen bags full of snakes and frogs.

I hope so, I said. "I should see some caiman, too—that’s a kind of crocodile. And the river is full of piranha."

Piranha! Ryan looked up from his plate, his brown eyes wide. Will you have to send a cow in first so they can eat it while you swim across, like in the movies?

Nah, I said. They’re scavengers. They won’t attack an animal unless it’s already bleeding or dead.

Oh. Ryan was clearly disappointed.

"But the worst thing in the river isn’t the piranha or the caiman, or even a giant anaconda, I said, trying for an ominous tone. The worst thing, the most dreadful thing, is a tiny little fish called a candiru. It’s about as big as a toothpick."

What’s so scary about that? Ryan asked.

The candiru is attracted to pee. If you pee in the water, he swims up your you-know-what. Then he fans out his spines and sticks there so you can’t get him out.

"Sick!" Ryan shrieked with delight. That’s even grosser than monkey poop!

My sons’ laughter escalated as they discussed the candiru and its habitat.

Of course they’re fine, I told myself. Even Ryan’s laughing, happy. Why wouldn’t they be?

Our situation wasn’t that unusual. Other parents got divorced. Other fathers traveled. And it was only fifteen days. I’d hoped to spend at least a month in the rain forest, but financially, I couldn’t make it happen.

My stomach knotted. Would fifteen days be long enough? I pictured the vivid toucans and macaws, the colorful snakes and frogs, the spectacular flowers and towering trees, and that huge, muddy river, winding on and on.

Just a few more hours and I would be there, in the heart of it. Back in the rain forest, with nothing to worry about except the subject, the camera, the shot.

I motioned for the waitress and handed over my credit card. Dinner would probably put me over my limit—again—but I would just have to worry about Visa when I got back home. I couldn’t let my boys down. Not the night before I left.

Daddy, Ian asked, can we go play Putt-Putt?

No, sweetie, I’ve got to take you back to your mother’s now. That plane’s leaving early, and I have to be ready.

"Well, you don’t have to sound so excited about it. Ryan slumped back in his chair. It’s not fair."

My upbeat mood evaporated. Here we go, I thought with a sigh.

Of my three sons, Ryan had always been the most sensitive. The divorce had hit him harder than the other two—even harder, I suspected, than it had hit me. Over the past two years, Ryan had gone from a sunny, optimistic little boy to a sullen, argumentative child who seemed much older than nine. Lately, it seemed that every outing with the boys ended in some sort of confrontation with my middle son. The subject matter varied, but the surly attitude was always the same.

It’s no fun here when you’re gone, Ryan said with a frown. I don’t see why we can’t come with you.

Don’t whine, Ryan. You know I wish you could go, I said. Sean and Ian, too. Maybe someday soon the four of us can take a trip together. But this one is just going to be too tough and too dangerous.

If it’s so dangerous, and you’d rather be with us anyway, why do you want to go there so bad? Ryan demanded, his voice rising. "To be going to such a scary place, you sure sound awful happy about it."

Yeah, Dad, Sean chimed in. How come you want to go back to the Amazon?

The familiar guilt resurfaced, now tinged with something darker.

Because I have to, I thought. Because I have to get out of that stuffy, suffocating apartment and out into the field again. Because I need to feel that inspiration and that rush that come from shooting. And because if I don’t get out there and shoot something spectacular, I won’t be able to send your mother her blasted child-support check.

My sons regarded me with trusting eyes, waiting for their daddy’s explanation.

My anger faded. I couldn’t leave my little boys with the impression their father was motivated by nothing more than financial pressure and restlessness.

Guys, please try to understand, I said. This is a big chance for me. But I’m not going to the Amazon just because I want to. I’ve been praying about it, and I think God has something there He wants me to shoot.

Oh. Sean frowned, then shrugged. Well, I guess you can’t argue with God.

"But how do you know that’s God talking to you?" Ryan asked skeptically. "I say my prayers, too, but I sure don’t hear anyone talking back."

I had little trouble guessing the nature of Ryan’s unanswered prayers. I could imagine my son’s pain, his longing for a reconciliation that was never going to come.

Yeah, Dad, Sean said. How do you know that’s God?

I considered my response, wondering how to describe God talking in a way they could understand. The concept was hard enough for an adult to grasp.

That’s a good question, guys, I said after a pause. "I think God talks to people in different ways. Sometimes He literally talks to them, like Moses and the burning bush. Sometimes, it’s more of a feeling He gives you. You pray about something, and the answer just seems to come to you, like . . . like a whisper, or a little poke."

"Did God poke you, Daddy? Ian was indignant. ’Cause that’s not very nice," he added with a sidelong glance at Sean.

Actually, Ian, I guess it was more like a nudge. I smiled. A little push in the right direction. Does that make sense to you, Ryan?

I guess, my son said doubtfully. If you really believe in that kind of stuff.

I really do, Ryan. That’s the biggest and most important reason I’m going to the Amazon. The other reason is that I have to make a living so I can afford all this fried rice you guys like so much. And like I told you, this is a chance for me to work in a new place, maybe to shoot a plant or an animal that no one’s ever photographed before. Just one shot like that could make a big difference for all of us.

But Daddy, Ian said, his blue eyes filling with tears, what if something bad happens to you? What if an Indian gets you, or a snake?

I put my arm around my little boy and pulled him close.

Don’t worry, sweetie; I’ll be okay. You know I’ve been in dangerous places before, right?

Like when the alligator rammed you in the swamp, Sean said.

Or the grizzly bear chased you in Alaska, Ryan added.

That’s right. God took care of me all those other times, and He’s going to take care of me now. Right?

Ian sniffled, then nodded.

But Daddy, he whispered, will you please promise me one thing?

Sure, sweetie, what is it?

Promise you won’t pee in the water, okay?

CHAPTER 2

I stepped out of the barely air-conditioned Maria Antonio Hotel into the sweltering streets of Iquitos, Peru. The city was just as I remembered it— colorful, pungent, and loud.

Brightly painted

Reviews for Lost in the Amazon

[deltaqueen50 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Lost in the Amazon by Stephen Kirkpatrick is his tale of what happened on his expedition to photograph nature deep in the Amazon jungle as they became lost and ended up having an exhaustive and terrifying experience. I did enjoy the adventure part of the story, but to me, the survival aspect was overdone as they seemed to go astray due to very poor planning and lack of good judgement. One of the biggest problems I could see was that the members of the group, in particular the author himself, kept wandering off on their own and getting turned around in the jungle. Basically, when this happened they simply had to hunker down and wait for their Indian guide to find them and guide them back to the others. The author stressed how important this trip was to him financially. He was having difficulties making ends meet and acquiring some good pictures to sell could help to get him back on his feet. When his camera became clogged with moisture and he had to stop taking pictures, I began to wonder if this story of “survival” was simply a way to make some money to cover the loss of his photographs. Whatever, his descriptions of the excessive heat and moisture in the jungle, along with the wildlife and indigenous people they met was quite interesting. Another aspect of the story was how religious the author is and how his religion entered into everything. He strongly felt that it wasn’t his fault that he got lost, it was part of God’s plan for him. I was uncomfortable with this part of the story, but obviously this man’s faith is very important to him and this particular trip seemed to be a test for that faith.

[wdlaurie_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

If you went off for an 8 day trip down the Amazon with 4 other guys, bringing only these untested items:*clothing*film and camera*scant food: rice and biscuits*a hand drawn map of an area "no one has ever visited before"*a radio powered by (what sounds like) a car battery*iodine tablets/water filter*rudimentary camping equipment: pots and pans, tarps, sleeping bags*a very basic first aid kitWould you *really* be surprised if things went badly? The author of the book plans a trip to the Amazon in order to photograph the rich wild life to be found. He is a professional photographer, recently divorced and struggling to get his career started. He doesn't leave behind contact information, dates, travel plans, or any other information that could help in the event of an emergency. He doesn't bring any food, antibiotics, or anti-malaria pills.The trip is planned so haphazardly, the participants so clueless and unskilled, that I was incredibly frustrated reading this true story. Adding to my frustration, the author, Kirkpatrick, wanders off into the Amazon, leaving his 3 small boys behind with his ex-wife, because God told him to go. No news on whether or not God was consulted on the packing list.Moreover, the author credits his survival not to the experience and persistence of his friend/guide, Ashuco, who gamely slashes through the underbrush cutting a path, builds fires, creates a raft, rescues the camera, finds the lost author several times, informs the author he's about to pick up a poison frog...but to God. If a horror movie started off with this premise, the audience would laugh it off the screen. There's even a man travelling with Kirkpatrick's group who is so afraid of drowning that he wears his life vest at all times...and cries for his mom.The food is lost the first day, but luckily for the author and his companions, they manage to stumble onto no less than 5 villages during their journey, where the tribes they meet offer them food, shelter, and guides. It's not "Lost in the Amazon" but "Deluded and Dangerous to Others in the Amazon".Three stars only because it made me feel like a competent adult, and I didn't know there were pink dolphins before I read this book.

[kimbrady · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Stephen (Steve) Kirkpatrick's book is based on the true story of his expedition through an uncharted area of the Amazon. He recounts the hardships of the journey and the injuries and scares he and his companions face along the way back to civilization. Steve relies heavily on Christian faith and prayer to make it through. Although the book jacket briefly meantions "faith," after reading, I felt I had been tricked into reading religious propaganda masked as a survival story. The references to Christian faith are many, and are a main theme throughout. The dialogue was also a little stilted and obviously created to conveniently include facts about the Amazon rainforest. I kept reading to see how it ended, but was disappointed with this book overall. The theme of religious faith is not unworthy, but it is weakened by the fact the book is not advertised as such. I think YA readers expecting a survival story will react the way I did.

[itsjustme_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wow, this book was amazing! It was so full of adventure. It was scary, and had you on the edge of your seat. I loved it so much when I was done reading I also bought the book on CD and listened to it!