You travel to the port of New York with 75 pounds of supplies on your back — clothing, a holy book, a short rifle, camping equipment, and some medicines you packed from home.

You board the steamship Niantic, which takes you down the eastern U.S. coast and into the Caribbean. Many travelers get seasick early, but you seem to be a born seafarer, taking to the roiling waves with aplomb. One night, a violent storm pitches the ship in every direction and you’re thrown from bed; fortunately, a bruised shoulder is your only injury.

The ship docks at the mouth of the Chagres River, and you hire two native boys no older than 14. For six dollars, they will lead you to the Pacific side of the isthmus, where you will board a ship to take you to San Francisco. They sit you and your pack into a bungo, a small canoe, and you head toward the jungle.

Paddling down the river, you see plants and animals you hadn’t known existed. Tiny, jabbering monkeys swing above you, cracking huge coconuts together. Tall storklike birds, bright red and washed-out pink, dip in and out of the river. The crystalline water teems with fish of every color imaginable.

It’s as if you’re living in a dream.

The rainforest thickens and you leave the canoe to travel by foot. One of your guides returns to the coast in the canoe, and, with the other, you press into the jungle.

It is dark within the canopy, and feels almost like twilight. The heat is oppressive, more humid than your hottest bath, and the moisture hangs below the canopy of fronds, leaves, and verdant trees. It’s like walking through gelatin.

The path is narrow and lightly trodden; your guide forges ahead, hacking at vegetation with a small machete. You camp for the night by a small pond.

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