ROOTED

The roads that lead out of Brazil’s Mata Atlântica, the rain forest region called simply the Atlantic Forest, are winding and shrouded in green. As my driver negotiated the curves, towering tropical trees ticked by and I silently chronicled what I’d seen and done in the past 10 days. I had molded balls of rodent bait, a mealy mush of banana, powdered peanut candy, and oatmeal that felt and smelled how you’d expect such a concoction to feel and smell. I had collected seeds, planted seeds, replanted seeds, watered seeds, and done other things to seeds that I now cannot recall but at the time felt meaningful. I sweated more than I’d ever sweated in my life, even though I showered more than I’d ever showered.

I had shared a habitat with 33 species of bats, 468 species of butterflies, and seemingly infinite species of ants, several of which scrambled up my left leg when I made the rookie mistake of standing still for more than 10 seconds. I had weighed and measured and photographed numerous mammals, including Rodents of Unusual Size. I had set animal traps. I had learned the difference between a Tomahawk trap and a Sherman trap and expunged slimy, encrusted lizard scat from both. I had ridden on the flatbed of an old blue pickup truck, the soft morning air caressing my skin. I had sampled, and thoroughly enjoyed, homemade caipirinhas.

I had worked—with my hands. Not just any work, but demanding, dirt-under-your-fingernails, tropical-sun-on-your-head, mosquitoes-up-your-nose work. I was not paid for this work but had—and I realize this sounds bonkers—paid for the privilege of doing it. I had also enjoyed the work, for I knew that in some minuscule yet undeniable way I had made the world a better place: a slightly greener, cooler, healthier place.

Prior to this January 2020 journey, I would not have thought any of this possible. To be honest, when