on the forest track

Hands blistered by car strut machete hacking, arms, recently swiped by jungle brambles, stripped of skin to reveal raised red mountain ranges. I stand erect, bracing myself in the bed of this truck between the tree measurement equipment and the small Lao military man and his not so small rifle. We search these forests for locations, randomly assigned by some unknowing distant algorithm that describes the one thing impossible for a feeling, thinking, human - absolute objectivity.

These plots stand as blind proxies for this forest at large - from these relatively few samples, for which we brave limb and thorn and pest, we will extrude the sacred patterns of this forest.

The truck passes near to the low hanging branches above. Standing in the bed of the 4-wheeled groaning beast, I am forced to dodge the oncoming leaves or thorns or spider webs in order to stay intact.

We pass forest long ago selectively logged and stripped of vitality.  When the illegal logging track becomes impassable, we drive on anyway. When they become impossible, we pack and set out on foot. The national protected area employee, in pine green ranger suit, the local guide adorned with flip-flops (the jungle trekking footwear of choice), the district military man with his wide smile and AK-47, the international consultant with GPS in hand, and me - part translator, part field technician, part cultural liaison - all wonder.

Before long, we are into the deep old growth primary forest. Even blindfolded, nose-plugged, ear-muffed and drunk, you would know... its the feel of the place. Many things have lived here, died here, decay and regrowth blabber on back and forth in the language of smells and carbon.  Moist, undulating, a loud and ominous silence full of bird and insect interjections. Small trickling streams reveal butterfly fantasy lands and prime dinosaur habitat.  Enormous contemplating trees - or groups of tree-wine-woody-matter-amalgams - they supervise this visit. This forest feels softer, darker, more cave-like than field-like - it certain reverence comes over all who pass through it.

Approaching the hallowed plot, one might expect a treasure chest or shiny prize - a return for the steep machete wielding huffing and puffing that got us here.  But no, there is little glamor out here. To this lucky plot's surprise though, so oft forgotten far from trail or stream or road, we have come to pay it mind. We will trim it up, measure it, fawn over it, consider its composition and characteristics. We will write about it, type its secrets into our GPS. Ritualistic cigarette breaks will proceed and follow, the occasional buttressed tree trunk will stir intense discussion, and our routine is honed. Onto the next plot. And then the village for handfuls of sticky rice and hammocks. A story for another day.