How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex by Mark Paul Jacobs Page A
Authors: Mark Paul Jacobs
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to let us pass without incident, if they don’t find us first.”
Roosevelt turned to Rondon. “And one last request, senhor Rondon. I would like to have the Portuguese Julio de Lima as bowman on my canoe.” Roosevelt caught briefly a flash of unease amid Lieutenant Martin’s blue eyes.
Rondon sniffed. “There are certainly better men than Julio, Colonel.”
Roosevelt stood his ground. “That is what I wish.”
Rondon shrugged. “Fine, it shall be done.” Rondon whistled and waved Julio forward to Roosevelt’s canoe.
A short time later, the camaradas shoved the dugouts upon the over-flowing river while Amilcar and Miller stood upon the wooden bridge holding their cameras. With a final wave, Roosevelt settled into the canoe’s center along with Dr. Cajazeira and George Cherrie. And with a final push from their steersman, the creaky vessel launched into the swirling water.
Bending over his notes, Theodore Roosevelt wrote briefly: “ 12° 1´ latitude south and 60° 15´ longitude west of Greenwich. February 27, 1914, shortly after midday, we started down the River of Doubt into the unknown.”
Watching the narrow bridge disappear from view upon the river’s first bend, Teddy could not help but think: those words are probably the greatest understatement of the young century .
CHAPTER 7
Teddy Roosevelt sat quietly while the dugout skidded softly through the tumbling waters of the swollen Dúvida River. He rested his hands upon his chest and watched an endless wall of green giants stretch for a dreary sky. Roosevelt was struck by the relative stillness of the seemingly impenetrable forest with its sagging vines and broad leaves, its silence broken only occasionally by a distant odd and unidentified call or a solitary fluttering bird. Certainly this was not the Brazil he had dreamed of in his youth, teeming with slithering anacondas, snapping caimans, and colorful birds that filled the skies in never-ending droves.
Below the vessel’s hull, the river swirled effortlessly—shallow and impervious to sunlight and littered with sunken logs that jutted above the current like the spires of a rotting pier. Roosevelt’s steersman, a Mato Grosso native named Luiz, stood tall above the dugout’s stern with his eyes focused on the water searching for an impending rock or a misshapen stump. He frantically dipped his paddle to maneuver port or starboard while Roosevelt took a deep breath and closed his eyes drifting off for a brief nap.
Ahead and upon a left-hand turn in the river, Kermit ordered his canoe to shore for the thirtieth time since taking to the river. He carefully found solid footing and swatted some swarming insects and then pounded his survey rods a meter apart within sight of Lieutenant Lyra’s scope placed five-hundred meters upriver. Roosevelt turned and noticed Colonel Rondon dutifully reading his compass and scribbling in his notebook. Hurriedly, the two groups climbed back in their canoes and moved onward, only to repeat these steps a short way downstream.
Roosevelt and Cherrie grew weary of the survey team’s slow grind as the afternoon wore on, and they notified Rondon of their intent to forge ahead, taking with them the double-wide supply dugout along with its camarada pilots.
And upon the paddler’s powerful strokes, they moved down the river for a few hours before Roosevelt ordered the crewmen to shore and to make camp. With broad swipes of their axes and machetes, the camaradas cleared a patch in the dense underbrush in short order, pitching the officer’s tents on lofty dry land. And soon, a fire crackled at the campsite’s center sending smoke high into the stately trees.
Both Roosevelt and Cherrie sighed with relief when they noticed Rondon’s and Kermit’s canoes round the river’s bend shortly before nightfall. Soon after dragging their canoes to shore, the skies cleared and the stars shone brightly with the appearance of a new moon, and the air cooled.
Roosevelt sat
Roosevelt turned to Rondon. “And one last request, senhor Rondon. I would like to have the Portuguese Julio de Lima as bowman on my canoe.” Roosevelt caught briefly a flash of unease amid Lieutenant Martin’s blue eyes.
Rondon sniffed. “There are certainly better men than Julio, Colonel.”
Roosevelt stood his ground. “That is what I wish.”
Rondon shrugged. “Fine, it shall be done.” Rondon whistled and waved Julio forward to Roosevelt’s canoe.
A short time later, the camaradas shoved the dugouts upon the over-flowing river while Amilcar and Miller stood upon the wooden bridge holding their cameras. With a final wave, Roosevelt settled into the canoe’s center along with Dr. Cajazeira and George Cherrie. And with a final push from their steersman, the creaky vessel launched into the swirling water.
Bending over his notes, Theodore Roosevelt wrote briefly: “ 12° 1´ latitude south and 60° 15´ longitude west of Greenwich. February 27, 1914, shortly after midday, we started down the River of Doubt into the unknown.”
Watching the narrow bridge disappear from view upon the river’s first bend, Teddy could not help but think: those words are probably the greatest understatement of the young century .
CHAPTER 7
Teddy Roosevelt sat quietly while the dugout skidded softly through the tumbling waters of the swollen Dúvida River. He rested his hands upon his chest and watched an endless wall of green giants stretch for a dreary sky. Roosevelt was struck by the relative stillness of the seemingly impenetrable forest with its sagging vines and broad leaves, its silence broken only occasionally by a distant odd and unidentified call or a solitary fluttering bird. Certainly this was not the Brazil he had dreamed of in his youth, teeming with slithering anacondas, snapping caimans, and colorful birds that filled the skies in never-ending droves.
Below the vessel’s hull, the river swirled effortlessly—shallow and impervious to sunlight and littered with sunken logs that jutted above the current like the spires of a rotting pier. Roosevelt’s steersman, a Mato Grosso native named Luiz, stood tall above the dugout’s stern with his eyes focused on the water searching for an impending rock or a misshapen stump. He frantically dipped his paddle to maneuver port or starboard while Roosevelt took a deep breath and closed his eyes drifting off for a brief nap.
Ahead and upon a left-hand turn in the river, Kermit ordered his canoe to shore for the thirtieth time since taking to the river. He carefully found solid footing and swatted some swarming insects and then pounded his survey rods a meter apart within sight of Lieutenant Lyra’s scope placed five-hundred meters upriver. Roosevelt turned and noticed Colonel Rondon dutifully reading his compass and scribbling in his notebook. Hurriedly, the two groups climbed back in their canoes and moved onward, only to repeat these steps a short way downstream.
Roosevelt and Cherrie grew weary of the survey team’s slow grind as the afternoon wore on, and they notified Rondon of their intent to forge ahead, taking with them the double-wide supply dugout along with its camarada pilots.
And upon the paddler’s powerful strokes, they moved down the river for a few hours before Roosevelt ordered the crewmen to shore and to make camp. With broad swipes of their axes and machetes, the camaradas cleared a patch in the dense underbrush in short order, pitching the officer’s tents on lofty dry land. And soon, a fire crackled at the campsite’s center sending smoke high into the stately trees.
Both Roosevelt and Cherrie sighed with relief when they noticed Rondon’s and Kermit’s canoes round the river’s bend shortly before nightfall. Soon after dragging their canoes to shore, the skies cleared and the stars shone brightly with the appearance of a new moon, and the air cooled.
Roosevelt sat
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