Boarding ICARO

Flying from Andes to Amazon, a guide watches forests vanish—and sees the world in two very different ways.

The flight’s delayed, so I squat on the airport floor, flipping through bird plates, building trust.

We’ve got a short hop—25 minutes—from the Andes to Coca, the Amazon town. The lodge staff will meet us, handle our bags. Then, get us to the river dock. From there, a two-hour canoe ride downriver to Sani Lodge. After that, no more towns, no stores. Last chance for batteries or ponchos.

This is my moment to shine, but I keep it low-key. One knee to the floor, otherwise I might not get back up. I hold the bird plates at eye level with the group. Three are seated, two step closer. We’re in a tight circle now. Intimate. Focused.

The book isn’t the full Ecuador field guide—just the plates, rebound in a stitched blue faux-leather cover. The original weighs a ton. This version’s been with me for years. The edges are beat up, but the pages hold. They’ve seen boat spray, damp air, jungle funk—still legible, still mine.

I flip to the Ecuador map. “Here’s where we are,” I say, pointing: Pacific coast, Galápagos off to the west, Quito perched high in the Andes, and the Amazon stretching east. Then the birds: macaws, tanagers, parrots, woodcreepers—one plate after another. No overwhelming lists. Just enough to shift their minds from sparrows to jungle birds.

My voice stays easy. Confident but not showy. I want them to feel not just excitement, but trust. That even though we’re heading into a wild place, it’s under control. I’ve got them.

I ask, though I already know the answer, "So, are you guys excited?" They grin and nod. I feel the energy rise. This trip is my heartbeat. The Amazon isn’t just a place; it’s hope. A last chance for something wild before it’s lost to chainsaws.

I don’t use a script. Just a fire for the forest and the birds that live there. That’s why they listen. It’s improv, but it’s honest.

"What’s your dream bird? First one that comes to mind," I ask. They perk up. One says hoatzin, another asks about potoos. I start to see who’s done their homework, who’s a beginner, who’s just along for the ride. It’s not a test. It’s intel.

The tourists wander off to grab coffee or use the restroom. The boarding area is calm. Oil workers in pressed shirts sit in quiet clusters. My group hovers nearby, a knot of anticipation and chatter.

A man ambles up to me. Mid-forties, khakis, tucked-in shirt, not a speck of mud on him. Not one of mine. I figure he’s with another group. Maybe their guide disappeared.

"Bird guy, right?"

He’s not looking for parrots. He drops it early: mining. Says his company is sending a team into the field and they were thinking it might be smart to have a bird expert along. Someone to help them know what’s what. Maybe even keep the NGOs off their back.

He says it like it’s nothing, and I almost laugh—not to his face, but inside.

I keep it professional. "Makes sense," I say.

He asks the right kinds of questions—where I guide, how long I’ve done it. Polite, curious, detached. I know this type. The kind of guy who sees a forest as either a postcard or a resource. Either way: something for him.

The whole exchange lasts maybe three minutes. He thanks me, glances toward the restroom, and walks off. I file it away.

One guest, watching from a few feet away, asks, "Hey, was that another birder?"

I grin. "Nope. Miner. Looking for a bird expert for some consulting gig."

She winces. "Oh."

"Yeah," I say. "Bet the consulting gig pays well."

Someone else asks, half-joking, "Did you get his card?"

I scoff. As if. I dropped out of grad school to not do that kind of job. I came down here to listen to antbirds, not to be one of those corporate consultants flown in with clipboards and checklists.

The PA crackles. Time to board.

It’s always the same mix: oil workers and eco-tourists. Two species headed to the same forest for very different reasons.

From the plane, the city falls away. Roads thread through farmland. Then wild, snow-capped volcanoes loom. We cross the eastern flanks of the Andes, dense and green. But as the descent begins, the texture thins.

And there it is again: the rectangles. Palm plantations stretching for miles. Every time I fly this route, they’ve spread farther. Twenty-five years ago, this was forest.

It hits like it always does—the ache, the anger. These aren’t Kichwa or Huaorani families tending the land. These are newcomers—coastal settlers without ties here. No roots. No stories.

I don’t point it out to the tourists. Maybe that’s on purpose. I want them to imagine wildness.

The name of the airline flickers on the departure board: ICARO.

Icarus.

Wax wings. The myth of flying too close to the sun.

And I wonder: who here thinks they’re not flying too close?

The miner back in the terminal, dreaming of a contract. The tourists with their field guides and diarrhea meds, aching for a brush with the wild. Me, no illusions I’m better than the miner or the tourist. Just as tangled up as the rest—maybe hoping we’re all better.

We all boarded this plane. We’re all hoping the wings hold.

Have you ever found yourself caught between worlds—part of a system but quietly resisting it?