The shallow water and tangle of slippery roots in the mangrove swamp behind Zu-dak-lul made footing difficult and dangerous, and here mosquitoes in profusion swarmed us. I constantly feared losing the Claytons’ journal that I’d packed into a crude satchel of sailcloth I had stitched to the best of my abilities. Tarzan was least at ease in the swamp of all terrains, and once having crossed into the jungle he seemed to find relief in the overgrown paths and impenetrable canopy of foliage. He was comfortable and familiar with the dim light of the jungle floor, the thick, sodden carpet of decaying vegetation between his toes. I was less than comfortable with palm fronds slapping my face and thornbushes scratching my legs. And the snakes—they were everywhere slithering and hanging in the branches of trees. We stayed well clear of the army of red ants that moved in a long roiling column devouring and denuding everything unable to move from its path. We stopped at night, resting in whatever crude nest Tarzan could quickly fashion of banana leaves, eating a simple meal of fruit and nuts before laying ourselves down on our bed to sleep.
