Before him rushed the River of Doubt, dark, swollen, and littered with debris from fallen trees. Having overflowed its banks, it coursed through the forest on either side in wayward streams and rivulets, picking up clots of leaves and displaced birds’ nests, and filling the jungle with a glasslike floor of water that mirrored the canopy above. The expedition’s dugouts rocked uneasily at their moorings, looking as unreliable at dawn as they had the afternoon before. Although Roosevelt had hunted and camped in forests throughout the United States, marveling at California’s enormous redwoods, he had never seen anything like the prodigy of nature that surrounded him now. The massive trees rose so high that their crowns disappeared in the tangle of branches and flicker of sunlight above his head. Branches of neighboring trees wound around one another like interlaced fingers, and heavy epiphytes unfurled from the treetops like a ship’s rigging. In the early-morning light, the scene that Roosevelt beheld was a breathtaking tableau of timeless nature—tranquil and apparently unchanging.
What do You think about The River Of Doubt (2005)?
