“Luisa says the forest spirits here are strangers. She wants to go back,” my professor translates. Luisa is our tiny Quechua companion, a woman characterized by her natural smile. Today, she wears a tense expression. I wipe away the sweat dripping along my hairline. We’re not long into our hike, but the jungle curtain has fallen closed behind us. We’re immersed in a mysterious world that locals make sense of through magic and spirits. Aepi, our Huaorani guide, is a hardy woman who cuts a line through the jungle with deceptive ease. She tears the bark from a tree and pockets it. “We boil this bark for three days and drink the tea as birth control,” Dr. Hansen translates again. I imagine gambling on that tea and wonder how many medicines remain secret from all but the families defiantly living barefoot and Wi-Fi-free in the jungle. “Hurry! Our guide says we’re close to catching up with the wild pigs.” Our hike through the biodiversity hotspot of Ecuador is casual recreation for Dr. Hansen. She’s traveled alone through the Amazon for decades now. As we march deeper into the jungle, I’m increasingly aware that I’m an extranjera, a foreigner, in these layers of jungle life. From the muddy soil I’ve been slipping over grow alien flowers, tentacle vines, and shrubs that forgot to stop growing. I imagine transplanting one into my parents’ yard in California; one leaf could obstruct our bay windows while another blocks the front door. Beyond the giants around us, at least three more layers of vegetation complete the precise system of jungle ecology. Freckling the uppermost layer are ancient trees overlooking the jungle- behemoths of forgotten legends and old tragedies. “Do you hear that bird call?” We stop and listen. More sweat soaks through my polyester shirt as I hold my breath. Luisa continues muttering in Spanish while we strain to pick out a single bird call from the known 596 bird species that occupy Yasuní National Park. I recall the years of Spanish classes I’ve taken in order to more legitimately integrate my Latino heritage into my identity. The lectures did not include training on bird calls. “That means a puma is nearby. We need to be careful,” Dr. Hansen announces. I knew enough about local Spanish to know that puma could reference a handful of predatory cats- most notably the jaguar. Every Amazon family has a story about a predator encounter. The jaguar frequently features in the stories with the greatest death scenes. “The puma only attacks if you seem distracted. Keep your heads up, and you’ll be fine.” Our professor translates the survival advice no differently than she lectures in class; the extranjera in me is not reassured. We press onward treading alongside an apex predator in its own territory. I resist the urge to watch my feet and stumble on at my place at the end of our single-file procession. “Come! Look!” Nine undergraduate students in matching rubber boots gather and pull out their iPhones. I squat down for a closer look at the animal print. “See how big the toes are? It’s definitely a jaguar. It jumped from that ledge,” Dr. Hansen points at the mossy bluff above us, “and landed here a few moments ago. It looks like we’re stalking the same pigs as this jaguar.” Luisa erupts into loud, agitated Spanish. She points to a different track- a single, muddy, human footprint just beyond our own. Her hysterical Spanish fills the humid air. I catch the word for spirit and her urgent pleas to leave. My gut twists with fear. “Luisa says the forest spirits are here,” Dr. Hansen points to the footprint that doesn’t belong to anyone in our group, “And she doesn’t trust them.” Frightening sounds explode around me and something comes for my head. I scream and duck. Feathers graze my skin and flapping wings tangle my hair. The spirits’ laughter flutters past as the colorful bird disappears; I’ve fallen for their hazing. With a pounding heart I rise and resume hiking alongside the jaguar. That night, I exit the jungle classroom initiated into Amazon storytelling with animal encounters of my own.