David Grann's story underscores the dangers of Western imperialism and the immense power of nature. The perils (and tribes) of the Amazon jungle have consumed many of those who were filled with wanderlust, confidence, greed, and arrogance enough to explore it.

The story (which centers on the disappearance of explorer Percy Fawcett in the Amazon in the early part of the 20th century) was unavoidably choppy. Like an archaeological dig, the book has various layers: we get Fawcett's story, as well as those of others who attempted to find him (à la Stanley, of "Dr. Livingstone, I presume" fame). The author even inserts himself into the narrative, to good effect. The mystery of what happened to Fawcett and his companions (including his son) will likely never be "solved."

Chickenhearted homebody that I am, I was horrified by the descriptions of voracious stinging insects, piranha, intestinal parasites, swollen limbs, and the like. I've never been camping, and I never intend to.