The camp chairs are set up. A cracked clipboard rests under my arm. I鈥檓 stuffed into my mom jeans. It鈥檚 showtime.

June gloom blankets Encinal Canyon in a lush mist. I could be in Narnia instead of Malibu, but I barely notice. My body stands in front of a marooned Airstream, waiting. But my mind is back home, wondering if my 14-month-old is napping as I review the research on my clipboard. Tonight I鈥檒l camp in this patch of Eden with Shailene Woodley, the 33-year-old actor and environmentalist known for her lead roles in The Fault in Our Stars, the Divergent trilogy, and the series Big Little Lies, instead of sleeping at home with my daughter. It鈥檚 the first time I鈥檝e been away from her overnight.

鈥淭here she is,鈥� a member of our six-woman crew says. An electric sedan with a mint green surfboard on top crunches to a stop. A luminous creature in a pastel silk shirt emerges and wraps me in a hug. My mind freezes. My clipboard is blank on basic human greetings.

鈥淚 had to stop at REI and get a new sleeping pad,鈥� Woodley says, rolling her eyes. 鈥淚 left my old one with my ex.鈥� The actress is no stranger to camping, and remarkably at home in the outdoors. From a young age, she鈥檚 felt a kinship with and responsibility toward the natural world. Her lifelong commitment to environmental work started when, as a freshman at Simi Valley High School, she rallied her fellow students to petition for a recycling program. Since then she鈥檚 become an outspoken advocate for the climate, working with various nonprofits and NGOs and participating in the Standing Rock protest against the Dakota Access Pipeline.

We sit under an ancient oak tree in collapsible chairs. If Woodley has a phone, I don鈥檛 see it. When I ask about it she says, 鈥淚 guess I鈥檓 addicted to real interaction.鈥� She glimpses mine and coos at the wallpaper photo of my baby. When I tell her I met the love of my life at 39 she says, 鈥淵ou give me hope!鈥�

Woodley radiates something I can鈥檛 place. Youth and beauty? Sure. But that鈥檚 everywhere in Hollywood. Later, when I play back the recording of our conversation, I hear how rushed I sound, so determined to ask all the questions, to get somewhere. But she鈥檚 in no hurry. She鈥檚 right here.

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I lie half naked and miserable in a puddle of my own sweat. I open the tent flap to breathe but there鈥檚 no relief, even at midnight. Who comes to the Guatemalan jungle in July?

Yesterday鈥檚 hike was rough, but the 15 miles today were raw pain. The mosquitoes were so vicious that by mile two even our local guides had asked to borrow our 100 percent deet. Bugs here suck down lesser repellent like an aperitif. Nothing provides complete protection.

Our destination is La Danta, one of the largest pyramids on earth. It鈥檚 located in the ruins of El Mirador, a centerpiece of Maya civilization from 800 B.C.E. to 100 C.E. that was abandoned nearly 2,000 years ago. There are no restrooms, no gift shops. In fact, the site is still being excavated.

This is where Angela and Suley want to get married. So, accompanied by a pair of guides, a half-dozen pack donkeys, and their ten toughest (or least informed) friends, the brides are determined to march us 60 miles over five days through Parque Nacional El Mirador in northern Guatemala to La Danta to say 鈥淚 do.鈥� It鈥檚 our second night on the trail.

I close my eyes and wait for Tara, a.k.a. Tent Dawg, to start snoring. I met her 48 hours ago. Broad shouldered and sharp jawed, she looks like she could win a car-tossing competition or spit and hit Mars. A major in the U.S. Army, she鈥檚 been training soldiers on how to survive in the field since before Survivor was a tiki torch in Mark Burnett鈥檚 eye. Back in the small town of Flores, the night before we all set off, she鈥檇 said something about a kidney condition with a shrug. Nothing fazes Tent Dawg.

I slip out of our nylon cocoon to pee, swimming through the liquid night. Humidity 83 percent. Cicadas buzz from thick-vined shadows鈥攖he jungle鈥檚 24-hour booty call.

The misshapen moon shimmers like a mirage. I drop my underwear and flash a rounder moon at the donkeys. A languid tail whips a fly. Because my body temperature nearly matches the outer world, it鈥檚 hard to feel the boundary line. So I watch to be sure the piss is pissing. At least it runs clear; I鈥檝e been pounding water to replenish the gallon I sweat off every hour.

No sound emerges from our five tents, just green-black humming in all directions, 1.6 million acres of primeval rainforest teeming with the richest biodiversity in Central America. I shake my hips, pull up my skivvies, and float back to my tent.

I flop down and remind myself, This is the opportunity of a lifetime, when a mosquito the size of a Winnebago chomps my left butt cheek. The pain is electric but passes quickly. After frantic swatting and cursing, I drift off, anesthetized by this single dart.

It was not a mosquito.

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