ABSTRACT
Winter mornings are dry and cold in the Atlantic forest of southeastern Brazil. Overnight temperatures drop to as low as 5°C (that’s just 41°F), and at 6:30 a.m., when my students and I set out to find the muriquis, the sun was just beginning to burn off the mist rising up through the treetops. The screeches of parrots sliced crisply through the air as we climbed up a trail speckled with leaf-filtered sunlight. Near the top of the ridge, we stopped hiking and turned around. Scanning the canopies of the tallest trees, we spotted the muriquis’ golden bodies scattered about. Some were still curled up in furry huddles, their identities concealed from view. Others were sprawled precariously along the uppermost branches, soaking up the warmth. Nearby, Princessa, a young juvenile female, about four years of age, slid down the trunk of the tree where her mother and a friend, barely recognizable in a bundle of intertwined arms, legs, and tails, were still sleeping.
