Prelude to a Forest Dream
On the morning of Saturday, 4 October 2025, the sun still hid shyly behind bands of grey cloud and the sky was washed in silver mist. I woke at Thiên Ưng Phủ to the lively calls of forest birds, on the land I had named with a deep belief that earth, too, possesses a soul. The whole landscape seemed newly awake after the night’s rain. On the lake, droplets clung to young leaves, then rolled down and spread into small circles like the breathing of the land.
In the distance, Bù Gia Mập forest blurred into the mist. It was not merely a forest, but a surviving ancient world, where trees tangled together like an endless green carpet. Local people say some dầu song nàng trunks are so large that four adults are needed to encircle them, while giáng hương and cẩm lai trees stand in silence like thousand-year-old statues. Through that forest, the Đắc Huýt River winds quietly like a water dragon, at once gentle and fierce, carrying silt, memory and the breath of the great forest.
That morning, Phương—the caretaker of Thiên Ưng Phủ and Thiên Mã Viên—and I prepared for an expedition we called “Journey into the Green Heart”. Breakfast at Thiên Ưng Phủ was simple: white rice, braised bamboo shoots, boiled eggs and Thái Nguyên tea. Yet the flavour came less from the food than from the excitement of two people about to enter an unpredictable adventure.
Phương smiled and said, “If the sun comes out today, the forest will be at its most beautiful.” I replied, “And if the rain comes pouring down, that will be the forest’s symphony.” We looked at each other and smiled. Amid birdsong and wind, the journey began like the opening movement of an epic about the forest.
A Small Boat and a Great River
A seven-horsepower motorboat borrowed from Mr. Út Len waited at the landing. Phương checked the fuel tank, life jackets, drinking water and machete. I carried a pair of Canadian oak tonfa—the weapons I normally use in Karate training—but this time not for fighting. They felt more like a talisman, a small piece of the civilized world carried into the wild.
We left the landing at nine in the morning. Thiên Ưng Phủ gradually receded behind us; rooftops, rows of areca palms and green lawns were swallowed by the hazy distance. At first the water was flat, the morning sun scattering silver reflections like thousands of fragments of mirror. We passed the “Hippo Horn”, a curved tongue of land shaped like a horn dipping into the water. The river widened and curved past gently sloping forest. Along both banks, sao đen, dầu rái, gõ đỏ, purple bằng lăng, cà chít, vên vên and chò chỉ grew densely, roots driven deep into the earth and crowns reaching toward the clouds. Their canopies interlocked into a vast vault, reducing sunlight to thin strands like silk threads.
Whenever the wind rose, the forest gave out a low rustling resonance, like an invitation from the wilderness. I looked up and saw a flock of multicoloured parakeets, their wings flashing red, green and yellow in the sun. A ground eagle glided past, its shadow sweeping across the water. I suddenly remembered a line I had once written:
“Thiên Ưng spreads its wings across the lake; Thiên Mã strikes its hooves along the shore of dreams...”
So inspiration does not come only from imagination. It was real, alive between sky and water before my eyes.
Cần Đơn Lake – A Mirror of the Sky
About thirty minutes later, we reached the Cần Đơn Lake area. It felt like a small inland sea beneath the forest sky. The water stood high around half-submerged tràm, gáo vàng, eucalyptus and lộc vừng trees bearing white and red blossoms with a faint fragrance. Bare dead trees raised their branches from the lake like fossilized hands reaching for the wind. Now and then kingfishers shot down to the water with a soft “tap” and vanished. Hawks circled high overhead, their calls carrying across the lake. In the distance, a line of wild ducks stretched over the water like a necklace drifting away. Wind came down from upstream, bringing coolness and the smell of silt. I drew a deep breath. The scent was rich and ancient, as if I were inhaling a fragment of the Earth’s memory.
We stopped at a hook-shaped peninsula where lồ ô bamboo and forest bamboo grew close to the bank, their leaves whispering in the breeze. A few purple wild orchids clung to decaying trunks. I bent over the water and saw my reflection mingled with cloud and sky—a strangely peaceful moment.
The Amphibious Peninsula and the Forest Keeper
At half past ten we reached Mr. Bảy Lâm’s little island, home to a man who lives in harmony with the forest. His house stands amid a sea of water, surrounded by water acacias, eucalyptus, trâm bầu and gõ đỏ. Their crowns reflected into the blue-green river like a second world beneath glass. I called it the “amphibious peninsula”, where people and trees alike adapt to both the flood season and the dry season.
Mr. Bảy was not at home. Phương took the boat around and we found him on the opposite bank preparing for a timber-barge trip. He smiled gently; his skin was darkened by the sun and his eyes carried the experience of someone who seems to understand the forest better than himself. Pointing upstream, he said: “Up that way is ranger station number 2. Beyond it you enter the national park. The water is strong this year. If your engine is weak, you may not make it as far as the Đắc Huýt bridge.”
His words were both advice and a quiet challenge from the river. We thanked him and continued.
Gateway to Bù Gia Mập
Beyond the Suối Ké and Suối Tưng ecological areas, houses disappeared completely. The forest began to take over the entire space. Along the banks, wild trâm, sao đen, dầu rái and water bằng lăng crowded together. Vines, ferns and moss wrapped the trunks. Every bend revealed a different world—sometimes a patch of brilliant sky, sometimes darkness almost like night.
Entering the Great Forest
Beyond the ranger station, the forest seemed to swallow us. Trees pressed close on both banks, roots reaching into the water like enormous serpents of the earth. The river changed colour from brown to deep green and then almost black, mirroring a sky broken by clouds. The sounds of the outside world vanished. There remained only the boat engine, birdsong and leaves rubbing together. I saw clusters of pure white orchids, thick green moss on trunks and lightly fragrant forest flowers. A flock of green parrots, brown mynas and forest bulbuls flashed past, their calls echoing. Along the bank stood dầu lông, sến, căm xe and striped ebony trees in solemn silence. The scene made me feel as small as a grain of dust lost inside the soul of the forest.
The wind rose, carrying the smell of earth, leaves and turbid river water. I reached down and touched the surface—so cool that it sent a shiver through me. This was a primordial breath, untouched by the smoke and dust of ordinary life.
Lunch beneath an Ancient Tree
Close to one in the afternoon, we pulled in on the right bank where an ancient banyan grew among rocks. Its roots were as thick as prehistoric pythons, gripping the earth. We tied the boat and rested in the shade. The place was so quiet that only the wind and the gentle tapping of water against the hull could be heard.
Phương opened his backpack and took out two boxes of sticky rice, a few slices of bread and a bottle of water. The meal was almost comically simple, yet in the forest it tasted extraordinary. I chewed each mouthful of sticky rice and felt its texture mingle with the scent of earth and wind.
A little later, a small engine sounded nearby. A young man paddled over in a boat. His name was Sơn, a local resident checking bird traps. We invited him to eat with us. He said, “There are many bird species up here—red pheasants, green peafowl and forest eagles. At night their calls sound like an orchestra from the sky.” I asked, “Aren’t you afraid of loneliness?” He laughed. “Once you have lived with the forest, the city is where you feel lonely.”
His words kept me silent for a long time. In that moment, I understood: the forest shelters not only living creatures, but also the human soul.
The Challenge of the Current
After saying goodbye to Sơn, we continued upstream. The water began to churn and the current was no longer gentle. The engine roared in bursts and the bow shuddered. Phương gripped the tiller, his face tightening, eyes fixed on the boiling water ahead. I looked around. Old forest darkened both banks and gigantic trunks leaned together like a closed green wall. Ahead, white waves burst into foam and crashed against rocks, echoing like thousand-year-old drums of the Bù Gia Mập wilderness.
A large wave suddenly struck and lifted the small boat. Both of us froze, hearts jumping. “Enough! Let’s turn back!” I shouted, my voice lost in the wind.
Phương leaned his body into the tiller, every muscle tense. Sweat ran down his forehead and mixed with spray from the bow. The boat rocked violently, pitching like a wild horse struggling through a storm. Each impact made the hull groan, while the propeller clattered “tak-tak”, sounding almost like a cry of distress in the fierce river.
Everything happened in only a few seconds, but to us it stretched like an endless dream of tension. The world blurred until there was only water, wind and life suspended above white foam.
Then, in that seemingly endless instant, the boat suddenly surged upward—a strange lift, as if the river were testing human courage. It shot across a patch of brush, slipped between two trunks, then slammed down onto the river with a tremendous crash. The impact shook through our bodies. Water exploded over the sides and struck our faces, sharp-tasting and icy cold.
We clung to the gunwales, gasping. The engine still coughed unevenly, mixing with the hammering of our hearts. The current spun around us as if it meant to swallow everything, then slowly calmed until only little bubbles remained.
When we realized we were still alive, we looked at each other—exhausted eyes suddenly bright with a joy beyond words. Then both of us began to laugh. A long, hoarse, almost mad laugh travelled into the wind and water. It was the laughter of two people who had just crossed the boundary between fear and wonder—between human smallness and the immeasurable power of nature.
Humans cannot conquer a river. But sometimes the river permits us to pass—only to remind us that we have been allowed to live.
Afternoon on the Đắc Huýt River
When the current softened, we released our grip and let the boat drift naturally downstream. The sky opened wide and white clouds floated overhead. The river reflected the sunset as though plated with gold. Night herons called to one another and forest cicadas began their steady chorus. In the distance, several long-tailed monkeys moved through the branches, their cries carrying across the forest.
The last sunlight filtered through leaves and scattered bright patterns across the water. I looked around. Here, everything seemed to possess a soul—grass, trees, river, birds. Nature appeared to be speaking in a language of its own, a language that needs no words.
We pulled into a narrow path on the bank and walked about two kilometres into the forest. The red-earth trail was slippery and fallen leaves lay nearly a hand’s breadth thick. The humid smell of the forest rose strongly around us. Ferns, climbing rattan, ground orchids and stands of cogon grass taller than a person formed a natural maze. Every step revealed something new; every breath seemed to recover a fragment of memory.
Phương broke off a few young bamboo shoots and said, “We’ll take these back and make soup tonight.” I nodded, though my attention remained on the final stripe of sunlight falling across the trunk of a giant dầu rái tree—the gold looked like the day’s last stroke of rouge.
Night at Thiên Ưng Phủ – When the Forest Tells Stories
We returned to Thiên Ưng Phủ after the sun had completely set. The afternoon rain arrived, heavy and persistent. Rain on the thatched roof sounded like bronze drums echoing from ancient times. In the Phá Sóng hut, solar-powered lights cast a dim warmth. Outside, wind moved through the cashew orchard with a long rustle, while insects joined in the music of the night.
I lay quietly, listening to the rain and thinking about the day—a day in which I had seen the forest breathe, the river live and the human heart merge with earth and sky. Every wave, canopy and birdcall had been engraved in memory like a chapter in nature’s book. I understood that I had not merely travelled along a river. I had passed through the smallness and arrogance of the human self in order to rediscover reverence for Mother Earth.
My friends, the Đắc Huýt is more than a river. It is the lifeblood of Bù Gia Mập forest, a path leading us into the primordial memory of earth and sky. On its water you will see bands of ancient forest, brightly coloured birds and schools of fish flashing beneath the sun—and above all, the endless symphony of water, wind and the forest’s spirit.
If city life has ever left you exhausted, try once to leave comfort behind and sit in a small boat while the river carries you through the great forest. Listen to water against the hull, birds calling to their flock, and the breathing of Mother Earth. Only when we touch the wild can we understand what true freedom means.
“The sky is still, clouds drift reflected in the water; soft grass leans to welcome a poetic evening.”
The forest is still there, the river still flows, the birds still fly—waiting only for dreamers brave enough to set out.