When I first walked onto this beach, and saw the magnificent rock formations which thrust out into the ocean, it was hard to imagine that I would, or could, ever leave such a beautiful place.

Working day and night on the sand had connected some part of me with its constant rumbling waters. The hatchery had become full and we built an extension to accommodate all the new nests which were being found each night. I took what I had learned during the expansion and, with Alvero, one of the rangers, had gone up the beach to help the students at the Escula de Isla Palo Seco build a hatchery of their own where they could learn to help conservationists. And then, in the last few nights, eggs which I had carefully buried in the hatchery’s sand a month and a half ago began to hatch - I had seen the nesting process come full circle.

But now, as I sit atop one of the gigantic stone monoliths, taking a break from looking through my camera’s lens and just enjoying my final sunset over Punta Judas with my own eyes, the realization that tomorrow’s sunset will be over a new wilderness manifests in my mind, and I am both sad and excited.

I had made arrangements the previous night with Don Geraldo, another of the park rangers, to meet me at the station early in the morning. He would take me as far as the closest parada where I could catch a bus to Parrita – if it was running that day.

I wake, as I do many mornings, with the Sun’s bright rays reflecting off the shimmering silver capped waves just outside my screened-in window. I walk down the wooden stairs on the side of the house to find that my ride has already arrived, and is sitting in the open air kitchen taking long sips from his cup of black coffee while listening intently to Carlos, the property’s care taker, describe how he shooed off a couple of men who were fishing for red snapper from the protected rocks a few days ago.

I remember that day. I had walked barefoot out to the rocks next to him as he held a long bamboo pole in one hand and twirled a bright orange whistle by its strap with the other. Despite these symbols of authority however the confrontation had not been an aggressive one, indeed, it had been more of a casual reunion between Carlos and the anglers. A couple of short blasts from the orange whistle had prompted the men to pick up their fishing tools, cross a few deep rocky crevasses, and climb up on the ledge where we were standing – hands extended and greeting Carlos as if “it had been a while”. In a very nonchalant tone of voice Carlos had informed his aquatints of the fishing restrictions here on the reserve, then stepped back with a smile to admire their catch. He had told me before how he loved to fish these rocks as a younger man, before the area had been made into a refuge. There, in that vicarious moment, I could see a glimmer in his eye that I had not seen during my two months on the beach.

“Soy terminado con mi café. Está usted listo viajar?”, says Geraldo with his quiet, Tico accent through the kitchen’s screen window, asking me if I am ready.

“Si”, I say as I run back up the stairs, suddenly feeling proud of my decision the night before to ignored my usual procrastinating tendencies and leave no job for the morning.

I open the door and quietly grab my backpack, trying not to wake my roommates. I take a last look at my bunk bed and the room. I feel sad that I will not have a chance to say goodbye to some of the volunteers; thinking I would have time in the morning had made me skip a few “Hasta Luego’s” the night before. But I had hitched a ride with these rangers many times and when they were ready you had better be too, or you were walking.

I carry my pack down the stairs and hoist it up into the red and rusty, thirty –something year old Toyota double-cab’s makeshift bed. “Listo!”, I say confidently through the kitchen’s screen window as I smile to myself and walk around to the door of the heavily worn vehicle. Don Geraldo stands and looks at the Toyota, then at his empty cup. He smiles, and in his quiet, Tico accent says, “Quiero mas café,” and walks over to the pot to pour another cup full. Carlos, observing the pointlessness of my hurried spectacle, lets out an overly loud, “Ha!” and with an amused look on his face asks me if I would like some pancakes.

By the time Don Geraldo is ready to head out most of the volunteers are awake and full of pancakes. I get my chance to say a few last goodbyes and write down some e-mail addresses. A few German and American girls, desperate to have a day in nearby Jaco, convince Geraldo to let them ride along; they would continue on with him after dropping me off at the parada. We place some pieces of plastic over the seats where some early morning rain had come in through the hole that should contain the back window and pile into the Toyota. I give Carlos a firm handshake through the window and tell him I hope to see him next year. Geraldo climbs in and turns the ignition key. “Click! Click!” Nothing. The red and rusty, thirty-something year old Toyota double-cab with a makeshift bed and a missing back window won’t start. This does not strike anyone as odd however having seen this particular Toyota not start on many occasions, and each of the volunteers calmly takes a place behind the vehicle and begins to push. Geraldo turns the key again and the motor kicks over as he throws the truck into gear and we drive out onto the beach. We make a wide turn and head back up the path, past the kitchen and the rest of the volunteers who are all waving with great smiles on their faces. I shout out one final “Ciao!” to Carlos before a bend in the road makes me take my final look at the Refugio de Playa Punta Judas.

The red and rusty Toyota, packed with its multinational cargo, maneuvers the ruts and pot holes of the dirt road as it heads toward the crossing which connects the refuge with the rest of Costa Rica. We past the horse pastures, rice fields, and palm plantations which I had seen through the headlights that first night, as we were heading toward the ranger station. The early morning rain had dissipated the clouds and the Sun had risen into a clear eastern sky. The light is almost painful as it bounces in all angles from the moisture drops which have collected on leafs in the thin vegetation growing in the ditches at the edge of the plantations. Iguanas and whiptails, basking in the mid-road’s full illumination, scurry into these ditches as the Toyota’s tread worn tires kick up a dust trail, through which the Sun’s rays cast penetrating shafts of light.

Don Geraldo pulls out onto the blacktopped, two-lane thoroughfare and from there it is less than a minute’s ride to the parada. We drive up next to it and I jump down, grab my pack, say a final goodbye to Geraldo and the girls, and watch the red and rusty Toyota with the make-shift bed and missing back window take off down the road towards Jaco.

Turning to face the small shelter, I notice a sign on the roof with an oversized cartoon rooster advertising an appliance store in Parrita. I walk over to the parada and lay my pack down on the flat concrete bench. Beside it, sitting atop a large cloth sack of laundry, an old and rather round woman in a faded yellow and blue floral dress coddles a beautiful, dark haired little girl, whose eyes are wide in amazement at the site of the incredibly large bird. I ask the woman if she knows what time the bus heading to Parrita would come by. She assures me that most days there is one which stops here sometime before 11 a.m. I look down at my watch. 9:47 a.m. “If today is most days”, I think to myself, “I shouldn’t have to wait more than just over an hour.” I sit down on the bench next to my pack and make a funny face at the little girl, who now finds my uncombed hair and thick gringo accent more entertaining than a motionless, cartoon rooster. Affectionately whispering, “Me amore”, into the little girls ear, the woman spins her around on her faded blue and yellow floral dress and, taking a few bunches of her dark hair, begins to make a tight braid as she asks me why I am headed to Parrita. I tell her I am on my way to Mastatal and that I have to catch a bus which leaves from Parrita a little after noon. She wraps a rubber band around the tip of the braid and begins a new one. I tell her that I have been staying on the refuge at Punta Judas.

“Ahhhhhh! Yo conozco Carlos” she says.

Every place I go seems to have somebody who knows Carlos. She asks me if I know some other park rangers and I recognize a few of the names she gives me. She tells me they are on their way to Puntarenas to visit some family and maybe buy some new shoes for the little girl’s older brother, who can not make the trip because he is studying in San Jose.

At 10:22 a.m. a bus with a hand written sign reading “Puntarenas a Quepos” taped to the front window comes to a stop in front the little parada. The old woman gives me a warm smile and tells me this is my bus. I cross my eyes at the little girl and wave goodbye. With my pack under the coach I climb on and sit down in an open seat as we take off down the road.

In Parrita, I have just enough time to check into an internet café and grab a casado from a lunch counter near the terminal before my next bus takes off for the mountains. It is a smaller vehicle and standing room only for much of the journey. It takes quite a while for the bus to ascend the steep and rocky terrain. We pass small, colorfully painted houses with elaborate gardens of squash, maiz, cilantro, papaya, and banana planted to their side or in the front. Cows grazing on grass growing at the road’s edge create a roadblock, and as the driver lets out a few long blasts on his horn a few teenagers lean their heads out the window and laugh at the slow-to-cooperate animals.

My stop is quite literally in the middle of nowhere. This place, which the locals call “El Cruse”, is little more than a fork in the road which looks down into a deep pasture valley on one side, and up another steep dirt road on the other. The parada consists of a simple wall of stacked cinder blocks, some of which have obviously been taken through the years. A roof of weathered and age darkened scrap wood leans off the top of the structure, making a steady creaking sound as the winds whips up from the valley below. Inside the little building, beneath the leaning roof, pieces of burnt wood show where a traveler had recently built a fire as he waited for the next bus to pass by. From what people had told me at the terminal in Parrita, the bus would not be around here for at least another two hours. I lay by pack down in the corner and sit on a tree stump which is the stop’s sole seat. I take the out-of-date National Geographic magazine I have been carrying around for over 2 months from my bag and begin to flip through the pages. There is a great spread about Central American army ants on page 47, but somehow, with all the wildlife I have been seeing on a daily basis, my favorite publication can’t seem to hold my attention right now. I walk across the little, lonely road and peer down into the valley; its steep sides shining a vibrant green as the young vegetation reflects the late afternoon’s warm glow. I hear a squawking sound echoing from within the valley’s walls and look out into air as a pair of Scarlet Macaws, wings flapping rapidly, fly directly in front of me toward a patch of forest on the opposite side.

Next to this stand of tropical trees I can just make out the shape of a dirt bike speeding its way up the road. The bike comes to a stop at the fork and a boy riding on the back jumps off and pats the driver on the shoulder, who waves and speeds off back down the hill. He walks over to me and shakes my hand, introducing himself as Oscar. He tells me he is on his way to Mastatal as well, and that the bus should be here soon.

I had been planning to visit Mastatal since I first arrived in the country two and a half months ago. During the summer of 2005 I had spent nearly three weeks exploring the trails and rivers which run trough the tiny village and it had really been there where I first fell in love with Costa Rica. On several occasions travelers coming from the Rancho Mastatal, a communal hostel built around sustainable living practices, had visited the beach at Punta Judas, bringing with them stories and rekindling my desire to see its beautiful forests and skies once again. Two of these travelers, Steven and Phoebe, had been running the ranch for the owners while they were back in the states, and came to Punta Judas for a weekend get away. When they left to return back to the ranch I told them that I would be coming up soon, but that was weeks ago. The busy end of the nesting season had made me stay longer than I had first planned, and now, as I sit here only seven kilometers away, looking up the steep road to Mastatal, I am worried that Steven and Phoebe may have already moved on.

The sound of heavy, shifting gears echoing up through the valley gives Oscar and I plenty of notice that our bus will be arriving shortly. Five minutes later an old and reused yellow Bluebird school bus, like many I had become accustomed to in these rural areas, stops at the Y in the road and we climb aboard, pay our fare, and take a seat directly behind the driver. When I first decided to make this journey I had planned to walk the 7 kilometer road from the parada to Mastatal, but was told it can be a nasty place to get caught in a mid-day tropical down pour, should one present its self. However now, sitting here observing the terrain of the road from inside this old bus, it is not the threat of a sudden shower that makes me happy with my choice to wait for a ride, but rather the sheer steepness of the route, which does not seem to quit ascending. When it does peak, there is a long downward jaunt followed by another upward climb. I watch the up and down road and try to guess how far I would have gotten before this bus would have passed by.

Oscar nudges me on the shoulder as we crest another summit in the road and points out the left window across a deep ravine to a heavily forested mountain slope. The late afternoon moisture expands and contracts as it is held captive within the countless entangled branches while the setting sun casts its day’s final pink and orange rays onto the top of the peak, where the twisted finger-like silhouettes of strangler figs contrast with a dark, royal blue sky. “Cerro de la Cangreja”, he says, slinking down in his seat to get a better view as we start yet another decent. Created in 2002, the “Park of the Crab” is Costa Rica’s newest national park, and one of its boarders rests against the edge of Mastatal – we must be close.

It is dark as the bus pulls into the tiny village, which is little more than a fork in the road. Oscar and I exit the coach and say ciao. Though it is dark, the town looks as it did a year and a half ago and I feel an immediate sense of familiarity. I cross the street to the entrance of the ranch and head for the house that is the center of activity at Rancho Mastatal, taking my time to remember all the little details from my previous visit - the gardens in the yard full of edible herbs; the baskets of carrots, avocados, yucca, and chayote laying near the kitchen waiting to be turned into some delicious feast; and the feel of the porch’s hard, smooth cob floor against the bottoms of my shoeless feet. I am leaning against a post on the porch, gazing out upon the thick forest with a reminiscent stare when I hear a familiar voice from behind calmly say, “Hey Ryan”. Standing next to the outside fridge, with his glasses and big warm smile, as if he had known I would be arriving at just that moment, is Steven, holding a couple of onions and a tomato. “Come on in, you can help me make dinner.”

As the first few days become the first few weeks, life begins to settle into routine at my new home on Playa Punta Judas. Night after night the volunteers, Silvia, and I patrol the dark secluded beach, collecting Olive Ridley eggs for redeposit into the hatchery while keeping an eye out for poachers. During the late afternoons, after the scorching tropical sun has simmered to a tolerable temperature, we dig up the old nests and sort through shells and undeveloped eggs. In between these daily duties I find plenty of time to explore the ins and outs of the wildlife refuge. Situated less than 10 kilometers southeast of the brightly lit surfing village of Jaco and 4 kilometers west of the increasingly growing residential areas around Esterillos, the isolated beach, which is one of only a few along this stretch of Pacific coast still well suited for sea turtle nesting, almost seems to invite exploration and wonderment of its sanctious sands, and of its superfluity of supplementary habitat, which continue to provide home and haven for a plethora of tropical, costal life.

One of my favorite places to explore is among the huge rock formations which stretch out in a linear fashion, like fingers, into the crashing waves of the Pacific. These rocks nearly vanish from site during the high tide, though as the Moon’s orbit progresses the water slowly recedes, revealing the full spectacle of these massive amphibious protrusions.

Sharp and jagged, and enveloped with a skin of slick, damp algae and rough, permanent barnacles, the rocks which bare the name of Punta Mala sit dark and unmoved in a sea of dynamic turbulence.

Eroded by the briny force, the striated rocks are sachet with large, round holes which, as the sea slips further out, catch a multitude of puffer fish, octopus, and other marine invertebrates, and locks them into a natural aquarium until the returning tide releases them back into the salty shallows.

Above these pools, dark colored crabs traverse the edges, slipping effortlessly into the shadows as gulls patrol over head with hungry eyes. At the end of this impressive scene enormous breakers burst against the rock walls and explode into the air with monstrous reverberation. It is here, amongst the chaotic crashes, that the pelicans sit and rest, pausing from their well organized glides just meters over the cresting surface of the sea. In the late afternoons, the glossy luminescence which reflects off the wet rocks seems to sparkle and dance with the warm colors of the sinking Sun.

As the glowing orb kisses the liquidy horizon, the soft, translucent clouds radiate with a kaleidoscope of hues and tints and contrast with the sharp, silhouetted edges of the rocks below.

The after moments of every sunrise bring an entirely different feel to the warm dusk air. Each evening, as Venus materializes low in the still glowing twilight sky, a concerto of churps and clucks begins to resonate from the wall of deep green vegetation which surrounds the station house – this is the beginning of frog hour. In the water-logged grass just behind, amongst a stand of pipa laden palms, a different tune, that of a bloop bloop, seems to keep a steady, cadenced beat that helps tie together the symphonic melodies of this outdoor orchestra. A path which leads from behind the kitchen, past several large Guyabana trees, through a gap in an old barbed-wire fence, and ends at a small pond with several fallen trees laying over the still water becomes a favorite place to search for the instrumentalists of this ensemble. It takes only minutes of scanning the saplings growing near the water with my spotlight to catch a glimpse of these diffident composers, though each time my light falls upon one I feel my breath gasp as if it were my first encounter.

The Red Eyed Tree Frog is usually my first sighting of the night. It is hard not to be totally taken with excitement at the first view of its oversized blood red eyes which contrast perfectly against a slender, neon green body. Along its sides, teal blue strips overlay a brilliant yellow underside which continues down the length of the limbs and onto the wide, webbed pads of the hands and feet. Sometimes, I find them in pairs, mating on the underside of a leaf or on in the litter covering the ground, their colors muted to avoid attention during this vulnerable activity.

Other frogs - some yellow, some orange, some striped with black and brown masks – are found on leaves as well, the males guarding their little piece of the forest and calling out for a potential mate.

Other sites are abound in this small but rich habitat. Insectivorous bats congest the air just meters above, swooping to catch mosquitoes and sancooros. Giant green and yellow preying mantises land on the outer limbs of low hanging branches in hopes of capturing a cicada or perhaps a leaf mimic with their strong, serrated forearms.

Herbivorous, colorful caterpillars feed on the underside of huge thick leaves, on top of which vinesnakes slither slowly in search of a meal of frog eggs.

Night birds sit stationary in the exposed areas of the grass, reflective eyes betraying their dark, camouflaged bodies, and in the palm plantation just beyond the perimeter of the pond and the refuge, Terciopelos, one of the most venomous and dangerous snakes in Central and South America, lay coiled under fallen fronds, anticipating their next victim.

I take a couple of guys, Nils and Roland, back into this particular palm plantation one night after an immense tropical downpour. I had met them in a book store in Jaco where I had been looking for a reptile guide. They had come to Costa Rica from Norway for the sole purpose of locating and photographing venomous snakes. They had been to Dominical to see the beautiful yellow and green eyelash vipers and had even been lucky enough to witness a sea snake beached there on the sand. But they had not yet seen the more common Terciopelo.

“Come to Punta Mala”, I had said, “I will show your snake.”

Piled in their rented, white SUV we take off into the dark and heavily rutted service roads used by the plantation workers to remove and haul the oil-rich palm fruits from the monoculture. Slick and muddy from the fresh rain, the vehicle trudges slowly over the saturated soil as Nils and I hang out our opened windows with spotlights shinning bright into the plantation’s thickly covered ground. As we roll over a rickety wooden bridge which crosses over a small irrigation canal Roland applies the breaks hard and in a thick Norwegian accent shouts,

“Look! There in the grass!”

Ahead of us, in the lights of the SUV’s high beams, amongst the grass and dead leafs lining the muddy path, the pointed head of a Terciopelo, marked with the typical coffee brown X pattern, sits motionless, not quite in a striking position but certainly poised to deal quickly with any situation which may happen to venture near her venomous mouth.

The three of us exit the SUV, each brandishing a spotlight in one hand and a snake hook in the other. The vehicle had come to park on the narrow canal bridge, leaving little room for us to make our way to the front. The serpent stays motionless during the racket we make climbing over the hood, as though trying to intimidate us by keeping her cool. As I approach the protruding head, I can see more of the X’ed pattern in the grass and it becomes apparent that this snake is quite long. With my spotlight trained steadily on her eyes, I gently place the curved metal of my snake hook under the mid-body and lift her out onto the cleared road. For a brief moment we stare at her beautiful patterns and colors which seem to blend into one another as they progress down the length of her two meter body. But the excited tranquility of the moment is soon broken. Before I have time to place her on the ground, her head whips from the hook, springing her body to the muddy road. Like an angry dog she lunges at me once, then
again, each time jolting her entire body toward us. The SUV, blocking both sides of the narrow bridge, leaves little choice but for the three of us to jump onto the hood of the vehicle. Looking a bit like the Three Stooges, we glance back down in time to watch the Terciopelo’s velvet-like body triumphantly slip under a pile of palm fronds at the other side of the road.

We spend the next few hours driving up and down the palm plantation and by the time we decide to call it a night we have counted eleven Terciopelos. Taking a cue from the first encounter, we decide that it’s better to capture the dangerous animals with our cameras instead of our hooks.

After exchanging Email addresses, Nils and Roland take off down the heavily rutted road and I walk out onto the beach to take in the night sky which has become visible through a break in the dense clouds. I am thankful for the absence of light the refuge provides as I gaze up at Orion and the Pleiades. Cassiopeia stands eternally beautiful, bright and defined, as King Cephus sits poised on his throne. Vega shines a pale blue, and I think I can just make out the spiral-like arms of Andromeda’s faint, fuzzy glow. Directly above me, Pegasus soars motionlessly and due north, lower than I have ever seen from my home in Washington, Polaris hangs just over the high montane tree line. “This is a night to remember”, I think to myself as a meteorite burning quickly across the western sky catches my attention. I had said these very words to myself almost on a nightly basis since I came to the beach. I slowly stroll back up the sandy path leading to the ranger house to jot a few notes in my journal.