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.