Communing with the multitude of life inside a tropical forest, and sharing with it the coming of dawn is, for me, the most emotional and spiritual experience obtainable. As the Sun’s first rays crest the surrounding mountain peaks and penetrate the thick canopies above, the moisture, which had the night before condensed on every leaf and rock, on the trunk of every fallen tree, and in the soft, spongy and lichen laden soil of the steep valleys below, begins to lift, slowly at first, rising up from the thick vegetation, forming small, spindly white streaks like fingers which reach out to one another as they ascend from the deep basins upon currents of warming air.

These small, faint clouds drift slowly and effortlessly through the tangled corridors of standing trees and hanging creepers like a dream’s ghostly apparition, finally joining one another and expanding until the entire forest becomes shrouded in an endless curtain of translucent fog which seems to evoke a dynamic and vibrant sensation as it passes.

Light, diffused through a billion tiny suspended water droplets, bounces from every angle, saturating the infinite variations of color throughout the still forest and adding a glowing radiance to the misty haze which hovers above countless babbling waterfalls.

The sound of calling frogs and other nocturnal life gives way to the chirps and songs of waking birds, few at first, then more, finally erupting into a choir of symphonic melodies which come from all directions, making it difficult to isolate a single performer. Any noise from beyond the forest is muffled and silenced by the giant trees and thick foliage, and as the multi colored, deciduous leaves fall from their branches high within canopy their impact upon the soft floor can faintly be heard. So too is the stillness broken by the soft thud of the incredibly beautiful black and green poison frog as it patrols its territory amongst the leaf litter.

Through the brush and saplings of the forest’s undergrowth come vivid displays of fluttering reds, oranges, purples, blacks, and iridescent blues as butterflies make the rounds of flowers which seem only to mirror the beauty found on the wings of the insects.

As the Sun’s heat becomes stronger the vapor rises further up the vale, eventually becoming low hanging clouds which quickly dissipate, allowing shafts of strong, tropical light to penetrate and illuminate the forest floor. From all direction drops of dew which have pooled up on the leafs’ surfaces refract the fierce light like tiny prisms and the forest twinkles as though it possesses all the stars in the heavens.

The waterfalls’ tranquil flows echo this blinding light as well, which dances in psychedelic patterns on the undersides of large, overhanging leafs and on the sides of dark boulders which hide in the shadows.

It was the memory of this morning splendor which had kept the forests surrounding Mastatal rich in my mind since I had first visited the tiny mountain village over a year ago. As I traveled Costa Rica’s scenic and breathtaking lands during these last couple of months, I had rarely witnessed a beauty which touched my soul as completely as did the serenity of the nature within Mastatal. Waking this morning long before the onset of dawn, I had hiked down into the forest to feel the rebirth of this new day, and to rejuvenate my mind from deep within nature’s magnificence. Blissful and euphoric from my morning meditation, and ready for my first full day of work at the ranch, I turn and head back up the steep trail leading to the main house.

Sitting on over 500 acres of both wet and pre-montane rainforest and touching the Cerro De La Cangreja, Costa Rica’s youngest national park, Rancho Mastatal was created by two Seattleites, Tim and Robin O’Hara, as an environmental learning center; a place for students, volunteers, and stewards of the land to come and be educated in sustainable practices. Scattered throughout the property small dwellings made of natural and local materials provide shelter for those who come to explore and learn to be more environmentally conscience. Communal living, eating, and activities strengthen the bonds between otherwise disconnected, worldly travelers who trek to this out-of-the-way eco haven in search of more than a bed and breakfast and a guided tour. Helping with dinner, tending the gardens, and building new accommodations, somehow gives more than can be found in the tour traps along the coasts and in the parks. Here, life seems to be genuine, and relations tend to form in harmony with the surrounding community and scenery.

The work at the ranch can range from labors tasks such as hauling teak to artsy projects like creating bed knobs for the frames in the new house. Today, as it turns out, and much to my delight, is bread day. In keeping with a sustainable style, most of the food at the ranch is made organically and from scratch. This moring, after a delicious and collaboratively made breakfast, Chris, a volunteer from the Olympic Peninsula, had gathered wood from the pile across the yard, opened the door to the large, earthen oven sitting at the edge of the porch, and built a fire that would have made any camper proud. Meanwhile Anna, Margaret and I, after thumbing through a few recipe books, had covered every flat surface in the kitchen with flower, cups of warm water and yeast, and large bowls, kneading and preparing the doughy loaves that would soon be the coming week’s supply of carbohydrates.

Now, with the internal temperature of the mud and straw oven just right, Anna opens the door and, with a long wooden tool resembling an oar, I slip a few round doughes inside next to the fire burning slowly at the back. In only a few minutes the rich and fragrant aroma of charcoal and yeast fill the air around the porch and as I look through the small holes in the crescent shaped door I can see that the rounds have risen and developed a golden brown top which glistens with the fire’s dancing flame. I remove the loaves and we all take a moment of pride in looking at our first batch of perfectly baked egg bread. Another bunch in, more nose tingling scents and VOILA! – Bagels. Next are the pitas, 42 in all. Soon, all of the baskets in the house are filled with cooling bread and we are debating the perfect dinner to accompany such an assortment.

Life revolves around food, whether it is at home in the city, or while traveling abroad, and, at Rancho Mastatal, the events of each day come together around the dinner table. Whatever projects a volunteer takes on during the day, and whatever lessons he or she takes from those experiences, a small amount of time before the day’s last meal is reserved for reflecting, and for sharing these growths with the group. Holding hands in a circle around a table lit only by candles, all who come to live on the ranch speak and listen with open minds and open hearts about the day’s events. This is a time to give thanks for help, or perhaps to share a gained outlook on life. It is a time to hear, to talk, to commune, and to feel a belonging to a place which is as beautiful internally as it is outside.

Rain had been coming and going all day, but as I finish cleaning my plate over the sink I hear the last few drops fall. Steven and I had enjoyed a couple of night hikes when he and Phoebe had come to visit the beach at Punta Judas, and I was anxious to see what the night held here at Mastatal. With headlamps on and cameras hung off our necks, we walk down one of the trails behind the main house into the surround sound of activity. Large holes line the earth at the sides of the trail, abandoned boroughs dug by the beautifully colored Mot-mot bird. As we shine our lamps into these holes light reflects from webs of silk which lace the top of the tunnels. From these webs long, thin strands dangle down and almost touch the floor of the borough creating a sensitive security alarm for the spider now residing at the back. Further along, lying in the middle of the trail, a group of tiny, white eggs lay in a geometric cluster measuring only millimeters across.

Frogs grasp the saplings which grow along the path as though they were circus tightrope walkers, and on the walls of mud which make up the steeply sloped terrain beside the trail creatures resembling some sort of an arachnid probe at their surroundings with extremely long appendages.

It is only though my macro lens that I begin to see the details in the shape and markings of this strange bug; its dark head and serrated forelimbs resembling a horror film’s antagonist as I bring it into focus. Startled by the dim adjustment light on the end of my flash, the creature darts from below my closely focused lens, which exaggerates the scene, demanding an involuntary “AHHHHH!” from my lungs and sending my reflexes into a completely amplified, backwards leap that prompts Steven to reach out and grab me by the shirt, keeping me from continuing down a rather steep ravine. We relive the moment and have a quick chuckle, then decide that perhaps it is time to return the house for some less adventurous entertainment.

Among all the essentials needed while traveling through the tropics, Steven had thoughtfully carried along his Martin backpacker’s Guitar. A talented musician, he had taken to teaching the basics to anyone in town with a slight curiosity of the instrument. We return and find two local kids, Eliezar and Junior, sitting on the porch tuning a couple of guitars from inside and going over the few chords they had memorized. Steven sits down next to them and I find a couple of pots and pans in the kitchen with decent sounds and soon the Mastatal Quartet is belting out its debut jam while the frogs, crickets, and other nocturnal forest life hum through the trees as though they were a background synthesizer.

Palms pounding from the pot and pan percussions, and feeling the end of the day approaching, I wish the group a goodnight and walk down the path leading to the outdoor shower. Stretched across the trail, spider webs catch on my skin and tickle my face as I pass, and through the buzz of sounds coming from the deep foliage I can hear the whistles of a male sloth high in a tree above. The trail is covered with a thick layer of large, dead leaves which all glow various shades of pale blue in the dim light of my LED head lamp. With my eyes fixed on the sprawl of illuminated trail in front of me, keeping a careful watch for the Terciopelo’s dark X pattern which I had become so familiar with back at Playa Punta Judas, something unexpected catches my attention. Down at my feet, among the leaf litter and debris covering the trail, a line nearly five centimeters wide and stretching from one side of the path to the other has been totally cleared. In the faint beam of my lamp it appears as if something dark and long is moving though this little clearing. Bending down, I take a brighter light from my bag and flood the path, making the creature clearly visible. In front of me, just centimeters from my hand and moving rapidly from right to left is an entire colony of army ants.

A nomadic species, army ants spend the majority of time above ground, constantly moving throughout the forest in search of food. The queen, who is capable of producing colonies in excess of a million subjects, is continuously surrounded by an entourage of relitives as she travels this night time parade. When the mobile colony occasionally brings its march to a rest, the workers lock their legs to one another to form a large, living nest known as a bivouac, from where the queen, safely protected deep inside, can lay her eggs, which are then carried by the workers when it is time for the colony to move. The number of ants which are moving in front of me now is quite amazing. And, the organization in each of their specific tasks is apparent. The majority of the swarm is made of small workers, which have spread out over the uneven terrain to create a smoother path for the rest of the brigade to walk over. Like living bridges, they have joined their limbs together at the edge of the trail where large sticks and leaves have gathered in order to span the gaps which impede the progress of the colony. Over this “ant road” other workers carry bits of food, eggs, and larva which will become the future citizens of this homeless empire.

Patrolling the flanks of this midnight march, and keeping all the subordinates in line, the massive soldier ants pace back and forth, watching for any intruders which may disrupt the steady flow of the routine. Nearly five times larger than their worker ant counterparts and possessing a pair pincers so large and strong that some Amazonian tribes use them to suture wounds, these militant monsters seem to evoke an air of power. I had learned just how painful the bite of a soldier can be a year ago when I had stopped on this very trail to watch a line of workers build a bridge between two rocks. Not realizing how close my sandaled foot was to the slough of ants, I suddenly felt a sharp sensation as though being cut by a pair of small surgical scissors jolt through the flesh on the back of my right heel. Before I had time to kick off the sandal and swat at the inflamed skin with my hand I could see a stream of crimson blood trickling down the back of my foot. Next to the flowing blood was a large soldier ant with one huge mandible-like pincer still buried deep inside me, hanging from my fresh wound as though he had not yet finished the job. It took nearly ten minutes for the blood to clot and a few hours for the pain to stop. Now, as I sit watching the soldiers keeping order within the regiment, I am certainly aware of the placements of all my limbs.

I step over the path of ants and continue down to the shower. After washing up for the night I return to the main house to pack up my gear. There is only one bus out of Mastatal each day and if I want to make it back to San Jose in time to catch my flight home I will have to be waiting for it when it arrives at 6 in the morning.

My watch alarm wakes me at 5:35 the next morning and I spring from my bed. Usually the bus drivers are late. But some times they are early, and this being the only bus out of here today I am not willing to take any chances. I make my bed and grab one of the bagels from the previous day out of the fridge in the kitchen for an on-the-go breakfast. I am sorry that I will not being eating with Phoebe, Steven, and the rest of the volunteers this morning, as I felt I had become quite close to the bunch during my few days of living here at the ranch. As I walk out the door and through the small gardens in the yard, I turn to looking back at the house, which is starting to glow in the first few rays of dawn. In the distance I can hear the shifting gears of a bus coming up the road and I walk the few meters across the street to the bus stop to await its arrival. A few minutes later I have paid my fare and am sitting in a broken seat of a typical recycled yellow school bus watching the few houses of Mastatal disappear behind us in a cloud of dirt through the driver’s oversized rearview mirror.

I ride the bus as far as the little parada at El Cruse where I had met Oscar a few days before. An old woman with long, dark hair and coarse, brown skin exits the bus with me, pulling behind her three large red cloth sacks while going to lengths not to smash the contents of a smaller white bag around her shoulder. I grab each of the red sacks and one by one carry them across the street to the decrepit bus stop. She thanks me each time and tells me that they are full of clothing she has made and hopes to sell down near the Rio Tulin. She takes the smaller white sack from her shoulder, placing it gently on the ground beside her, and sits down on one of the red sacks. I do the same, leaning up against my pack. Then, something catches my eye. The smaller white bag begins to move. The old woman notices my reaction and gives a small laugh. “Pollo”, she says. With her worn and rough hands she unties the bag and removes two chickens whose feet have been loosely bound by pieces of fabric to keep them from running. As she spreads out a small amount of uncooked rice on the ground as feed she tells me that she will also try to sell these chickens when she arrives.

After a couple of hours of concentrating on all of the old woman’s Spanish words, trying to understand as much as possible, my bus to Puriscal comes slowly up the steep road and I say goodbye and board. I have only enough time in Puriscal to purchase my connecting ticket to San Jose before the bus takes off from the terminal. The bus is much bigger and more comfortable than any of the small and reused coaches I had been catching during the last few months throughout the rural Costa Rican back roads. There is a little vent above me that is pushing out a blast of cool air and a television at the front playing a movie about an Argentinean mobster. Just an hour and a half from San Jose and already I am feeling the luxuries of the city – though, in the city I had rarely found adventure. I lean back in the soft seat and fall asleep.

In San Jose I am once again confronted with the sea of red taxi’s darting down the streets in every direction. I hail one and, in my choppy Spanish, give the driver directions to the house where my friends David and Dan are living. It had been 2 months since I last visited the city and it was good to see the guys. We spend the rest of the day catching up and checking out what is now an almost fully operational bio-diesel refinery. The next morning they drive me to the airport where we say our goodbyes. As the thrust from the airplane’s twin engines push me back into my seat and I feel the wheels lift from the tarmac I look out the window at the shrinking city buildings below and the forested mountains covered with patches of white morning clouds. In the distance, beyond the peaks, I can see the ocean that I lived beside for two months. The scene becomes hazy and finally disappears from sight completely as the jet enters a cloud. My Costa Rican adventure is over. I pull the National Geographic magazine I have been carrying with me for the entire journey and begin to read.