A gust of cold, winter air brushed past my skin from all sides as I stepped through the space between my aircraft’s door and the xylophone-like ramp leading down into the terminal, sending a chill down my back that, for a moment, gave me the need to concentrate on the worn pattern of the carpet in front of me in order to retain my composure. This snap of harsh sensation, however, was neither sudden nor unexpected, as thought of this first frigid blast had broken my otherwise unvarying euphoric attitude from time to time. Had I not gone off and left my rain jacket in a cabby’s red taxi in route from Nicoya to Monteverde I may have had a little buffer between my skin, still wearing the thin, quick dry clothing and sandals I had put on this morning in Heredia, and that enevitable first chill. Though, in the end it had not been merely the cold’s brief blast which had occasionally captured my attention. More, it had been what that blast seemed to somehow symbolize. The past 93 days had given me the opportunity to take off and explore a place which has become so special to me. Each day had been filled with new experiences that tapped and educated my senses, and challenges which had enriched my mind. The total submersion had significantly improved my language skills, allowing me to better see through cultural differences and to connect on deeper levels with local people. I had met other travelers as well and made friendships which seem as strong and valid as any time weathered camaraderie. For two months my camera and I had had free range of a tropical wildlife refuge which rested on seven kilometers of protected ocean shore. I had seen countless monkeys, sloths, birds, insects, snakes, iguanas, spiders and frogs. In short, it had been a great time. Yet, it had dawned on me several times that passing though the cold ring of blowing air would be the last thing I did before my adventure came to a close.

There had certainly been a deep feeling of emptyness which came from the thought of no longer taking part in a project I had began over a year before and that had kept my excitement level at full throttle for most of that time. Playing witness to the birth of tens of thousands of hatching Olive Ridley sea turtles, and taking a brief moment of my life to exist inside such a fragile moment of theirs had truly helped me to understand the frailty between us. The dedication to the turtles and to the abundance of life in general on the reserve displayed by many of the volunteers had repeatedly inspired my own urge to do more. I had enjoyed interacting with the students and travelers, the children from the surround schools, the rangers and locals, and all the people who came to participate in the conservation efforts during my two months on the reserve at Punta Judas. My melancholy mood had manifested itself out through the absence of these people and the life I had become a part of there in that secluded wilderness.

Eventually, I knew, the pressures of the fast paced, ultra modern world which was sitting on the other side of the baggage claim would push these fresh memories far to the vague stretches of my mind and I would once more be assimilated back into the grind of American livin’. It would not be long before I forgot how amazingly delicious fresh tropical fruit is, and the grocery store varity would again become tolerable. I would not notice that no one stops in the streets to talk about the day, or that our vehicles are incredibly large. I would forget the smiles and the helpful words from people who seemed to appear from nowhere at the mere hint of trouble. Soon, my Costa Rican adventure would be a story of my past. I had made this realization, however, under a great surge of accomplishment. Collection of data for the project itself had been a success and it would soon be time to compile that data into a more formal paper. I was equally pleased with the additions I was able to make to my photographic portfolio; spending so much time in such a beautiful and dynamic atmosphere had played a huge role in my creatively motivation. It is difficult to picture myself just as I was before I left. And, I don’t think that I could ever really lose touch with all the experiences which had made the journey so special. Still, I know that soon they will become part of that fabric of the past, and it makes a part of me long further for the pure life, the pura vida.

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.

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.

A soft knock on the door to my room wakes me from a deep nap and Silvia, the refuge’s resident biologist, peeks her head in and asks, “Listo pour la patrola?” With an excited burst I jump from my bunk bed, grab my headlamp and follow her down the stairs and out on to the beach where Trevor and a couple of other volunteers are waiting. The night is warm, with a strong ocean breeze blowing salty gusts over our heads. We begin the 6 kilometer hike using only the half moon’s calm blue glow to light our way. Far to our left, the low tide crashes ceaselessly, mimicking the sound of distant thunder. Ahead, giant trees lay lifeless on their sides, roots stretching out wide and up into the air casting cool blue shadows across the otherwise barren sand. We pass the sea turtle hatchery and then a small creek which wets our feet.

A few hundred meters past the creek Silvia comes to a stop. In front of us, reaching from the far crashing waves at our left to the low growing costal grasses on our right, is a dark, bold line resembling a single tire track. We follow the line slowly into the vegetation where it becomes hidden. Silvia pulls a red light from her backpack and scans the grass. It is an unnecessary gesture. The sound of a heavy breath, followed by sand hitting my leg makes me turn completely around; leaving me face to hind-flipper with a nesting Olive Ridley sea turtle.

Though small compared to other species of sea turtles, she is easily the largest turtle I have seen in the wild, with a carapace that must measure around 1,200 sq. cm. Her shell is dark and smooth with a steeper curve than I have seen in other terrapins. She lets out another deep breath and, again, sand flies onto my feet as I stand motionless in the red light, watching her skillfully dig her nest. She employs her powerful hind-flippers to hollow out the sand below. One flipper reaches down into the hole and, with the dexterity of a hand, takes a scoop of sand to the surface. After a brief pause, and a breath, she flings the sand and begins the process again with the opposite flipper.

Silvia turns the light off and we sit patiently on a piece of driftwood, waiting for the turtle to finish digging. Soon the sand stops flying and the heavy breaths become more rhythmic. Silvia digs a small, diagonal hole behind the tail leading into the chamber. She gives me a latex glove from her backpack and tells me to reach under with my fingers stretched wide. A moment later the turtle lifts her hind-side briefly and two ping-pong ball sized eggs fall into my hand. I pull my hand out and examine the soft, leathery shells before placing them into a white plastic sack which Silvia has laid out for me. The turtle raises her back again and another pair falls into the bottom of her hole. Within 15 minutes I place 117 eggs into the white plastic sack. Silvia takes measurements of her carapace and notes the placement of the nest of the beach. She takes two metal tags from her backpack and, with an instrument resembling a pair of pliers, places one tag on each of the front flippers. The turtle fills in the empty nest and turns to face the ocean. As we sit in the sand, watching the bulky body crawl back down the beach, the familiar sound of heavy breathing is once again apparent – just to our side in the darkness. Silvia aims her red light 5 meters to our right where another Olive Ridley has just emerged from the sea and has begun to dig her nest.

In all, we find nine nests – some while the mother is lying and others with a second trail where the turtle has returned to the sea. We carry the bags of eggs back along the beach in the direction of the hatchery, stopping at the edge of the river which had previously only wet our feet. The incoming tide has made the water level rise, and as the moon’s blue glow reflects off the breaking river waves it is apparent that the current has also increased. We take a step, then another into the quickly deepening waterway. Fishing bats pluck minnows from the water with their razor-like talons. Far up the tributary, beneath the overhanging reeds and banyans of the mangrove, my flashlight is reflected back as small, red illuminating orbs floating motionless in the water; eyes of crocodiles waiting patiently for their next meal. By mid-river the water is almost to my ribcage and I am fighting to keep the eggs above my head while still retaining my balance in the turbulent current. We emerge from the river on the other side and water pours from my synthetic fiber pants.

We make our way to the hatchery just a few meters beyond and, after recreating the dimensions of each nest, deposit the eggs back into the sand.

Next, we scan the older nests looking for any that may contain hatchling turtles.

We fill two blue tubs with the “tortugitas” – 227 in all – and take them out to the beach for release.

Covered in sand, the group returns to the house for cold showers and dry clothes. It is nearly 2 am and I am worn out from the night’s excitement. I lie down in my bunk bed and drift off to the sound of the crashing ocean outside my door.

The next morning, after a breakfast of fresh papaya and banana, we return to the hatchery. The nests of the turtles which had hatched the night before must be dug up and the contents sorted. I sit on the beach, just outside of the hatchery’s door, with a recently exhumed nest poured out in front of me. The odor of rotten eggs is quite pungent in the warm, tropical air and almost immediately the pile is swarming with flies. The contents represent all stages of the turtles’ development. Most are spent shells from the previous night’s hatch. But amongst these are also unopened eggs, from turtles which died before coming to full term, or that had never began the developing process. These eggs fill more full then the fresh ones I had unearthed the night before, as though time had built pressure inside the leathery skin. I make a hole in an egg to examine the inside and, like opening a can of shaken soda, the putrid, yellow yoke sprays from the casing and splatters across the side of my neck. I open another, this time more gently and on the other side. There is no rotten yoke inside, but rather a small turtle-like form attached to a solid egg sack.

We finish the exhuming the nests and, after burring the mess in the sand, begin the walk back to the house. We are halfway there when a swarm of insects, no doubt attracted the horrible smell of decaying turtles permeating from our bodies, totally envelopes us. They are biting my neck where the egg yoke had landed, and everywhere else for that matter. A cloud surrounds my head and as I inhale two or three are sucked into the back of my throat. I am coughing and spitting profusely, trying with all my might to dislodge the pests from my windpipe, when I see Trevor throw down his shovel and bucket and make a made dash for the ocean. He does a complete flip over a breaking wave and completely submerges himself in the instantaneously relief of the salt water - shirt, shoes and all. As ridiculous as it looks it takes me all of two seconds (and a few more breaths of fresh bugs) to follow suit. I hit the surface of the water with as much force as I can muster and lay under the waves which are rolling over me in a rejuvenating manner. Immediately feeling calm, I raise my head from the sea to find Trevor standing beside me, looking down in concentration, as if trying to recount what had just happened. We look at one another for a moment and then break into a loud laughter. I wipe the salt from my eyes and glance up onto the beach. A line of pelicans in perfect formation glide effortlessly over the beautiful green palms and sapling Ceibas which seem to radiate green and yellow in the orange glow of the setting Sun. “The bugs may be thick”, I say to myself, “but this place is absolutely magical.” I pick up my bucket and shovel and take another look at the beach I will call home for the next two months. Trevor ambles next to me and we both walk back to the house for a shower and some coffee.

I had obviously picked the wrong side of the bus on which to sit. I should have given a bit more thought as to where exactly the sun would be during an early afternoon, southeastern jaunt down the Pacific seaboard of Coast Rica. Now, as my friend Trevor naps a few rows back – on the opposite, shaded side – I am battling with my broken window, which as far as I can tell is permanently stuck in the closed position, trying to get a little fresh air moving to take to edge off of a bus full of passengers and the tropical sun which is barreling down on my cheap sunglasses.

I suppose I am a bit cranky from a lack of sleep. Trevor’s plane had arrived the previous day with no delays and we had celebrated his first night in Costa Rica with my friends Dave and Dan at a few late night places around Alajuela. This morning, with the music still ringing in our ears, we had hailed a taxi to the Coca-Cola station in San Jose, purchased a couple of tickets for Playa Hermosa and, saying goodbye to the city, stumbled aboard the cramped coach. The route was familiar to me as I had taken just over a year ago on my way to Mastatal. It is a windy road which cuts though the southwest slanting mountain slopes, passing lush foliage on its sides and crossing steep creeks which at several points cascade their waters down sharply to join other, larger tributaries also bound for the Pacific. I remember it being a beautiful drive. But today, as I am sitting on the side of the bus facing the intense coastal sun, wedged up against the smoldering glass of a window that, for all my effort, refuses to give me even a scent of fresh air, and wanting nothing more than to catch a few extra moments of sleep before I have to exit and find a way to the refugio on Punta Judas, I am not paying any attention to the view.

Our driver pulls in for a pit stop at an open air market and I have to restrain myself from jumping over the other passengers and making a mad dash for the door. I finally reach the exit in a civilized fashion and, after a few moments of giving my full attention to the marriage of sweat and breeze occurring all over my soaked skin, I begin to survey my options for a mid-trip snack. The market is small, yet big enough to handle a few buses, and is full of people who are traveling from different directions, to different locations, and who are taking a break from it to shop for a piece of fruit or some bread or a plate of rice and beans. I settle on a baggie full of globe grapes and a small piece of pan de maiz and pay the vendor, who gives me a toothless, “Gracias”. I climb back on the bus opportunistically early to seek out any seats on the shaded side which may have become available due to passengers who had reached their final destination. Seated comfortably in my new shaded chair with one arm hanging out the open window and the other lifting grapes into my mouth I glance outside and begin to regain the since of optimism and sanguinity that had thus far been the driving force of the journey.

It is not long after we resume the ride that the seemingly endless downward slant of the road meets with the flattened terrain of sea level. Placing the back of my hand to the window I notice an immediate increase in the outside temperature. The clouds, which have been forming all morning from the condensing moisture in the mountains, now break and allow even more sun to shine down on the vehicle. The trees and dense foliage turn into cow pastures and monocultures of rice and corn. Along the perimeter of these fields, atop fence posts made of live cane, iguanas and whiptails bask, chins held high, in the increasing solar radiation.

We pass the crashing rocks of Playa Jaco’s southern boundary around mid-afternoon and it is not long after when the driver pulls to the side of the road and yells back, “Playa Hermosa, Playa Hermosa!” We step out into the humid, salty air and pull our packs from under the bus, which leaves us in a trail of dust as we turn to assess our new location and to plan our next move. I have no information on how to get to the refuge save for a piece of paper with the name of a furniture maker, Roberto, who I had been told knows the directions. I ask a couple a teenagers sitting at the bus stop waiting for a ride back to San Jose if they know the location of the furniture maker’s workshop. They discuss the question for a few moments and then point their fingers in unison across the street to a pile of felled teak trees. As the late afternoon’s setting sun begins to paint the sky in cotton candy pink, we cross the road and walk up the drive way leading to an open, tin roofed structure. The yard is filled with different species of gorgeous tropical hardwoods lying out to dry. Some are cut into cross sections displaying rich purples and vibrant yellows, while others retain the girth of their beautiful, buttressed roots. Inside the workshop, finished tables, chairs, desks, shelves and cabinets are lined up row after row, some waiting for another coat of varnish, and some just waiting to be delivered.

Two headlights pull into the driveway and the door to an old, International work truck with a makeshift bed on the back swings open. Out steps Roberto in a pair of beautifully detailed leather cowboy boots and a large Tico smile. “Que tal mine?”, he says walking toward us with his hand extended forward. I tell him of our plans to reach Punta Judas and, after negotiating a price, we toss our bags up on the makeshift bed and climb on ourselves.

Riding down a Central American road, on the back of a filthy furniture delivery truck, sitting atop a piece of freshly cut tropical wood in total darkness, is one of those experiences that everyone should try at least once. This particular stretch of road runs parallel to the nearby beach and as the wind blows my hair back behind the ears I can taste the clammy salt sticking to my face and lips. Though the rusting metal of the vehicle amplifies the noise of every bump, it is not enough to drown the melody of cicadas and frogs calling from the rapidly receding ditches and overhanging foliage.

Soon, Roberto slows the truck to a crawl and we make a hard right onto a small dirt road leading off into the dark vegetation. Potholes and water puddles lining the middle of the road push us into the tall grass at the side. As we pull off the path into the undergrowth a startled caiman lifts its large reptilian body from a puddle ahead and clambers into a stand of thick, yellow cane. Giant palm leaves which hang from trees in a plantation to our right brush my face and shoulders as I stand over the cab peering down though the headlights at all the life along this road.

We pass from the palm plantations to fields of rice to horse pastures. Finally a sign which reads,
ESTACION DE VIGILANCIA
PUNTA JUDAS, PUNTA MALA

comes into our headlights and we can see the amber lights of the station house in the blue background. Roberto parks the truck directly in front of the door and a couple of volunteers, Silvia and Abby, are there to greet us before we have time to jump down.

We are set our gear down in our room and grab some dinner. Afterwards we take a small tour of the house and its time to take a small nap. The sea turtles have already began their nightly emergences onto the beach and in 2 hours Trevor and I, the new guys, have first patrol.

The ride back from the Caribe is stopped just before Limon, where a road block is stationed to check vehicles and passengers for drugs coming in from nearby Panama and Columbia. We are told to exit the coach with our bags and wait in line to be searched. It is only 8:45 in the morning but the fierce tropical sun has already began it’s assault on the day’s temperature, and the black asphalt and lack of wind is making this waiting process almost unbearable. I reach the table, under a blue tarp which provides a bit of comfort for the officials, and lay out the contents of my backpack for inspection. Though I know I have nothing to hide, there is something unnerving about a 17 year old kid with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder riffling though your belongings and giving you commands. With a nod to his superior, my inspector gives me the OK to pack up and get back on the bus. A few minutes later, having found nothing of interest, the rest of the passengers are given similar approvals and with an unsatisfied wave from the chief we are back on the road, heading west for San Jose.

Jess’s plane leaves early the next morning and for the first time in two weeks I find myself completely alone. A friend of mine, Trevor, is scheduled to fly into town the following afternoon, and so from now until then I have nothing to do but explore the metropolitan side of Costa Rica. The airport is located, not in San Jose, but rather in the suburb of Alajuela. From the terminal’s arrival platform I push myself through the circus of high-priced taxi drivers, cross the street to the bus parada, and for 250 colones catch a ride to Alajuela Central.

I decide to stay just down the street from the Parque Central and for $15 a night grab a room at the Hotel Mango Verde. I am still in the downstairs courtyard when I meet Dave. He and another partner, Dan, had come down from the States to begin a bio-diesel plant using, among other things, spent cooking oil from restaurants. I find him immediately interesting. We spend an hour or so sipping tea and discussing the future of petroleum use and what a large scale shift in energy resource could mean for a country like Costa Rica, with a majority of its automobiles utilizing diesel fuels already as well as being a rather large producer of palm oil.

With visions of recycled cooking oil dancing in my head, I grab my camera and head out onto the streets of Alajuela. I meander leisurely past the countless, colored, uniformed students to which I had now become accustomed, and enter the Marcado Central with its humming, epicentric air teaming with the vocal cries of merchants and venders advertising everything necessary for daily living. From my spot well within the maze of booths I watch a man weigh out huge blocks of white cheese and a woman cutting open her chyote’s to show they are ripe. Next to me, at a lunch counter, two elderly men are heavy in concentration about a game of checkers, for which the pieces, long since lost, have been replaced by irregular found objects. A chicle wrapper, a Coca-Cola bottle cap, some bits of cut up playing cards; I am baffled on how they can keep their own pieces straight.

I purchase a piece of sweet bread from one of the small panderias and head out of the market up to the Parque Central. The park is undeniably the hub of activity, or lack there of, in Alajuela. Throughout the shade filled square, park benches are full of students, workers, grandmothers, children, and lovers all taking a break from the hot, urban sun beneath the large, leafy mango trees. Small clusters girls walk diagonally through the plaza with double scoop ice cream cones paying no attention to the packs of boys eyeing them fervently with the confidence only a group of friends can create. In the center of the square, and in line with the west facing doors of the cathedral in the next lot, sits a beautiful, three tiered, copper fountain. Each of the tiers, gaining size as they descend, is full of pigeons bathing their feathers in the cool, flowing water. The base is made up of four statues shaped like children dressed in robes and sitting upon urns which shoot water out into a pool surrounding the entire cascade. From the level of the commons the pool is raised three steps, of which the top one is currently be used as a stage from where a man is brandishing the good book and delivering a sermon (the context sounding dire in importance from the emphasis of his Spanish words) to the unmoved disciples of the square. Across the park, children and their parents have gathered to watch and feed the multitude of pigeons that have swarmed down from the building tops above. Venders sell small packages of corn while other entrepreneurs offer photos to parents of their child covered with the blue and purple bird.

Back at to the Hotel Mango Verde I find Dave with a cup of tea in hand going over notes. We sit and have a chat and decide to catch a cab down to a bar he knows of. The destination is only a few blocks away but the area is a different place when sun goes down and we decide that it is safer to let someone else do the driving. It is a seedy little place – the best kind, and for the first time since I left Seattle I hear a few songs from back home. It is a good place to unwind and talk about the things I had seen in the park and in the market.

Later, we return to our rooms. I lie in bed and think about what the next two months of coastal living will bring. Tomorrow Trevor’s plane will arrive and from there we will be off. I close my and drift deeply in to sleep.

650 colonies buys a ticket south from Cahuita to the more well known, tourist town of Puerto Viejo. Along the way, as our bus pulls into intermediate villages, the second day of Independence celebrations are appearent as small precessions of children march up and down the streets with drumsticks in hand beating out festive rhythms. This is the way of the Ticos; good living, pure life, pura vida.

The rain waits until we are five minutes from our destination, then it begins, hard and fast. In the time it takes Jess and I to exit the coach, grab our backpacks from its under-trunk, and make it to a tin-roofed awning two meters away, we are completely soaked. Across the road, through the onslaught of torrential downpour, I can see a sign which reads, “The Rocking J. 600 meters”, a place the guide book dubs “the backpackers’ mecca”. I heave off my pack for Jess to watch, throw on my over priced poncho from Monteverde, and take off in the direction of the sign’s south pointing arrow.

It’s a muddy road, with as many pot holes as there are souvenir shops bordering its edge. The rain comes down as if I am being followed by a perpetual bucket of pouring water. It is here that I realize my American view of the “meter” is slightly diminutive. I am let down each time I inquire at one of the roadside gift shops as to how close the Rocking J is from my current position; the answers always seem to be in “hundreds” of meters.

Finally, I round a bend in the liquidy road and see the brightly colored welcome sign hanging over the Rocking J’s front entrance. I walk straight in, over-priced poncho cascading neat water trails all the way up to the front desk. $6 rents a two-man dome tent in the crowded, tin roofed middle of the property. I pay the tab, hail a cab, and ride back to the small bus shelter where I had left Jess. We return to our tent and set up home for the night. It is dingy and damp, and not wanting to be inside any longer than we have to, we head over to the hammock hut to write in our journals and take a nap.

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Our ride to the Carribean coast slows just kilometers outside of San Jose, where a traffic jam has brought hundreds of cars to a stand-still. All up and down the two lane thoroughfare, impatient motorists are honking their horns as if the sound will magically part the impending blockade and allow the noisiest drivers to pass on their way. Road side merchants who have capitalized on this inconvenience make their way from car to car and from bus to bus selling everything from bottles of water and little bags of home fried papas to maps of the country and even small Independence Day flags.

A young man in a pressed, yellow shirt boards our bus and begins to orate in a manor which would impress the finest of fairground salesmen. As he recites his obviously well rehearsed monologue, he walks the length of the coach handing to each of its passengers a small orange and blue booklet. I open mine to a photograph of a woman giving herself a breast examination. Printed a few pages before the interesting image is a list of the many medicinal uses of peji valle; a small, starchy fruit often eaten steamed and with a good amount of mayonnaise. I sit and concentrate on his Spanish words, listening for any I might understand. I decide that he is giving excerpts from this heath manual as examples for why one would want to purchase a copy. With his speech finished, he walks the bus again, collecting either colonies or the books from disinterested patrons.

I turn my attention to the world outside my opened window, and past the parade of calling merchants. In the ditch and on the steep slope leading up the valley wall, adjacent to the bus, the entire spectrum of color is represented in the weedy flora. Blood-red hibiscus complement lush, green ferns and ripe, yellow bananas set off the small blue creeper flowers which rest their vines over all the vegetation. I see beautiful poison frogs in the leaf litter near our tires and on the same shrub two butterflies, a Blue Morpho and a Doris Longwing, sit unmolested in the cool, valley air.

Our bus begins to move and we are soon traveling down the narrow road at top speed, which is still slow. With the mountains fading behind us the bus approaches Puerto Limon. Each side of the road is lined with chain link fences and razor-wire which mark the property boundaries of warehouses owned by some of the biggest fruit companies; Chiquita, Del Monte, Dole – they are all there. Some lesser known brands are also present, with out lack of proper security. Out side the well guarded fruit fortresses, rows of semi-trucks, each of which sporting a trailer with its company’s logo emblazed on its side and an exhaust pipe puffing out thick, black clouds of diesel smoke, sit patiently, waiting to back their empty containers up to the dock where they can be filled for export.

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The boat to La Fortuna cuts its engine and pulls onto the beach of Laguna Arenal. Jess and I hand our bags to the driver, cross the make-shift launch, and take our seats. A group of travelers from New Zealand are also taking the boat and, as the driver prepares to depart, we discuss our travels.

The boat is slapping the waves at high speed as it cruses along the length of the lake. The shores on either side of us look almost archaic, as if time forgot to pass by this way. Giant Cecropia trees and strangler figs push their tops through the canopy and vultures soar the thermal lifts created by the peaks which surround Laguna Arenal. In front of us the volcano, from which the lake derives its name, creates a razor sharp silhouette against a celestial blue sky. Our ride ends near the dam, which supplies most of the electricity for the country, at the other side of the lake. Another van is waiting.

As we drive past the resorts and hotels leading into La Fortuna it is apparent that this higher priced area was created with the wealthy tourist in mind. The Spanish word Fortuna literally means "fortunate". When the volcano awoke from its dormant state in the 1960's, many people were injured or killed. However, after the explosion the area was left with many hot springs, and even a hot river, due to the thermal activity. The locals now consider themselves not only fortunate for surviving the volcano's blasts, but also for the wealth which has been brought to the area by tourists interested in experiencing these natural wonders.

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I wake from my sleep in the small town of Samara, situated on the central coast of the Peninsula de Nicoya, to the waves of the Pacific crashing just outside my window. It had been a rough night due to the myriad of insects which had feasted on my girlfriend and I; a few Excedrines are necessary to prepare for the headache which I know is close at hand.

We decide to take off from the coast and head into the interior of Costa Rica. A look in the Lonely Planet guide book steers our thoughts back to Monteverde, the town where we had originally wanted to begin our adventure. Leah and Laura tell us that they want to continue north along the Nicoya coast to Playa Tamarindo, so we exchange email addresses and say our goodbyes. We had traveled the last 5 days as a group and now, as we sit at different bus stops it is hard not to feel a little disconnected.

A violent burst of thunder, followed by a quick fall of rain precludes our bus´ arrival. It is an old, blue, Laidlaw school bus and contains only half of its original seats. We pay our fare, climb aboard, and try to find a seat that is bolted down to the floor. The ride is rough, and every minute or so the bus stops to pick up passengers who are standing in the pouring rain.

An hour later we pull into the bus terminal in Nicoya. It is a bustling center of activity full of travelers, merchants, and cab drivers. There are men selling newspapers and women selling fried pastries. Beside the station is a rather large market area, the obvious destination of most of the now soaked, road side passengers.

I wonder around the terminal, inquiring, in broken Spanish, as to the whereabouts of the bus to Monteverde which I know must be near. A man who speaks a little English explains to me that there is no bus directly to Monteverde and that I will have to instead take the bus to San Jose and find a connecting route. I grumble, knowing this will take an entire day of hot, rough traveling. Jess and I find a small soda, or lunch counter, order some breakfast, and discuss hiring one of the countless cabs to take us straight to Monteverde.

After stuffing myself on torta and Fresca, I seek out the cabby with the most friendly face and ask him the price to our destination.

“One hundred fifty dollars”, He says.

So, I look for another cabby.

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9-8-06: Here I am, sitting in a bar at the Sea-Tac airport with my girlfriend Jessica, holding a beer and thinking of where the next 93 days will take me. It had been just over a year since I first traveled to the shores and forests of Costa Rica. A 3-week journey, it had totally changed the way I saw myself as a student, explorer, and as a person in general. Now, as I sit waiting for my flight back, my imagination is racing and my mind is full. I silently recite broken Spanish phrases, try to recall local customs, consult my travel guides, and think of items I forgot to pack – this beer is probably keeping me sane.

We arrive in Alajuela after 12 hours of airport navigation, check though Customs, and proceed out into the streets. 400 colones buys a bus ticket to San Jose Central and from there it is a short urban hike to the Coca Cola Bus Terminal, San Jose’s main terminal to the country. We had originally planned on heading to the cloud forests of Monteverde, though, arriving at the terminal late, we choose to make alternate plans.

A couple of girls I recognize from the plane are looking the various buses over and I ask them where they are going.

“I think we want to go to Jaco, but, Montezuma would be nice too” one of them says.

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