Here the water is a capricious beauty, changing colors on a whim like outfits to suit her mood. Blues and greens are favorites, but I have also seen gloomy greys and the softest of pinks. And after every sunset she dons a jet black evening gown sparkling with sequins of bioluminescence. One might guess this mystical image was captured in the quiet tranquility of night—but it is merely a fluke of both light and dolphin.

A unique photo captured during our first day exploring Golfo Dulce; it is a reflection of the water’s magic.

Our boat engine repaired (with epoxy, a small but mighty step above duct tape), I am at last on the water, searching for and documenting marine life in this remote Costa Rican embayment. And I’m excited to share a peek at some of the animals and waterscapes that have already crossed my shutter.

This is a more clear picture of the Pantropical Spotted dolphin (Stenella attennata).

Gregarious family groups are prone to bow-riding and dancing in our wake.

Bottlenose dolphins (Turciops truncates) are residents here.

                             They tend to be more timid in nature and it is a rare treat to have them approach the boat like this.

            Endangered sea turtles nest on the beaches. 

The high season for Olive Ridleys has passed and right now we are seeing mostly Chelonias (regionally called Black sea turtles).

This is a Yellow-bellied sea snake (Pelamis platurus).

                                                                           It's one of the species I’m most interested in.

Golfo Dulce is home to a xanthic phase, too, which is completely and strikingly yellow! I have seen two such snakes drawing Ss on the surface of deep blue water but, so far, I’ve failed to snap a decent photo.

          To the northeast, near Piedras Blancas National Park there are remnants of a once-thriving coral reef with tiny  

                               colorful fish still active in the teal water.

 This is but one of the many soothing sights that compensate my effort.

I am working hard, endless hours. But, truth told, much of this project has been carried on the shoulders of Jorge.

Jorge, who has stood beside me for every fisherman interview, ready to clear up confusion my poor Spanish might cause… who has solved every mechanical crisis with incredible ingenuity (the delicate epoxy work was genius and the motor is running with good efficiency!)… who every day helps me haul a tremendous amount of gear and gasoline to and from the marina… who deftly captains our craft, managing the logistics of my destination requests… and who can reliably spot a dolphin dorsal from one kilometer over troubling seas.

           Above all his capability, Jorge is congenial, an ideal partner for my study.

We are also occasionally joined by Gareth,  a field biologist from the states whose parents live here, and who brings good sense, strong muscle and a steady demeanor to the survey.

Generally up at 4:30am, we are on the water before the sun makes her 6am entrance on Stage East.

Every performance is a little different and I could make a series of my morning shots.

               Occasionally the day brings a small surprise.

                              Like a tiny eel squirming strangely at the surface.

   Or a smooth deep-water current carrying several Portuguese Man-o-wars

                                                                           (Physalia physalis), blue stinging tentacles trailing in its drift.

         Of course we see gulls.  

Along with Brown pelicans…  

                     …and Brown boobies.

I, too, am turning brown (well, everything except my boobies). We spend 6-8 hours per day traversing the gulf, which we’ve divided into four Geographical Areas. By noon, the sun picks at our skin and eyes.

But the sense of freedom we find carving across the wild blue with sea breeze pouring over the bow is one of life’s most perfect sensations.

With 22 days remaining, I still want to photograph Humpback whales and whale sharks. It may happen. After all, the water is lovely and she lures many creatures…

                           …including hopeful humans (Homo sapien).

Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air… Ralph Waldo Emerson

                                                      my head in bat guano... hey, gotta get the shot

You know me—I love bats! (You my recall my blog post on 2-6-09, “Going Batty in the Rainforest”.) And loving bats as I do, I have always wanted to make a trip to Tucson to see the large colonies of migratory Mexican Free tail bats (scientifically Tadarida brasiliensis) that flutter north into Arizona’s summer swelter. Thousands of them roost under Tucson’s expansion bridges between the months of May and October and their nightly emergence is a wildlife must-see!

So my husband, Kevin, and I hopped in the car and headed south. We carved the winding back roads from Scottsdale, a more scenic route that slips between thick creosote and towering saguaro, two hours of glorious, mostly unbroken desert. Arriving in Tucson, we parked near the crossroads of Campbell & River. The bridge spanning the Rillito River has one of the highest bat occupancies in the area and—bulging, all cameras and eagerness—we dashed down into the wash to survey the underside of the viaduct.

Although the tiny Chiropteras (the order means “hand-wing”) hide too deep in the expansion grooves to visualize during daylight hours, the ground beneath gives away their warm sleeping bodies; in the river bed, the sand is striped with thick brown, pebbly-looking bat guano (code for “poo”).

At this point it was still only 6pm and yellow beams still poked at overhead clouds, too high on the horizon. So we waited. We ate. We watched. And watched some more.

Then, about 7:15pm, just as the sun began her curtsies on a stage of purple mountains, we started to see little bat faces peeking out from the blackness. What a delight! Thousands of wrinkled noses and pink tongues edged into the dusky air, anxious to twist and swirl into the cobalt world.

Soon bat chitter rang between concrete and stony earth, a rumpus of squeaks and screeches and clicks, a ruckus, a rally—precursor to one of nature’s greatest performances!

7:35. Let the show begin! Clouds of tumbling brown fell, swooped and rolled away to the west, hungry bat bellies seeking the night’s feast.

  Several years ago I had the honor of signing at a renowned bookstore in Denver, Colorado cleverly named Tattered Cover Book Store. I bought a t-shirt that day to commemorate the special event and, woven of soft blue cotton, it quickly became one of my favorites. Through the years I wore that shirt as I wore the covers of my treasured books, reading late into the night. Now the t-shirt itself is a “tattered cover”.

I have oft remarked of this coincidence—the shirt existing exactly as its logo implies...

                                                     My Tattered Cover

                                                         My tattered cover wraps silken pages

                                                         Weathered by memories of fingertip nights

                                                         And legs curled in sun drenched chairs

                                                         Words playing leap frog in affable rows

                                                         Folding—origami of time and tale

                                                         Bound and binding

                                                              Cadence remembered like a song

                                                         My tattered cover drapes tender heart

                                                         In yesterday’s fabric still loved

                                                         Soft as puffs of dandelion poised

                                                         Found dancing against familiar curve

                                                         Folding—communion of cloth and body

                                                         Worn and wearing

                                                               Each warmed by the other

                                                         Landmark where the two assemble

                                                         Silken pages and tender heart

                                                         Ample shelves surrender dreams unending

                                                         And far-flung journeys real or imagined

                                                         Holding—bounty of magic and paper

                                                         My Tattered Cover

                                                               Rugged brick shouldering the wind

                                                                  – Brooke Bessesen, July 2009

It’s a perfect morning in Santa Barbara, cool and fogless. Salty smooth water laps the harbor wood just below my feet.     

                             Already my eye is drawn to the sea lions bobbing on buoys just beyond the pier, their dark wet pelts warming in the sun’s early light.

Dave sees me coming and smiles from the wheel house. I wave, hand high overhead, as I skip down the dock ramp,

and then up three swift steps to board the Condor Express.

Known for both speed and comfort, this boat is considered by many naturalists to be the best whale-watching vessel on the entire Pacific coast. It runs out of the Santa Barbara marina, bearing tourists and locals to explore the region’s famous Channel Islands as well as an abundance of off-shore wildlife.

Dave Beezer, friend and today’s captain, has generously invited me along for the morning excursion. It’s been a while since my last visit and I’m excited to catch up with him.

I adore all the people on the Condor Express—Captain Mat Curto (who, sadly, isn’t around today), owner Fred Benko and the many naturalists who educate passengers have proven good friends and excellent purveyors of seafaring adventure. Fred and Dave also work with Channel Islands Marine and Wildlife Institute (http://www.cimwi.org), a marine wildlife rescue organization with medical facilities nearby.

With all ticketed passengers aboard, Dave slowly maneuvers our craft out of the harbor and I find myself looking back on Santa Barbara, tiers of red-roofed mission-style houses held in a frame of voluptuous mountains. I am always taken by the way the city’s charm spills down from the green hills to the wide sandy beach that spreads like a carpet before its crystalline cove. The cove we are now departing for deeper broth.

  It’s not long before we are surrounded by our first curious and playful pod of Delphinis: common dolphins. They arc over and over, folding the water like silver ribbons. Their dance leads us to a feeding site. Pelicans and gulls lift from the frenzy as we arrive.

Everyone loves marine mammals, but sea birds are equally divine!

The first time I met Captain Mat and the crew was in 2006—that was the year I worked with California condors down in Baja, Mexico, so naturally I inquired about the boat’s moniker. As the story goes, many moons ago, Fred was considering names for his first boat. He was relaxing with his then young son and they were staring into a crisp indigo sky when an enormous black bird inked out the sun overhead. It was a California condor! This was before the recovery effort came into play, when a few wild condors were still flying along mountainous coastal regions of Central California. (Thanks to biologists, condors have been returned to this range.)

That first boat, The Condor, later gave way to this larger, faster vessel, which Fred christened Condor Express. It's a good name.

 Dave motors the vessel west looking for Grey whales migrating from Baja to Alaska. Many have been seen in the previous days and we are hopeful. But, alas, no Greys today. Such is the predictable unpredictability of nature.

However, we do spot a sea otter.    His small brown body bobs in our wake as we turn about for a closer look. In typical otter fashion, he floats on his back, webbed hands resting across his chest like a man preparing for a nap.

Occasionally he tumbles and rolls before popping back into his prone position—otters do not have a layer of blubber to keep them warm; rather they have ~200 thousand strands of hair per centimeter and rely on an insulating layer of air trapped in their fur—the rolling is done to fluff up and blow air between hairs for thermal protection.

We are lucky—this handsome fellow is tolerant and allows us plenty of observation time before disappearing in search of peace and abalone.

We continue our search for whales. Humpbacks maybe? They’ve been around reliably this week, too. We search and search… but no joy. 

Then suddenly a large figure surfaces ahead on the port side—definitely a whale! Gasps and giggles bring us to our feet as a ragged thrill runs through the passengers. The whale, unbothered by our presence, casually dives.

Dave courses to the left and slows to idle when we arrive at the “footprint” (a slick patch of water made by a whale’s tail when diving). Our boat totters like a happy drunk, swaying over the gentle waves. Everyone is pinned against the railing in anticipation of the next inhalation.

The down time is counted. One minute. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. We wait.

At last a towering blow lifts to the sky just abeam the boat! Twin blow holes suck in an immense amount of air, followed into the sunlight by a long stretch of blackish skin, then a small sharp dorsal fin. It’s a Fin whale! What a treat! This is the second largest living species on the whole planet; only the Blue whale is bigger.

And this beautiful behemoth is in no rush. It takes several easy breaths at the surface, offering a wonderful close up view, before diving again. We remain patient and each breathing cycle delivers more opportunities to oogle the awesome size and splendor of this finback whale!

Time stretches and too soon we must go; Dave points the Condor Express toward the harbor. My heart is still a-pitter-patter from all that we have seen and a persistence smile pins my cheeks to my earlobes. Sea lions, dolphins, pelicans, otters and whales... all in just a few short hours. I am giddy. Caught in a natural high (quite literally).

I am ever thankful to be able go out with friends and see such spectacular wildlife sightings. And all I can think on the way back to shore is:

                                                  What extraordinary magic exists in this world!

 It was an honor to see Macho B in the flesh. To touch his warm amber fur, trace fingertips across black markings I’d seen only in photographs. To feel him breathing—chest lifting gently beneath my hand—and hear his steady heartbeat through the length of my stethoscope.

What an unlikely surprise, a rare gift, to be working at the zoo the day Macho B arrived, a jaguar known across oceans and held nearly sacred among conservationists in the American Southwest. A jaguar whose story I had followed for over a decade.

But our time was short. His aged kidneys were failing.

For our veterinary team, the streaming minutes were spent in motion. The doctors did an extensive physical examination. We set monitors, added fluids, drew blood, took radiographs. And vitals—always the vitals—I constantly rechecked them in succession. Heart rate. Respiration. Pulse Ox. Temperature. EKG. Our well-trained movements juxtaposed Macho B’s stillness.

He knew nothing of us and our human compassion. Through it all he remained sedated, his eyes lost in the unconscious gaze of sleepers.

It was a heartrending moment when the truth became clear: despite our urgent care and silent hope, there was no way to heal his ailments—no way to reverse the clock. He was estimated to be sixteen years old, and beyond the diagnosed renal failure he had other issues, too. Time steals health from us all.

Freedom from pain and stress was the most humane offering. I looked around the room; faces were drawn with sadness, eyes tipping with tears. My own heart, too, heaved with sorrow as I felt that beloved feline slip from this world.

In the forest, the death of a wild jaguar would be news to none but vultures and insects. Macho B was a wild jaguar. Yet his death reached round the globe like wildfire sparking across AP, phone lines and emails. He garnered international coverage.

Why, you may ask?  It’s an interesting chronicle to be sure...

Jaguars once inhabited the southwestern United States as far north as the Grand Canyon. By the 1950s only a few remained. The last female jaguar was shot and killed in Arizona in 1963. Although listed as an Endangered Species in 1972, jaguars were believed to be extirpated in our country.

That is, until 1996.

Six months apart, two separate hunters treed and photographed adult male jaguars in southeast Arizona and Panthera onca was resurrected as a United States species.

In the following years, protections were put in place, habitats held open and camera traps set to research the large cats’ territories. As more motion-triggered cameras were added, more images were captured. And the most commonly seen jaguar was Macho B, readily identified by a mark on his left flank that looked rather like…

                                                                      ...well, like Betty Boop.

Here’s a 2007 Smithsonian article about Macho B, the conservation program and the history of jaguars in the United States: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/prowl-200711.html.

Then a few weeks ago Macho B was accidently caught in a trap and biologists took the opportunity to fit him with a GPS collar before releasing him. That collar later showed him to be moving poorly, so he was recaptured and helicoptered up to the Phoenix Zoo for care.

An article in National Geographic describes the circumstances surrounding his death: http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2009/03/090303-jaguar-update.html.

Macho B was an icon, respected and adored. On a personal level, I will always cherish the miracle of our acquaintance. But his legacy was more than the connection we made with him as an individual. He reclaimed a piece of American soil—a powerful reminder that jaguars belong to this land. He rallied us to preserve vital natural space between Mexico and the U.S.—that he survived sixteen years in the wild shows land conservation efforts work.

Fate may have placed me at the zoo that day, but I don’t want to be one of the last Americans to see a native jaguar. We must continue to protect the habitat in hopes another young male overtakes the territory, perhaps expands or adds a family. Just imagine tiny jaguar cubs romping along paths that Macho B once roamed.

That is the way of things. Generations pass on, inviting new life.

Staking his birthright as a historical predator—observed without contact—Macho B was a special link to the natural world. He lived with dignity and died a legend. Yes, that magnificent bespeckled feline certainly left his mark.

                                     May man honor his life and God rest his soul.

This video clip shows tiny Olive Ridley sea turtle hatchings emerging from their sandy nest. It was shot by Costa Rican biologist, Adriana Gonzales—thanks Adriana for sharing!

Notice the metal screen (a square of chain link fencing) covering the nest… it protected the eggs from digging predators during the ~45 days of development. To learn more about how these conservation efforts support sea turtles on the Osa Peninsula, read two earlier blogs… “Morning Patrol: Checking on Nests & Sea Turtle Hatchlings” (January 23, 2009) and “Night Patrol: Measuring & Tagging Sea Turtles” (January 16, 2009).

 When wanderlust takes my hand and we skip off together to find some precious slice of wilderness with incredibly interesting animals, I think many people imagine me slipping through an inconspicuous hole in the universe, taking secret passageway to a secret hideout. And on some psychological level I probably do. However, the places I go are real. You can go there, too!

                                                                         Four Howler monkeys

It's easy to get ensnared in the minutia of life and forget the world beyond our daily borders—a world that is at once enormous and very, very small. So today I am taking you to see some of the animals of Costa Rica. To remind you what's out there. (Please note: my best photos can be viewed at http://www.brookebessesen.com/costa_rica.html.)

But for this to be a stimulating mental journey and not simply a pictorial exhibit, I ask that you look past the photos as flat representations of life in the rainforest. I implore you to take time with each image and visualize the animals as they really are: alive, thinking, moving, free to go when and where they please...

                                                                                                                                                   Greater egret

                White-nosed coati 

In the jungle, such beautiful beings often appear suddenly and, fumbling to grab my camera, I attempt to capture a sliver of time, a face, an expression, a peek into their minds before the they disappear back into the hinterland...

                                                                                                                Emerald toucanet

          Three-toed sloth

It's important that you imagine the moments before each photograph was taken. And consider the moments after. Then, string those moments together, like film in a projector, and see the creatures come to life…

                        Baird’s tapir

                                                                                                                      Mole cricket

Animals are not mere ideas, television characters or illustrations in a book. From the tiniest insect to the most spectacular of species—panda bears, elephants, wolves, kangaroos and dolphins—they are out in the world living rich interesting lives, just as we are...

                                                                          White-faced capuchin monkey

                 caterpillar

                                                                                                                             Brown pelicans

                                        Olive ridley turtling

They are eating and learning, working and problem solving. They are aging—young to old. They have personalities. Indeed, many are involved in intimate, binding relationships, challenged to find their place in a complicated social structure...

                                                                                        two capuchins

The faces of wildlife connect us to a greater existence...

              tree frog

                                                                                                          Blue and gold macaw

Secret passageway? Secret hideout? No. The natural world is waiting for all who seek, and these marvels of biology, these wondrous gifts of creation, can be witnessed by any open and willing eyes...

                                                                                                               Peacock banded butterfly

      Chestnut-mandibled toucan

Yes, animals are true compatriots on this spinning blue marble called Earth. May your heart soar in the knowledge that we are not alone.

                                                                 Squirrel monkey

    Morning breaks, an explosion of pastel paints splashing up from the dark horizon. Within minutes low-slung clouds are trimmed in gold leaf and violet water licks the beach. Manuel and I have just arrived at the shore, emerged from the dense green understory in perfect time to catch this glorious sunrise.

Twenty-five minutes of rainforest prevails between our camp and the coast. We navigate a familiar trail every night.   

                                                      And every morning.  Winding between trees, ducking under vines, shuffling down muddy slopes and across shallow rivers, we move in a tunnel of leaves and shadows until, at last, we are coughed out onto the beach...

                                 ...facing 10,000 miles of water.

As the sun arcs up and pelicans pass overhead, we begin walking. Our A.M. job is to check all the marked nests along this 5 kilometer section of coastline.

            We chatter in Spanish as we amble from one yellow tag to the next.

   Generally speaking, Manuel and I are looking for three things:

NEW NESTS: Nests that were dug in the wee hours after Night Patrol while we were asleep in our bunks. Upon finding fresh tracks, we follow them to the nest for measurements and evaluation.

DEPREDATED NESTS: Depredated means the nests have had some of their eggs eaten. These are often “unmarked” nests. Remember, marked nests are covered with squares of metal fencing to discourage digging predators like coatis and raccoons—

           —the protection is not perfect but it works quite well.

At depredated nests, we clean up any exposed eggshells,

         counting them and logging the loss in our field notebook.    

We also dig down into the nest to ensure there are no broken or half-eaten eggs, which could foster an infestation of maggots or lure crabs with their rotting smell. When the nest is properly tidied and sand has been carefully repacked over the remaining eggs, we move on.

HATCHED-OUT NESTS: Nests that have hatched-out are easily identified by dozens of tiny turtlling tracks squiggling toward the frothy tide. Held in the quiet safety of their sandy maternity ward, baby sea turtles may hatch out at different times over a period of 1-4 days, but they wait to surface together

                       so they can shuttle into the ocean as a group.

Old nests must be cleaned out to collect as much data as possible. Once the screen is rolled back, the hole is thoroughly excavated.

Today we discover a freshly hatched-out nest. I am disappointed… we missed the dashing slew of green bodies. But we open the nest and I begin hauling up curls of white leathery shell while Manuel pencils the findings.

                        We count all the empty eggshells to see how many turtlings hatched and left the nest. We also examine any un-hatched eggs, tearing them open to determine at what stage life failed. Was the egg fertile? If yes, when did development stop? These details are scratched onto spiral-bound paper for future analysis.

I dig slowly, methodically…

I find one intact egg, round and pristine. Inside, it still holds a yellow yolk but no sign of life.

                                                                                                                A dud.   

            Another egg is ripped and reveals a near-term turtle that died in the shell.

In the next scoop I feel a few ounces of supple flesh. It placidly stirs in my hand. A straggler, an infant still buried in the chamber. He is alive but extremely weak and looks misshapen. I dust off his crumpled body and set him on the sand to see what he does.

                Nothing. Still. Utterly motionless. Perhaps he just died.

I sigh and turn away from the sad sight to continue my task of shoveling, counting. But several minutes later, Manuel points out that the baby is moving, wiggling its little flippers and head. We stop our efforts to watch his, feeling a surge of foolish hope.

Minutes tick by. He’s in no rush but he does seem to be building energy, a tiny balloon inflating with life. When he begins his natural march to the sea, he moves only millimeters at first, but finds speed and enthusiasm as he paddles.

                              Our hope gains confidence.     

It’s a long distance to the water’s edge. We would do him no service to make the journey shorter—he needs this time to rev his engines, gather his wits—so we simply stand there, watching, guarding against birds with a taste for turtle.

His commitment grows. Half way down the beach he is springing forward with vitality,

                  as brave and powerful as any hatchling I’ve seen before him.

          He nears the lacy foam with zeal and we cheer silently,

        thrilled by his intense commitment to do what baby sea turtles do.   

As the next surge sweeps up and touches him, he instinctively paddles harder and faster to catch its lift.

The surf wraps around his minuscule frame and gathers him up in a powerful embrace, like a loving grandfather who has been waiting a lifetime to see him. The turtling dives for a minute—we, too, hold our breath.

But then we see him working his way past the breakers. We point and laugh with the giddiness of children as we spot his bitsy head bobbing above the cerulean waves. He has made it to sea! If only he can string such moments of survival into an 80-year lifespan. This, we know, is the last we will see of him and I whisper my farewell as he disappears into the pelagic swirl.  

It is a blessing and an honor to walk this beach twice every day.   To observe nature’s complexities, stand witness to its magnificence and, most profoundly, find my own place in its workings.

Night Patrol is all reverence and mystery; we are strangers tiptoeing in the darkness. But Morning Patrol is about seeing the world in detail, a time when life's magic is exposed in the glorious light of the rising sun.

   It’s the middle of the night and we walk in silence. Headlamps are off. Our eyes have adjusted to the darkness. To the left, the rainforest silhouette rises to meet a star-studded horizon. On the right, the Pacific Ocean stretches like a rough floor waxed with moonshine.

I am mesmerized by the wet sand beneath my feet, which sparkles like fairy dust. Every step incites a cluster of microscopic organisms that were stranded when the tide dropped, rousing them to flash their blue-white light called bioluminescence. The glittering effect is nothing short of magic.

I am with Manuel, a 21-year-old Tico who has been working with Friends of the Osa since he was a boy. We talk and laugh readily in the airiness of day, but during our nightly outings we speak rarely and softly, murmuring in Spanish only when necessary.

We are looking for sea turtles—specifically, females who have come ashore to lay eggs. Sometimes we see them emerging from the rolling tide or find them lumbering up the beach. But more often we discover their tracks, dark streaks carved into flat sand like monster truck treads that lead to the nest site.

Two lines of tracks means the turtle has already come... and gone. But a single line equals a sea turtle on the beach. Our job is to collect data about the turtle and the nest. And to mark both so we can follow their progress and a hopefully aid their success.

If there is a turtle, we are careful not to trouble her before she has committed to nesting. A giant shelled mother disturbed by light or commotion before she drops eggs will likely abandon her endeavor and shuffle back to the safety of the sea. If she is still climbing or digging, we wait out of sight. But once the turtle has finished excavating and started depositing leathery eggs into a deep hole, we snap on our red headlamps, quietly approach and begin our tasks.

          close up you can see an egg falling from her ovipositor

We measure the width and length of her carapace (top shell) as well as the width of her tracks. And if she doesn’t have them, we attach numbered metal tags to her front flippers as gently as possible. They pierce the thin skin between digits and affix like earrings. The tag numbers are put in a data base so scientists can identify the animal in the future. Of course if we find a turtle who already has tags, we log that into our field notebooks, too.

We also write down the date, the time, the tide level. And details about where the nest is, like which sector of the beach it’s in, how close to the waterline, how close to the tree line. And gobs of other informational bites about the scenerio.

               I am measuring this sea turtle's shell size (red lights do not distress them as much).

All of this is handled calmly and efficiently to limit stress to the sea turtle, and we are done in a few minutes. And after the female has given her gift to the land, we watch her shadow return to the soothing lap and pull of the waves.

Earlier in the season, Manuel was securing nests with protective metal screens held into the sand with tire-iron spikes. We still check those nests every day. But since the project goes on hiatus in the dry season from January to May, no new nests are being covered.

If we have missed a turtle, we can still measure the tracks and mark the nest. The most common species for this area are Greens and Olive Ridleys. Which can be confirmed by tracks alone. Outside of the fact that Greens are generally much larger, they also move differently. While Olive Ridleys crawl one front flipper over the other, leaving an asymmetrical track, Green Turtles pull the sand with both flippers—like dual canoe oars—creating a balanced print.

                                                                                 the symetrical track of a Green sea turtle

Some nights we see several turtles. Some nights we see none. Mostly we walk. Absorbing the peaceful beauty of this nocturnal wonderland. Listening to the surf curl into itself, the steady rhythm of ocean music. Searching a trillion stars for a familiar constellation.

But within 3-4 hours, the tide inches up the beach to wipe away our steps and we say farewell to the sea breeze before slipping into the sultry rainforest the way we came. Back at the OBC our bunks await us, ready to carry us from waking dreams of motherly sea turtles and fairy dust sand… to deep... sweet... sleep.

I am out for a nice afternoon hike in the dense forest surrounding the OBC. My plan is to take Trail #9 to #CO, jaunt right, make the hairpin turn onto #8, and then catch the easy left at #7 and be back at camp within and hour or two.

                                          my map

Wildlife is so abundant here it is, in fact, hard to avoid. I have to choose my footing carefully not to step on anyone. Leaf-cutter ants tiptoe next to me, racing along like a superhighway of miniature semis swerving back and forth across the trail. A plump mono colorado (spider monkey) ventures toward me in the canopy overhead, shaking loose leaves that sprinkle down on my shoulders. And spider webs strung taut between boughs keep snapping across my face and tangling in my eyelashes.

A good distance up Trail #9, I discover an enormous trunk lying horizontal—a naturallly fallen tree. Colorful lichens and fungi decorate the crumbling bark. It offers me a decent seat, so I stop for a moment to jot a few words in my little yellow notebook.

Writing comes easy this day. The peaceful atmosphere and vivid scenery sends my pencil dashing across pages until, nearly an hour later, the last word of my outpouring falls neatly on the paper. I lift my head and begrudge the nagging tweak in my spine from sitting so long. I stand, stretch. And, after taking a quick photo of myself sitting on the log to commemorate the completion of a new first draft manuscript, I go off in search of Trail #CO.

                  Yay! I have finished a new story called Arbol de Vida

After many paces, I come to the next obvious junction and check the markers. But strangely the path I'm on is now labelled #CO and the crossroad is #16—hmmmmm—no such transection exists on my map. I am stumped.

I shuffle around rereading the slender orange tags that dangle from eyelevel branches. Obviously I've gotten onto #CO, but where is Trail #8????

Since I can't bear the idea of just going back, I opt to forge forward and see what I find. Not far up the path most of the dirt is washed away, carved to broad deep crevasses and, as I edge my way along the narrow rim of mud, I make a mental note not to pass this way again.

The trail moves upward in a slow wide arc to the left, due north. I walk for quite awhile without seeing any trail markings—assurance that I have diverted from my planned route—but I suspect this path will eventually turn west and cut back down to meet the main road. Soon I am gaining significant elevation, moist tall trees giving way to a low rough landscape. I hike a steep, dry, untrodden strip of dirt, which narrows until only the echo of a trail guides me through heavy brush.

                                        very different habitat than the lush rainforest below 

I am sweating profusely. I am starting to feel overheated, dehydrated, and I'm cursing myself for failing to bring water. Despite the oppressive heat, I button up my long sleeve shirt to conserve body water and resist the mild urge to pee. Higher, higher I climb. I will only go another ten minutes, I promise myself again and again, anticipating a left turn at any time. But every bend brings only more brush, higher altitude.

The further I travel, the more reluctant I am to turn back. My leg muscles burn with lactic acid. At one ponit I hear the happy rush of water to my right. Although it's nearly a straight drop off through a haze of foliage, I know there's a river below, fresh and cool, and despite its distance I am comforted. I can clambor and tumble down if necessary—if thirst overtakes me. I am suddenly lost in daydreams about launching an Indian Jones-style slide down this wicked slope. I keep walking. 

A fly finds me huffing along and torments me for almost a mile. It never lands yet, taunting me with the tickle of his wings, he buzzes non-stop around my ears. No doubt he is drawn to the perspiration trickling from my temples, tempting him with the promise of salt. I try to ignore his whizzing but irritation swells in my head. At last I rip off my hat and flap it wildly like a mad woman. The fly is undettered but I am better for the release of frustration.

At last the path widens, a hopeful sign. And it makes a sharp left. Even better.

I cut around the corner and discover what appears to be a grand passage: the trail slips beneath an arch of green branches that reminds me of soldiers holding criss-crossed swords. I step elegantly under the boughs as though entering a ballroom.

Standing dumbfounded, my immediate disappointment gives way to awe. I am in small open clearing where the path abruptly ends into a cluster of impassable growth. But... I am overlooking the world! Mountains, treetops, sky and shore spread before me like a living map.

The ocean sparkles with moist allure at the tip of my outstretched fingers. Physically parched yet visually refreshed, I take photos and revel in the majesty of my high throne. I take some time to rest. Then, turning around, I carefully make my way back the road I came.

I am unsure whether I will easily find the correct transects home. And the challenges of going up are multiplied going down. Deep rain-carved trenches and slick mossy slopes threaten every step. Bramble grabs at my feet, clamping my ankles like makeshift hobbles. I fall, once—hard. Sliding into a fallen cross branch, I earn sure bruises to my shins.

Nevertheless, I feel quite satisfied that today’s journey has been worthwhile. Levity lightens my footfalls. And sooner than expected, I find arrive back at the log where I had been writing. 

I am about to pass the sleeping giant when I notice several long orange tags I hadn’t seen the first time I stopped. On inspection, they mark the head of Trail #8. Ha! I chuckle under my labored breath. All that time I was sitting right here at the junction. (Turns out, I had accidentally taken Trail #17 to its end point.)

                           okay, look again...  

Still laughing, I launch down Trail #8 and twenty-five minutes later I am back in my room guzzling water like a camel and thinking about my day. Funny how the best adventures come when you are willing to try a new trail, suffer a little discomfort and embrace the ups and downs of the experience. As for this hike, a surprise bird's eye view of the world was a true nature-lover's reward.

Hola, mis amigos (Hi, my friends)! I am writing this blog, my first ever, from a tropical rainforest.

Here, it is never silent; every minute is a concert of sounds. Birds, insects and/or frogs are constantly chittering. And morning brings scarlet macaws, who fill the pale blue sky like slender red crosses, squawking enthusiastically on their short migration to a strand of beachfront almond trees. 

      this is one of the few locations where wild scarlet macaws still fly free

Troops of Howler monkeys have been bellowing to one another, barking in the distance for several hours—a ruptuous cacophany that is strangely offset by the sweet whisperings of a morning breeze, cool and fresh, dancing through the forest and gently rippling the mosquito net encapsulating my bed.

Right now outside my open-air cabina I can see several spider monkeys, rust-colored and gangly-limbed, bending the highest branches of the canopy and spilling leaves as they clamber across the treetops in search of fruits and nuts. A thrill to my eyes, such is daily life in the rainforest.

           a spider monkey considers me from on high 

I am here for a few weeks working as a research assistant for Friends of the Osa, a conservation science organization. We are studying the nesting patterns of sea turtles. Two species, Olive ridleys and Green sea turtles are most common in this area. Females, heavy with eggs, frequently haul themselves up onto a remote beach near our camp from June to December. We patrol that beach at night to collect data about the arriving mothers and their nests.  We also help protect the turtle hatchlings that emerge from the nests, so they may safely make their way to the rushing currents of the Pacific Ocean. It is a small but important conservation effort.

Just a few hours ago, in the moonless darkness that linked sunset to dawn, I knelt on the beach and cupped three tiny turtlings in my hands, positioning them toward the soft foamy waves. They were the final babies to emerge from a now-empty nest, weaker than the rest who had all gone into tide hours before.

              a little turtling heads to sea and rolls in the oncoming waves...      

Within minutes of taking their first breath of open air, nature thrusts newly hatched sea turtles headlong into a dangerous under-water world with nothing but strength and intuition to carry them. I worried for those last stragglers as they tottered forward unsure and tumbled into the sea.

I hope time and luck will bless them... that their shells will slowly stretch... that they will avoid predators, fishing nets and pollution and grow large into adulthood. And I hope someday, many years from now the females return to this beach to lay eggs of their own. Each generation is a new beginning AND the continuation of a magical process that has sent sea turtles oaring across ocean waters for millenia.

On the weary walk back to camp, we spotted a collared anteater also called tamandua, a charming animal with a smaller body and shorter snout than its Giant anteater cousin. He was busy, going about his nocturnal life; he waddled past and quickly climbed up a tall narrow tree, disappearing into the stars overhead.

              Here's a pic I took in 2007 of a tamandua... cute, huh?   

When at last I crawled beneath my mosquito net and pressed my head to my pillow, I dreamed of him... and of turtles.

There is much to tell of my time here in this special place--this land where ancient rainforest meets ancient sea—too much for one day. But I will come to reveal my adventures, story by story, photo by photo, here in this blog.

And when you know all the details of this journey, I shall take you on another. In this way we will travel together. Sometimes I will pack you along to destinations far from home—trips, present or past. Other times I will share animal adventures from my own neck of the woods, er, desert—doing wildlife rescue or zoo work. But always we will explore the magnificent lives of animals and ponder the greatness of the world around us.

Until next time... Salud.