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

             The water is almost perfectly smooth, the wind calm.

I am silent, breathing slowly through my nose, which hovers just above the languid surface. My legs and arms are hidden, swirling in smooth circles as they tread the aqueous space below. From this vantage I am a sea turtle lifting my head from the echoing blue to peer momentarily at the world of imposing gravity. I imagine myself all shell and flipper, completely at ease in the ocean realm.

Nearby a tern is fishing, nonplussed by my presence; after all, I am nothing but a brown spot bobbing in the expanse. The bird comes very close. It sways above me—delicate, slim and white with a split tail—searching. Each time it dives and strikes for food its flow is halted, a quick snap against the water.

                                       I love this place.  Here, the Osa Peninsula and Gulfo Dulce wrap together like a vibrant Taiji (yin-yang) symbol of land and water. And I’m thankful to feel the embayment’s sweet coolness against my skin since, even this early in the morning, the January air is hot and sticky.

In 2007 and 2008, I worked as a research assistant for Friends of the Osa (http://www.osaconservation.org/), tagging sea turtles and collecting nesting data on the Pacific side of the Osa Peninsula. Now I’ve returned for a unique pilot study under their auspices.

A projected yellowfin tuna farm at the mouth of Golfo Dulce has sparked an urgent call to action. Since little has been published about the gulf’s ecological vitality, there is an imperative need for more scientific data to bolster conservation initiatives.

So I am here to talk with the people and collect 30 days data from a small boat, documenting marine animals in Golfo Dulce, especially “flagship” conservation species (whales, dolphins, sea turtles, whale sharks and some beautiful yellow xanthic-phase sea snakes). My goal is to garner baseline data about this tropical fiord’s unique biodiversity and build greater awareness concerning the importance of in situ conservation.

A man is suddenly talking on the pier, his voice pours across the bay to where I am swimming. I roll onto my back and sigh contentedly. Floating, ears muffled by water, I fall deaf to his chatter, soaking in my own thoughts.

I ponder the work I’ve been doing this week, interviewing local fishermen. Skin weathered to rich mahogany working the sea aside brothers and friends, these earnest men are skeptical of questioning strangers. Their eyes are often shadows as I approach. Yet I’ve felt the honor of having them warm to me and I’m humbled by their hard-earned knowledge of the gulf and its fauna.

                                                                                     Chilo with his night's catch

                                             They have been generous with information and kind of heart,

                                 and my Spanish improves with every effort to understand their dynamic stories.

Yesterday, two people told me they saw Humpback whales just the day before, four individuals from the northern hemisphere breaching in the gulf. These reports make me itch to get on the water myself and, after a few more interviews, I’ll be ready.

But, like most projects, mine is facing some obstacles—an unexpected and fairly expensive repair is needed on the motor donated for my study.

                     So my boat sits waiting.

                                                                        I wait too while we search for a solution, an easier fix or alternative. 

   Mike, Jorge and Gareth looking for parts in La Palma

A half hour has passed since I paddled out into the water and the sun is throwing light across a spray of clouds that are thin and broken into a pattern of triangles, like white scales on a blue fish. Please, I whisper a tiny prayer skyward, I need a boat with a working motor… and soon.

Twisting upright, I see the white tern is gone. The tide is rising and dark wrinkled water is coming a few hundred yards away. When the tiny ripples reach me along with the breeze that’s pushing them, I close my eyes and sniff the fresh salty air.

Another beautiful morning in Costa Rica. It’s time to start the day. With one more deep breath, I turn toward shore and begin to pull myself, one arm over the other.

I wrote like crazy while I was living at the OBC in Costa Rica! I couldn't help myself; I was so dang inspired! Below are two unrelated literary chunks—ramblings, really—that made it from brain to paper during my time there. 

                                            a page in my yellow notebook

I share them because they offer insight into my thoughts and surroundings of the time. But they also exemplify the kind of free-flow writing that allows ideas to rush onto a page unhindered by serious worry for grammar, punctuation or paragraphing (which can always be fixed later).

#1:

I cannot stop writing, words gush from me like flash floods, forcing me to dash for paper and pen and hold to them as life rafts until the urgent waves of inspiration have passed. Last night, I woke abruptly at 1:00am, writhing with ideas, only to find my pen conspiratorially out of ink. Unable to sleep without exorcising the words from my head, I had to crawl from the nighttime safety of my mosquito net, quickly apply a layer of bug protection and scurry the full length of the compound to the kitchen for a writing utensil. There, I nudged around in the dark like a large nocturnal rodent, tiptoed like a cartoon burglar looking for diamonds. Minutes later, pencil secured in fist, I hot-footed back to bed and scribbled by headlamp for almost an hour, pages of my small yellow notebook turning black with lead—a frenzy that left me exhausted. Utterly drained, I then slept without moving until a crest of morning sunlight came to jiggle my shoulder.

#2:

The power and force of the sea is supreme. Even from here, with a great wall of trees between, the ocean can be heard. The swish and roll, followed by a deep rumble: water tripping on sand and crashing head over heels onto the shore. The sound repeats… the push… the roar and tumble… the pulling back to regroup before trying again. I imagine the vast ocean found guilty of some unforgivable disturbance of prehistory—at which point the ancient tides were cast from the land. Now, in repentance, they endlessly beg, clawing their way back ashore. The bass tone of the water is distance and embedded in the more prominent notes of the night—insects and frogs playing treble in this nocturnal music—but when you focus your attention on the waves, listen with head and with heart, the other noises drop away in insignificance. Soon, the deep call of ocean is the only sound you can hear, as if all other tones have been sucked into an auditory black hole. It bellows low and deep, the echo of all life past, present and future… calling us home.

NOTE: Beginning in March, I will be blogging every 2nd & 4th Friday of the month... see you March 13th!

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

We startled each other as I opened the bedroom door, flustered wings and quickened heart. It was after midnight and I was returning from sea turtle night patrol at the beach. I arrived home unfocused, lulled to a daze by miles of sand and damp leaf litter passing underfoot. The rapid unfurling of a relatively large grey bat in the dim of my headlamp stopped me mid-stride, door handle in hand.

           I only saw a flash and couldn't identify the species; maybe a Greater White-lined Bat?

         For reference, here's a pic I took of two White-lined bats in a city office building.

He had probably been in my quarters for hours—not waiting for me, but doing what any normal bat does in a quiet moon-filled room on a buggy Costa Rican night—eating insects. Neither of us expected the other and we nearly bumped heads. It was his savvy sonar that rescued us both from minor concussions as he tarped open and cut left, sending a nervous rush of air across my eyelashes.  

I was not frightened. I like bats. Besides his presence wasn't entirely surprising. This was surely the same member of chiroptera (the scientific order for bats) that had come into my room the night before.

He'd flown in just after I'd gotten into bed. I was delighted to hear him hunting around my bunk; the naturalist in me had listened with intense interest, trying to make sense of his movements in the black space. But I admit, awhile later, as my attention gave way to sleepiness, his nocturnal antics became a bit disruptive. Then downright annoying. In fact, the flap-flap-whack-flutter of his chaotic darting had kept me awake much of the night. By 4am, his whirling racket had me rolling over and over, puffing the pillow and grunting my discontent.

Bats do not make good roommates.

Now he was in my room again and I worried about enduring another sleepless night. As I stood there, the bat swooped passed me and out the door in a huff—like he was trying to make a point. It was a silly move, because everything was open to the outdoors. Wood beams, a few short walls and a tin roof defined it a "room", but there weren't any panes in the windows; the bat could come and go any time, no door necessary.

         daytime photos of my open-air room... see, no windows. 

As he disappeared into the night, I felt a shred of guilt for freaking him out. Well, that’s it, I thought, I've scared him away for good. I climbed inside my mosquito net and snuggled comfortably under my sheets. Darkness. Peace. I was going to sleep like a baby.

Flap-flap-flap-flap….

Flap-flap-flap-flap…  

He began with several reconnaissance flights back and forth across the room—probably to be sure I, the erratic human, was not going to cause further upset. I should have known he wouldn't be that easy to dissuade.

Wing beats drew zigzags in the silence. With new curiosity I focused on his flight pattern: the rhythm was consistent, soothing even. But then the sound changed, became more complicated.  

Two bats??? Wow... that's cool!!!

They squeaked and tussled from corner to corner—even took to crashing about under my bed, bumping the bottom of my thin mattress. They were noisy to be sure! But fascination held me. My ears were pricked to every flutter. My mind envisioned every action. I listened as you might to a long bedtime story and... eventually I drifted into dreamland.

When I woke, my room was empty except for a shaft of peach sunlight. The bats were gone. For the next few nights I waited after dark for their arrival, hoping they would come again. But they never did. I am left with only these memories (and two small punctures on my neck... JUST KIDDING!).

    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.

Let's return to the rainforest, shall we?

One of the most interesting things about Costa Rica is its blend of wildlife. Think of Central America. Now visualize that narrow strip of land as a natural passageway where species from both northern AND southern regions can mix together. Costa Rica is, of course, home to the typical rainforest creatures—boa constrictors, monkeys, parrots, sloths and kinkajous. But there are also some animals familiar to North Americans including White-tailed deer, coyotes, coatis (also called coatimundis or, in Spanish: pisotes), Ringtailed cats, Great Blue herons and mountain lions (also called cougars or pumas).

On an afternoon walk by myself, stepping softly through the quiet rainforest, I startled a herd of collared peccaries (the same species we call javelina in the desert). The mass of stocky brown bodies crashed through the understory in an uproar, bursting into sight and arching away. They tore deep tracks in the muddy trail before vanishing as quickly as they appeared.

         a picture of collared peccaries called "javelinas" in Arizona 

This was not the first time peccaries had darted across my path. They have a good sense of smell but poor vision. With no breeze to push my scent ahead of me and thick greenery to block their already challenged eyesight, it was easy to come upon them without notice. 

            This is kind of what the path looked like... tough to see into the understory

I was not fearful so after the stunning moment passed, I ventured forward to resumed my journey. Grunt, grunt, came the voice of a single peccary ahead and to my right. Two o’clock. It was unsettlingly close, a few paces away in the foliage—perhaps an young male unhappily separated from its herd or, more dangerous, a mother separated from her red (the nickname given to baby javelinas). 

Having a fair amount of experience with peccaries in Arizona, I stood still to give the animal time to think and room to pass. Yet my presense was still disturbing. Clack-clack-clack!  Clack-clack-clack!  The distinct warning call of a peccary came sharp with intent! 

I couldn't see exactly how close we were, so I took a careful step backward to allow a wider birth, but this minor infraction of movement incited a false charge from the overly anxious animal! Clack-clack-clack! it repeated, rushing forward, cracking leaves and vines underfoot!

Yikes! Considering my options, I stepped up into the low fork of the tree next to me—an action that felt equal parts silly and prudent.

I waited. The animal grunted and snuffled in the undergrowth. I stared hard into the thick flora trying to resolve a peccary in the green and brown patchwork, but the threat remained a phantom.

I waited longer and was taken off by daydreams stirred by this unexpected view. Looking around with four feet of altitude I was a giant, a dinosaur, a tree sapling rising among brothers. I gazed beyond the trunks that marked an endless vertical grid and imagined myself poised in this tree to gather some vague scrap of information to guide me... an explorer, an woodsman, a lost soul.

At last I heard the peccary turn and trot away in the direction of its family and felt relief to no longer be a source of stress for the poor beast. When I was alone... just a regular human standing in a tree... I giggled. Then I took one last of peek from my vantage and shimmied back to the ground. Another story for the books... or, er, the blog.

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.

To help you better envision my surroundings and the adventures to come, let me provide a more precise understanding of my current geographical location…

If you look at Central America on a World Atlas, you will find the nation of Costa Rica sitting atop Panama with Nicaragua riding her shoulders. On the west side of the country, jutting out and down into the cold open waters of the Pacific Ocean are two peninsulas—the large Nicoya Peninsula to the north (a popular vacation spot) and the seemingly runted Osa Peninsula in the south.

           I am on the Osa.

This small green arm of land hugs a vital body of water against the mainland, an aquatic treasure aptly named Gulfo Dulce (sweet gulf), in which a lucky observer might spy huge pods of dolphins or even large migrating pelagic species like humpbacks and whale sharks. No doubt a marine biologist’s wonderland.

But the peninsula itself is perhaps the most spectacular place in this truly spectacular country. Described by National Geographic as one of the most “biologically intense” places on earth, the Osa holds tight to substantial areas of primary and secondary rainforest.

Everywhere you look on the Osa, you see green. Green is the theme. Impossibly tall trees, eager twisting vines, cascading leaves of every shape and size. Green atop green. The color pulls you like a magnet into its soothing embrace; it draws you in and fills your senses. It settles your mind, one deep breath after another until, calm and focused, you join its limbic rhythm.

It’s not necessary to see animals to know they are here. You can feel them.  And this green jungle, pulsing with energy is well protected by the local people. A model of good stewardship and a testament to environmental solidarity we all could learn from.

             looking up through the trees

At the tip of the Osa, facing the gulf is the thriving little Tico community, Puerto Jimenez. This is the main hub of human activity on the peninsula. It is not a fancy commercial destination—it’s real Costa Rica. Local people living local lives. Pura Vida. The foreigners here assimilate into the culture, or leave.        

From PJ, one rugged dirt road forges south, and wraps around the peninsula. The road was cut by man but shaped by rain; it is hilly and pockmarked with deep threatening craters and thick mud. And it bisects several rivers that, like sly watery trolls, steal whole cars when silly tourists insist on crossing after extended rains.

                          driving across one of many rivers

Should a courageous driver choose to twist and climb and bump along 42 kilometers for nearly 2.5 hours (that’s in the dry season), he may arrive at Carate, which is not much more than a short landing strip and a small bar/cafe on the mid-western shore. Carate is well-known because it’s a few kilometers hike from the entrance to the glorious Corcovado National Park, which I will take you to visit in a future blog.

But let’s back up a little…

About 2/3 of the way from Puerto Jimenez to Carate, an unassuming turn-off by the one-room escuela (school) leads to a lovely complex of rudimentary housing tucked back in the rainforest. This is the OBC—Osa Biodiversity Center, owned and run by Friends of the Osa—and it's the place I am living during my stay.

   If this minute you sauntered across the trimmed pasture of moist grass surrounding the campus and stepped up under the pointed tin roof of the kitchen, you would find me sitting at one of the fold-out dinner tables, typing away on the OBC’s laptop. Electricity and Internet access are advantages that few houses in rural Osa enjoy. When I was doing sea turtle work here last year we lived in a tiny palapa on the beach and did not have such conveniences. Their addition to daily life make me feel deliciously spoiled.

So now you have me pinpointed on the map. Let it give you comfort that I have not disappeared; I’m just a few thin lines of latitude and longitude away. And I will write more soon about the turtles… and the other animals, people and places that lured me back to the Osa.

But, alas, I didn’t come to Costa Rica to spend too much of my day at the computer, so I leave now for the forest where I will walk, look, listen—fingers to the pulse of life. The green is calling. I must go.

Luego (later)!

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.