Corcovado Adieu

It had to happen. A beautiful national park being dragged into the modern-day era of adventure tourism with a promise of fine wine at the end of each evening and brilliant sunsets at no extra cost. I really can’t complain. Costa Rica, like so many other Central American countries, is simply trying to cash in on the beauty of this treasured piece of God’s handiwork.

I was fortunate enough to have been there at the beginning. Back in the early eighties, the park had been carved out of thousands of acres of pristine jungle on the Osa Peninsula in south-western Costa Rica. National Geographic has called it “the most biologically intense place on Earth in terms of biodiversity.”

Adventure tourism has gotten in bed (literally and figuratively) with health and wellness eco-tourism to form a new brand of travel. Exotic locations are now the scenes of breathtaking views, fine accommodations, health and wellness curriculum; all in a jungle environment. It had to happen even to a true jungle wilderness.

Some describe this new kind of travel tourism as a kind of wellness utopia where thermal bathing blends in naturally with family-friendly water-based activities. Most of these new health resorts and lodgings feature both ancient and contemporary treatments – from acupuncture to IV vitamin cocktails along with a ready mix of well-being practitioners, fitness trainers, and health coaches, all promising personalized care for mind, body and spirit. From that perspective, Costa Rican planners got it right. The Corcovado landscape is gob-smack in the middle of paradise.

The landscape was always that way even back in my time. It just didn’t offer up high-count Egyptian sheets and fine wine at sunset. In fact, my first view of Corcovado National Park was the sight of a crashed aircraft at the end of our rough grassy runway. At that time, 1983, the only way in and out of the huge park was by flying in on small aircraft, four passengers each.

The park had just been created by the National Department of Tourism. That agency was anxious to get the word out on the wonders and beauty of the park. They focused on journalists from around the United States, especially those associated with local public television outlets. My boss was contacted by them and I was given that assignment; to tell the story of Corcovado National Park.

Gathering up at the airport in San Jose, I could see it was an odd collection of photographers, journalists, newspaper veterans and a few old well-seasoned salts thrown in for flavor and intrigue.

Our accommodations were primitive at best. We were each assigned tents and sleeping pads and mosquito netting if we were lucky. Sleeping in tents, no ground pads, took several days to adjust to the hard ground surface.

Every morning after breakfast, we hiked a different route through the jungle. The rules of jungle hiking are really quite simple. First, jungle terrain is seldom flat. That only happens in Tarzan movies. It’s usually hilly, rugged and laced with jungle vines that can send you sprawling down a slope in nothing flat. Caution was the word.

Our guide told us right up front there were a wide variety of ways to get killed in the jungle. In our case, that could have come in the form of six different varieties of poisonous snakes, anyone of which could have killed us with just one small nick of their fangs. Yet on we trudged through the nearly impenetrable jungle in search of some great cinematic shots, which unfortunately, we never got.

Secondly, we were told to watch out for spider monkeys. They love to pee on you as you pass underneath. Howler monkeys just yell a lot. Most frogs are poisonous so don’t touch.

The third rule is also pretty simple. Snakes will kill you if they can. Watch where you step or be prepared to die. Never step over a log or object on the ground. Never lean up against a tree. Always step on top of the log then step over to the other side. Look at the tree first before you lean against it or sit next to it.

There were many species of venomous snakes in the park. The Fer-de-Lance and Bushmaster were tops in their game. One bite…thirty minutes…hello, heaven. Even the poison dart frog could do you in.

I can still hear them, almost 40 years later, scrambling above us and howling at our presence down below. It’s like a musical refrain cemented in my brain; haunting yet so familiar. The jungle can do that to you. It can enlighten, threaten and even kill you in a heartbeat.

On the first day of a long hike, I casually asked our guide if he had snake bite serum with him after he described the numerous poison snakes that abounded in Corcovado. He said no, he’d left it back at base camp, a four-hour hike away. I guess when your time comes, it comes. We all walked a little more gingerly back to camp that day.

Foresight isn’t my forte. Yet, even as I was trudging through the jungle, I knew this was the chance of a lifetime. I tried to soak up as much of the atmosphere as I could. That included the stifling heat, humidity, insects, poisonous snakes, sharks in the rivers, strange sounds day and night, sleeping on rocks, listening to the barking of the Howler Monkeys, and drinking warm beer.

Those three weeks in Corcovado produced many wonderful experiences and great memories with some fascinating folks. I should be so lucky to hear those howling monkeys ever again.

Now, fast-forward forty plus years and Brian’s family just returned from a wonderful vacation trip to Costa Rica. While, they didn’t visit Corcovado they did get a true taste of a Costa Rican jungle and beach front fun.

As the saying goes, time changes all things. Even that impenetrable jungle finally fell to the joyful sounds of kids just having a good time. Not quite my experiences there but still a wonderful feeling for all. Corcovado has a brand-new audience to savor its charms and enjoy spectacular sunsets.

A Walk in Time

Ordinary, plain-talking folks have been walking this country since its inception in the colonial era. They rambled along to find themselves, to find their countrymen, to find their destiny. Great migrations from East to West, West to North and every direction in-between carried their tired bodies in search of that elusive goal, often not defined, but understood in their soul.

The most recent rambling narrative I read was called American Ramble. It was written by a much-traveled veteran of journalistic assignments around the world and at home. It’s not the first walkin, talkin narrative I’ve read or seen.

During World War Two, a film came out entitled ‘A Walk in the Sun.’ it was about a squad of infantrymen who landed at Palermo, Italy and began a forced march across the countryside to their first objective, a farm house at some critical crossroads.

‘A Walk in the Sun’ had very little combat action but ran with poignant dialogue that truly captured the everyday thoughts of those infantrymen as they marched through the Italian countryside. It was at once reflective, insightful, and thought-provoking. It connected the audience on an emotional level with each one of those soldiers. Walking in the woods, alone or with a friend, and getting lost there can have the same effect. It’s like an elixir for your mind and soul at the same time.

Folks have been wandering this planet, with pen in hand, since the beginning of time. Walden and Thoreau, in their time, were able to capture the peace and serenity that accompanies this kind of soul-soothing venture. On a more personal level, I’ve found that long trail runs and mountain hiking can produce the same kind of mind-altering euphoric effect on the brain. Some call it a ‘vison quest.’

Back in time, I’ve taken on my own kind of ‘vision quests’ climbing the mountains, finding a spot to nest in and then get lost inside my head.

The surrounding environment found in mountains and woods is much the same. It’s a quiet that can pound on your eardrum with its softness and penetrate your psychic with reflective thoughts that seem to come out of nowhere and get lodged there. Much like the girl I knew back in college who taught me how to walk in the rain; solitary walking in the woods can have much the same visceral, cerebral cleaning effect.

When he was just sixteen, Brian and I did that in the Amazon River basin. It was a wonderful kaleidoscope of running the Amazon in a narrow canoe carved out of a tree trunk, trudging through the jungle in the pouring rain and crossing raging river streams.

I repeated that experience again in Costa Rica with a number of long forced marches through the jungle. Most folks don’t understand that jungles are usually not found on plateaus but rather steep hills, gullies, rugged crevice’s and rolling terrain.

When Brian and Melanie were younger, I would sometimes take them into the woods to get lost. We’d stop by some fallen log and just sit there and listen.

At first, the kids couldn’t hear a thing but gradually they would grow accustomed to the quiet and slowly, ever so slowly, would begin to hear the wind, the birds, traffic far off in the distance and a myriad of other woodland sounds. It’s meditation on a soft blanket of moss surrounded by forest sentinels.

I took a forced march in the woods recently. I wasn’t wearing khaki or carrying a backpack or satchel of supplies. Just my water bottle, tiny binoculars and good hiking boots. It wasn’t a forced march or trudge through the jungle. It was, as expected, a quiet meander to listen for birds calling my name, the wind ruffling my thinning hair and the sun to brighten my way. A backyard ramble not far from home that took me to an entirely different world inside my head.

I still treasure those moments in time when I get to let go of my surroundings and let my mind and imagination float away, taking me along for the ride.

After the Howling Monkeys

I can still hear them, almost 40 years later, scrambling above us and howling at our presence down below. It’s like a musical refrain cemented in my brain; haunting yet so familiar. The jungle can do that to you. It can enlighten, threaten and even kill you in a heartbeat.

In our case, that could have come in the form of six different varieties of poisonous snakes, anyone of which could have killed us with just one small nick of their fangs. Yet on we trudged through the nearly impenetrable jungle in search of some great cinematic shots, which unfortunately, we never got.

In hindsight, the trip could have easily cost me my job. I returned without a script, a good shot list and no discernable story to tell of our venture. My interpretation of the trip wasn’t the television special my boss had hoped for. Fortunately, other distractions took his attention away from my ‘failure to deliver’ and l lived on to work another day at the television station.

This jungle venture began when I was asked to headed up a small film crew that was part of a group of photojournalists invited by the Costa Rican government to explore Corcovado National Park in Costa Rica and (hopefully) write or create television programs to promote it.

The Park is located on the Osa Peninsula in southwestern Costa Rica. National Geographic has called it “the most biologically intense place on Earth in terms of biodiversity.” My boss, the CFO, thought this would be a great opportunity for our station to produce a documentary on Costa Rica and enlisted me in that effort.

We flew into the park after arriving in San Jose, capitol of Costa Rica. Our base camp consisted of a park ranger’s station and separate bunkhouse carved out of the surrounding jungle. The bunkhouse was full so we opted to sleep in tents on the ground nearby.

Every morning after breakfast, we hiked a different route through the jungle. The rules of jungle hiking are quite simple. First, jungle terrain is seldom flat. That only happens in Tarzan movies. It’s hilly, rugged and laced with jungle vines that can send you sprawling down a slope in nothing flat. Caution is the word.

Secondly, we were told to watch out for spider monkeys. They love to pee on you as you pass underneath. Howler monkeys just yell a lot. Most frogs are poisonous so don’t touch.

The third rule is also pretty simple. Snakes will kill you if they can. Watch where you step or be prepared to die. Never step over a log or object on the ground. Never lean up against a tree. Always step on top of the log then step over to the other side. Look at the tree first before you lean against it or sit next to it.

There were many species of venomous snakes in the park. The Fer-de-Lance and Bushmaster were tops in their game. One bite…thirty minutes…hello, heaven. Even the poison dart frog could do you in.

On the first day of a long hike, I casually asked our guide if he had snake bite serum with him after he described the numerous poison snakes that abounded in Corcovado. He said no, he’d left it back at base camp, a four-hour hike away. I guess when your time comes, it comes. We all walked a little more gingerly back to camp that day. And made sure he had it with him every time we went out after that.

On almost every hike, we’d have to ford some river or inlet to the sea. Always at low tide since the currents were so strong at high tide that it was very easy to get swept out to sea no matter how strong a swimmer you might be.

When we came upon some backwater pool, in the middle of the jungle, five hours into our hike, taking off our clothes for a dip seemed surprisingly logical, rational and very appealing. I can’t remember who suggested it first. Probably the eccentric professor from out east. He always had great ideas.

The men took off their clothes first…boring. Then the two women in our group…no Brazilian trims there. Suddenly I felt very foolish hiding behind my sunglasses. It had quickly become apparent that the soothing coolness of the water, that magical pond in the middle of the steaming jungle, and the lively banter going on was more interesting than body parts seen or imagined. And after a few glances, seriously, who cares?

One time, at the end of our gallivanting in that backwater pool, came with an announcement from one of our more eccentric travelers. It seemed that he had a rubber raft in his backpack and was looking for someone to float with him down the river to the sea, approximately four miles away. Strangely enough he got no takers. We just stood there, putting on our clothes, wondering if he was really serious.

Undaunted by the silent stares he got, the eccentric one tossed his clothes bag into his backpack, gave the pack to someone else and proceeded to inflate his rubber raft. Then with his hat and flip-flops on and nothing else, he began floating away. We all looked in astonishment as his snow-white ass got smaller and smaller in the distance. Then it was gone all together.

Somehow it all seemed perfectly logical at the time. I think we just collectively shook our shoulders, agreed that the eccentric one would find that a normal thing to do (floating down an unknown river in the middle of the jungle, in the nude), and wondered if or when we’d ever see him again. I know it’s stupid, dumb and illogical but I still wonder what it would have been like if I’d taken him up on his offer.

He showed up that evening sporting his torn flip-flops and beet red ass. Then over warm beer, he regaled us with stories of the sights and sounds that greeted and then followed him down the river all the way to the sea.

About the second night back in San Jose, one of our fellow travelers (I think it was the red-butted floater) who said he’d found a quaint bar in town. They had American beer, the women there were all beautiful, and they played American rock and roll every evening. Sounded like a great opportunity to check out the local pub scene and mix it up with the locals.

I was surprised that the pub wasn’t in the commercial part of town. Instead, it was a little further out of town in what looked like a huge plantation house. There were lots of cars parked outside and loud music was coming from within.

Upon entering, we saw a huge bar, beautiful women dancing with the locals and beer taps that spelling out our favorite liquid refreshments. The women were all smiles and their clothes (or lack of) weren’t hard to look at either. We grabbed several tables to put to-gether and ordered the first of several rounds.

I was struck by the beautiful women all around me. Costa Rican women don’t show the Mayan influence that women in a number of Central and South American countries do. Their skin has a light brown or chocolate tone, beautiful dark hair and facial features that would rival even the most glamorous of Paris models.  Several came up and asked some of us for a dance. Fortunately, my introvert nature kicked in and I demurred.

Several of our group jumped at the opportunity to take their turn on the dance floor. When they finished, the girls would ask for a drink to which these guys happily obliged. Being an introvert and principally cheap didn’t hurt me that evening.

It was only when one of our group began chatting up the locals that we realized where we were. It seems there was a whorehouse upstairs and these beautiful women were really working professionals. The women were amorous with intent (relatively speaking) expensive (in their currency) and aiming to turn a quick profit (oh, that explains their charm).

In reality, our quaint happy bar was a Central American Wild West saloon. And there were gunslingers about. We suddenly became the tenderfoot tourists venturing into unfamiliar territory. And those guys in tight jeans and bulging t-shirts weren’t just a part of the scenery. We finished our drinks, smiled at the locals and got the hell out of Dodge.

Foresight isn’t my forte. Yet, even as I was trudging through the jungle, I knew this was the chance of a lifetime. I tried to soak up as much of the atmosphere as I could. That included the stifling heat, humidity, insects, poisonous snakes, sharks in the rivers, strange sounds day and night, sleeping on rocks, listening to the barking of the Howler Monkeys and drinking warm beer.

Those three weeks in Corcovado produced many wonderful experiences and great memories with some fascinating folks. I should be so lucky to hear those howling monkeys ever again.

REPOST: What I Learned from Howling Monkeys

Due to a family medical emergency… will be back to regular blogging in a couple of weeks. Thanks for reading my blogs. This week, I decided to re-post my most popular all-time blog post circa July 2012.

Corcovado National Park in Costa Rica is located on the Osa Peninsula in southwestern Costa Rica. It is a gem that I was most fortunate to discover in the early 80s, less than ten years after it was first established. National Geographic has called it  “the most biologically intense place on Earth in terms of biodiversity.”



My trip to Corcovado meant three weeks of sleeping on rocks, dancing around deadly snakes, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and listening to howling monkeys every night. By the end of each day my colleagues and I were roasted and rank. About as close to paradise as one could get.

I headed up a film crew that was part of a group of photojournalists invited by the Costa Rican government to explore the park and (hopefully) write or create television programs about it. 

The lessons began the first day of our arrival. It was a wonderful group of journalists, magazine editors,  writers and one eccentric professor from out east. This is before the Internet. Our focus was on film, photos and note taking to capture the true beauty of the country and its park. There were two women in the group who (it quickly became apparent) could hold their own with the men.  We were all young (relatively speaking) and eager to explore town and country.

San Jose is the capitol of Costa Rica and a bustling economic driver for the country. We were anxious to see what it had to offer. But first we had to tackle three weeks in the jungle.

I chose cut offs and a t-shirt instead of the more jungle attire of cargo pants, long sleeve shirt and boots. I was cooler in the jungle and didn’t look like a field hand from the Coachella Valley. I also figured ‘what the heck.’ A snake can bite through pants as easily as it can directly to skin. If I was going to get bit, long pants wouldn’t be much of a help.

Time is What You call It
We were supposed to fly into the park that next morning. We got to the small airport early and piled up our gear for three weeks of jungle camping. Then we waited. And waited. And waited.

What I didn’t understand back then was American time vs. South American time. Foolish me thought that 9:00am meant 9:00am or maybe a few minutes late. Actually in Central and South American countries 9:00am means never before the allotted hour, of course and perhaps up to: 45 minutes or longer after the appointed time. And in their world that was perfectly Ok.

My frustration must have been apparent because one of our trip leaders pulled me aside and informed me that the pilots would arrive when they felt like it. He said that I’d better get used to that attitude or else I would be the one getting frustrated for no reason at all. I took a deep breath and toned it down from A to B to C. Very mellow from then on.

Our fly-in was simple enough. We flew into the park at treetop level. Then dropped below the tree line onto a narrow strip of grass that had been cut out of the jungle. Our pilots were like cowboys. They loved scaring the heck out of Anglo tourists with their macho landings. Some planes hadn’t made it down safely in the past. Quite a sight as we taxied by.

 

Don’t complain about the Accommodations
Our base camp consisted of a park rancher’s station and separate bunkhouse carved out of the surrounding jungle. The bunkhouse was full so we opted to sleep on the ground nearby. In retrospect it was the right decision. After a couple of days we all adjusted to the hard ground, the howling of monkeys, sounds of strange animals nearby and the constant drone of insects all night long. It became our white noise and certainly beat the thunderous snoring rolling out of the bunkhouse each night.

Know Your Neighbors
There are three simple rules for hiking in the jungle. 

Jungle terrain is seldom flat. That only happens in Tarzan movies. It’s hilly, rugged and laced with jungle vines that can send you sprawling down a slope in nothing flat. Caution is the word.

Secondly, watch out for spider monkeys. They love to pee on you as you pass by underneath.

The third rule is also pretty simple. Watch where you step or be prepared to die.
Never step over a log or object on the ground. Never lean up against a tree. Always step on top of the log then step over to the other side. Look at the tree first before you lean against it or sit next to it.

There were many species of venomous snakes in the park. The Fer-de-Lance and Bushmaster were tops in their game. One bite…thirty minutes…hello, heaven. Even the poison dart frog could do you in. 

Supposedly a snake can hear your footfalls a long distance away and will move away from that sound. Theoretically, the snake is more scared of you than you are of it. But ‘theoretically’ doesn’t really help if a snake bites you. Then you have theoretically twenty to thirty minutes before you die. Unless you have snake serum that you can inject into the puncture wound immediately.

Our guide was a wonderful, always cheerful park ranger whose grasp of the English language always left us with the question: ‘what did he say’ or ‘did he really say that’ or ‘Ok, whatever.’

 

On the first day of a long hike, I casually asked our guide if he had snake bite serum with him after he described the numerous poison snakes that abounded in Corcovado. He said no, he’d left it back at base camp, a four-hour hike away. I guess when your time comes, it comes. We all walked a little more gingerly back to camp that day. And made sure he had it with him every time we went out after that.


Haste saves Toes and other Body Parts
Almost everyday, we’d have to ford some river or inlet to the sea. Always at low tide since the currents were so strong at high tide that it was very easy to get swept out to sea no matter how strong a swimmer you might be.



Then there was the matter of the Bull sharks, American crocodiles, and spectacled caiman that liked to swim up those rivers from the ocean. Our guide would watch carefully for any sign of our unwelcome visitors. Then with a wave, we’d roll up our pants (usually didn’t matter) and begin wading across the river or inlet. Looking down for any sign of a snapper usually didn’t matter. The water was brown with churning sand and silt. It was a guessing game if any one of us would be toast that day. Or the next. Often times after crossing the inlet someone would spot a fin or smudge on the water. Damn, made it again.

I’m not a Nudist
It wasn’t a fear of stepping on glass, or sitting on a steel chair or swimming across a pond full of snapping turtles, I just never pictured myself a nudist. Grant it, skin is skin is skin. And there’s a plethora of  ‘Oh, my gosh’ on the Internet if you’re interested that sort of thing. I’m not. I just never pictured myself, sans. clothes, among other people.

So when we came upon that backwater pool, in the middle of the jungle, five hours into our hike, taking off our clothes for a dip seemed surprisingly logical, rational and very appealing. I can’t remember who suggested it first. Probably the eccentric one. He always had great ideas.

The men took off their clothes first…boring. Then the women…no Brazilian trims there. One kept her panties on for a short while but then decided ‘what the heck, everything was visible anyway.’ Suddenly I felt very foolish hiding behind my sunglasses. It had quickly became apparent that the soothing coolness of the water, that magical pond in the middle of the jungle, and the lively banter going on was more interesting than body parts seen or imagined. And after a few glances, seriously, who cares?

It’s true that clothes make a woman sexy. Take those away and what you’re left with is… Ok, pass the lemonade. Maybe that’s the secret nudists have discovered; that after the clothes come off, your attention is drawn to more substantial and interesting things.  Who knew? It took a cool pond in the middle of a Costa Rican rainforest to teach me one of life’s great lessons.

Seemed Logical at the Time
The end of our gallivanting in that backwater pool came with an announcement from the eccentric one. It seemed that he had a rubber raft in his backpack and was looking for someone to float with him down the river to the sea, approximately four miles away. Strangely enough he got no takers. We just stood there, putting on our clothes, wondering if he was really serious.

Undaunted by the silent stares he got, the eccentric one tossed his clothes bag into his backpack, gave the pack to someone else and proceeded to inflate his rubber raft. Then with his hat and flip-flops on, he began floating away. We all looked in astonishment as his snow-white ass got smaller and smaller in the  distance. Then it was gone all together.

Somehow it all seemed perfectly logical at the time. I think we just collectively shook our shoulders, agreed that the eccentric one would find that a normal thing to do (floating down an unknown river in the middle of the jungle, in the nude), and wondered if or when we’d ever see him again. I know it’s stupid, dumb and illogical but I still wonder what it would have been like if I’d taken him up on his offer.

He showed up that evening, hat, torn flip-flops, and beet red ass. Then over warm beer, he regaled us with stories of the sights and sounds that greeted and then followed him down the river all the way to the sea.


Nectar of the Gods
I started a habit in Costa Rica that I’ve continued ever since. And supposedly it’s good for your health. We were God-knows how far into one of our early hikes when I saw a lemon tree in a clearing. Even though my canteen was full of tepid, warm water, a couple of squirts of lemon make all the difference in the world.