Costa Rica Vacation Journals

Rincon de la Vieja to San Jose

My muscles ached and my body hurt. I shuffled into the bathroom and saw a huge bruise on my lower back. Thank you, Canela. To shock myself awake, I jumped into a cold shower. We had woken up early this morning to eat breakfast and pack our bags before heading to the hotel’s famous canopy tour.

I poked my head out the door, and Cesar was already waiting outside. The good news was that after drying his camera under a light bulb all night, it was working again. The bad news was that he had a pounding headache. When we arrived at the restaurant, we headed straight for the coffee bar. After swigging down my first cup, I served myself some breakfast and a second cup of coffee. Caffeine is a good friend of mine.

After breakfast we walked over to the activity center and waited for the canopy tour to begin. Cesar sat down on the picnic table, head between his hands, and admitted that the headache was too much to handle. He was going to return to his room, take a pill, and lie down for a while. I was to go it alone.

They geared me up, artistically decorating me with harnesses, cables, and nylon ropes. When my helper put a harness around my back, I got nervous. “What’s that for?” I asked. “For when you want to go upside down!” he responded. Upside down? Who was he kidding? “Ha ha,” I responded, trying to play along, but he looked serious.

A few minutes’ walk led us to the first platform. Before scaling the ladder, we went through the safety basics and canopy mechanisms. After the lesson, our large group slowly climbed to the first platform. I wasn’t nervous at all – though I’m not a fan of heights, I love fast rides and adrenaline-pumping activities.

When it was my turn, I got in the flying position, waited for the go-ahead, and then hurled myself off of the platform. If there is anything close to actual human flight, this is it. I glided through the air and, though I could feel my harness supporting my body, felt almost weightless. It was a fantastic sensation, and I tried to concentrate on both the views and the tour’s fun factor.

Arriving at the second platform, I bounced with excitement in anticipation of the next cable. It was short and didn’t require any braking. “Even better,” I thought, launching myself again. The spotter laughed when he caught me, asking if I was having fun. I’m sure that the excited, happy look on my face was an answer in itself, but I still gave him an enthusiastic “Yes!”

After the third cable, the guides arranged us into small groups. My group of four marched off to the canyon section of the tour. I stared at the ground, determined to maintain my footing. When we arrived and I finally looked up, an incredible sight met my eyes: the canyon stretched out before me, covered in emerald-green moss. It looked like a giant had taken a shovel to the gorge, scooping it out with perfect symmetry. The blue river rushed 25 feet below. It was easily the most beautiful place I had ever been.

I was snatched out of my meditations by the next spotter, who indicated it was time to lower myself down to river level. Upside down. “Oh boy,” I thought to myself, “do I really want to do this?” Thinking it over quickly, I decided to do the Spiderman drop – if I didn’t, I’d never forgive myself. He hooked me on, and I leaned backwards, bending my legs like a frog. I looked down at the roaring river, and, before I could change my mind, the spotter dropped me into freefall.

Ten seconds later, I was dangling in mid-air, but still alive. I caught my breath and righted myself. The bungee cable had been terrifying and invigorating. The woman waiting in front of me, who had not gone upside down, looked at me appraisingly. “Your face is completely white,” she said, her Dutch accent charming. “I’m fine. That was awesome!” It had been, and I wanted to do it again.

I waited my turn to swing across the river, Tarzan-style, before climbing 25 feet straight up the canyon cliff. I’d been rock climbing before, and loved it, but my muscles ached. Luckily, the spotter at the top was strong, and he almost pulled me up the rocks. Safely on sturdy ground again, I readied for the next cable, hurling myself out into the canyon. Flying was fun.

The canopy tour ended several cables later with another upside-down moment. This time, it was a horizontal cable, and as I glided over the canyon, my head facing a 150-foot drop, I screamed. I wasn’t scared, but rather energized. The canopy tour had been beautiful, exciting, and an incredible experience.

I headed back to our room, picked up Cesar, and we went to checkout. We took another $60 taxi to downtown Liberia, where we waited for our 2 p.m. bus to take us back to San Jose. Five hours later, I was home in my own bed, the canopy tour sensations still reverberating through my body.

Rincon de la Vieja National Park

I like to wake up with the sun, and in Costa Rica, this means that I get up early – 6:30 a.m. is sleeping in. Cesar, however, has completely redefined the term “early bird.” He bounced out of his hotel room almost every pitch-black morning, scouting for photos during the very earliest moments of daylight. I envied him sometimes, especially when he came to breakfast with photographic evidence of shy wildlife or perfectly lit nature shots.

This morning, it was toucans. Toucans! It may have something (or a lot) to do with a certain breakfast cereal, but I had wanted to see a toucan since I was a little girl. Over a plate of rice and beans, toast, fruit, and coffee, I reached for the camera and clicked though several shots of multi-colored beaks and bodies. “What time was this?” I asked. “5:30,” he replied. Crestfallen, I realized that I had awoken only 15 minutes after the toucan show. In hindsight, if I had known what awaited me that day, I would have gone straight back to bed.

Consoling myself by planning our day, I asked Cesar what he thought about going to Rincon de la Vieja National Park. He was game. After a few wrong turns, we made it to the hotel’s activity center, and asked about our park options. Since it was only three miles away, we chose to go on horseback. I was excited. Though I hadn’t ridden in more than ten years, I had studied both English and Western styles as a kid.

We walked to the stables, where a genuine ranch hand waited to help us. In retrospect, this should have been my first clue that this was no American trail ride. He asked me if I knew how to ride a horse. Ignoring clue #2, I thought to myself, “Do I know how to ride? Ha! Of course!” When I nodded, the cowboy smiled and pointed me to a brown mare, “That’s your horse. As long as you know how to ride…”

Confidently, I walked over to my horse and prepared to mount. My jeans were uncomfortably tight; I had to adjust. (The third clue, if you’re keeping count.) A leg up and I was ready. We headed out of the corral and down a muddy, rocky path. Canela, whose name means cinnamon, was not at all concerned with the ground conditions. She almost immediately broke into a fast trot and then a loafing canter, ignoring my shocked instructions to slow down.

Somewhat surprised that our guide had not told me to keep her at a walk, I decided to let Canela run a bit. Down the road we cantered, and I enjoyed the old, familiar feeling of a horse’s quick gait. Soon, our guide called ahead to me – he was back with Cesar, walking the horses at a much more appropriate pace – and indicated that I was to turn left, off the road. Onto the muddy, rocky path we went. Though I regarded the new terrain with mild unease, Canela did not.

Canela had no interest in walking, and I learned quickly that she required a firm hand. The reins were made of only rope, and when I pulled back to slow her down, she spit foam. Clearly, she was displeased by my limitations. Finally growing tired of my commands, she took off. As we bumped over stones and sloshed through mud, a brief “uh oh” flashed through my head. Just moments later a branch caught my helmet, holding me stationary as Canela rushed forward. I watched myself fall in slow motion, my body slamming into the ground.

I had landed on a hard stone, but thankfully, my behind had absorbed most of the impact. Canela stood beside me, as if surprised by my fall, staring straight ahead. Her body language stated clearly, “I didn’t do it!” I righted myself, testing that everything still worked. It did, and I called out “I’m okay!”

The look on both Cesar and our guide’s faces was almost enough to justify the fall – they stared at me with the same horrified and concerned expression. I think they thought I was going to cry. But this was not the first time that I’d fallen off of a horse, and I doubted that it would be the last. “I’m fine,” I reassured them, and asked for another lift up. Our guide walked over quietly, checking to make sure that I wasn’t broken, and offered me his cupped palms. Up I went.

The branch had left a scratch just above my eye, and the fall had caused a few bumps, but my ego was most bruised of all. I had fallen off a horse during a trail ride, and felt a bit humiliated. Soldiering on, I launched a discipline campaign, refusing to allow Canela to run at will. She would not dump me overboard again. We had a few small arguments over the next ten minutes, but I was fed up with her attitude, and didn’t give in.

We arrived at the park a short time later. My legs ached after dismount, and the necessary bow-legged cowboy walk made my mud-splattered exterior look even more comical. We climbed the hill to the parking lot, and a coatimundi ran up to us immediately. We headed for the park entrance, paid for our tickets, and disappeared into the dense jungle.

Rincon de la Vieja’s circuit path is known as one of the most interesting and beautiful in the country. Everywhere we looked along the earthen trail, we saw flitting butterflies, marching ants, and investigative insects. Cesar was immediately enthralled, commenting that he knew of no other park with such natural trails.

As we walked downhill towards our first stop, a small waterfall, I had my first non-horse related fall. The dirt-packed paths, perfect during the dry season, had turned into wet, messy slop, and my sneakers stood no chance against them. It happened as I stepped down onto a slippery rock, no tree or vine to grab. I toppled backwards onto my behind for the second time that day.

I was getting frustrated with myself. I am not clumsy – I practiced gymnastics for nine years, and usually have excellent balance. Determined to enjoy the day, I picked myself up and scooped the mud off of my clothing. We walked on, arriving at the waterfall. It fell in myriad small trickles, cascading down huge, shiny rocks. It was a beautiful sight, framed by green trees and hanging vines, and we spent several moments entranced.

As we made our way back to the main path, it was Cesar’s turn to fall. Though he didn’t get muddy and slimy, he did manage to slice the side of his calf. Park: 2 Tourists: 0. Moving on, we arrived at the celestial blue fumaroles where we watched in awe as the water bubbled and boiled from the heat below. The air smelled of sulfur – just like a rotten egg – and we dashed around the small area, taking as many photos as possible. I was fascinated to see steam rise off of the water where a sign needlessly warned us that it was very, very hot.

We turned back to the muddy trail, our shoes sinking with every step. The skies were still bright, a present from Mother Nature. We were thankful that no new rain fell to make the paths even harder to navigate. We headed next to a small volcanic crater, just ten or fifteen feet in diameter. Muddy water bubbles boiled, making distinct, enjoyable plopping sounds as they popped. The area didn’t smell of sulfur, though it was distinctly hotter – a sign warned that temperatures could reach 248 degrees Fahrenheit.

As we made our exit, I slipped on another rock. Falling hard, I couldn’t control the camera around my wrist, and it knocked against a nearby rock. After checking to make sure it still worked, I struggled up again. It was my third unplanned meeting with the ground that day, and I was not pleased. As we walked back to the main path, my peripheral vision caught something. Looking down, I saw that I had cut my wrist, and blood bubbled out, dribbling along my arm.

No fan of blood, especially my own, I almost ran for the stream ahead. I dunked my wrist and arm into the cool, clear water, and my mind raced. How far was it to the nearest hospital? Would they give me dissolving stitches, or would I have to go back to get them removed? Would I lose a lot of blood along the way? Pulling my wrist out to check its progress, I saw that the bleeding had nearly stopped. Crisis averted.

We moved along to my favorite part of the park: boiling mud pots. To reach them, you have to deviate from the normal trail and walk a few yards into their secluded location. The effort is rewarded with huge, boiling tubs of mud. The sounds that emanate from the mud pots are mesmerizing and very relaxing. We walked around the area and, finding a particularly active pot, stopped. The three of us watched in silence for many minutes, until raindrops on our heads pulled us out of the reverie. It was time to leave.

Heading toward the exit, a small lake lay just a few yards off the path. Against better judgment, we ran to see it, hoping to beat the downpours. Unfortunately, the skies opened up and the rains started, forcing an early departure from the lake. We walked briskly back toward the entrance, but even in the best of conditions, we were fifteen minutes away.

I pulled out my umbrella to protect our cameras and cell phones. It began to rain with earnest, and I realized that we were going to get soaked. Hungry, wet, battered and now cold, our small group marched to the entrance. When we finally made it out of the park and under shelter, I was shivering and thoroughly miserable. There was no way that I was going to ride That Horse back to the hotel.

Instead, we called a van from the hotel to pick us up, and waited for it to arrive. I daydreamed of a warm shower and a plate full of food. It was already past 2 p.m. and Cesar checked out our camera gear. To his horror, one of the cameras had gotten wet and wouldn’t write any photos to its memory card. “Take it apart, let it dry out,” I told him, and he nodded.

Our transport finally arrived, its air-conditioning on full blast. If you’ve ever wondered if hypothermia were possible in Costa Rica, I’m here to tell you that it is. I thought I’d shiver myself into warmth, but no such luck. We finally arrived back at the hotel, and with determined swiftness, I made a beeline for my room. Never has a hot shower felt so good in all my life.

After spending a considerable amount of time in our respective showers, Cesar and I met for a late lunch. We gobbled down our food, and dragged ourselves back to the rooms. I was so tired that even my bones were exhausted, and I fell into bed for another night’s much-needed sleep.

Playa del Coco - Africa Mia - Rincon de la Vieja

They called out to me, but I ignored them. Their rooster songs had no power over me this morning, and would have to irritate someone else. I was going to enjoy my last few hours in Playas del Coco, and that plan included sleeping until at least 6 a.m.

Bushy-tailed but sleepy-eyed, I trudged into the breakfast room at 7:30 a.m. Cesar and Leigh were chatting about our departure plans, and the kitchen smelled like heaven. We had huevos rancheros for breakfast, accompanied by fruit salad and coffee. It was the type of food that sticks to your bones, as my mother would say, and exactly what we needed.

Driving to the bus stop, I was sad to say goodbye to our gracious hostess, who had made us feel at home in an unknown place. We were destined for Africa Mia, an African safari park in Liberia, just an hour inland. The private park has imported fourteen animal species that mingle with the park’s native birdlife, monkeys, and ground mammals. As an avid animal lover, I was incredibly excited for our African adventure, and my greatest hope was to touch a giraffe.

The bus from Coco Beach to Liberia leaves every hour, on the hour, and our 10 a.m. ride pulled in just on time. We climbed aboard, paying just $1 each, and settled into our seats for the 50-minute ride. I absolutely love Costa Rican bus travel; it offers inexpensive fares, comfortable seats, convenient schedules, and the freedom to simply enjoy the scenery.

I reached into my backpack and grabbed my book, but the scenes flashing by were too interesting to read. Flooded towns, glimpses of white sand, flat countryside stretching out, so different than at home in San Jose. The trip was beautiful and intriguing, and almost as soon as the ride had begun, we were delivered to Liberia.

We hopped off the bus, and Liberia’s humid air crushed my lungs. We lugged our bags and bodies to a nearby restaurant for pickup. The Africa Mia van was already waiting, its interior chilled and ready to cool us down. The 15-minute trip to the park led us down a major road, until we turned off onto a bumpy private path headed straight for the park. Cheek pressed against the glass, I was on the lookout for a galloping zebra or snacking giraffe. No such luck.

We pulled into Africa Mia proper, dropped our luggage off at the office, and joined another family for a tour on a mostly open-air vehicle. Though Liberia’s habitat is very similar to much of Africa, almost all of the park’s animals brave long flights from North American zoos and non-savannah habitats, and therefore need adequate adaptation time. Africa Mia’s outer savannah, closed-off with wire fencing, provides just the locale, serving as temporary housing to the park’s new arrivals.

Our first stop in the outer savannah was to see watusi, a type of African cattle, which stood grazing in the field. I scrambled off of the truck, almost falling in my excitement, and walked up to the fence for closer observation. The watusi were strong and somber, and to their right, a single eland, the largest antelope in the world, sat proud. Chapman zebra pranced around the other animals, their brown-black stripes playing tricks with my eyes. It was an impressive sight.

A small, artificial lake was originally intended for hippos, but park officials later determined that the animals would be too aggressive for the shared area. Africa Mia still plans to expand the park to include hippos and has begun building a separate lake and savannah for their habitation. The park is home to powerful, aggressive warthogs and a flock of not-so-friendly ostrich.

The sky, which I had been ignoring, was turning an ominous shade of black, and so our guide decided to head down to El Salto Waterfall before going into the inner savannah. We boarded another vehicle, this one completely open, and began our descent to the rushing falls. The miniature mountain – in fairness, it could not be called a hill – was extremely steep, and our truck groaned with exertion. I love roller coasters, but this bouncing, bumpy descent was truly terrifying, and I held on until my knuckles turned white.

When we finally reached the waterfall, we checked to make sure that all limbs were still attached, and then jumped out. Cesar grabbed his cameras and began clicking, while I palled around with the guide. He told me that the waterfall is fed by nearby Rincon de la Vieja National Park, and that during strong rains, the small valley floods. As we talked, the falls actually increased in volume, signaling the coming rains. Marcus, our guide, indicated that it was time to leave.

As the vehicle heaved up the mountain, the water began to fall. At first, the rain was gentle, and we shielded our belongings with our bodies. Just a minute later though, the skies opened up completely, and pouring rains arrived. By the time we returned to the savannahs, we were soaked to the bone, and needed a bathroom break to dry off. Popping the hand dryer on, I huddled my shivering body beneath it, dabbing at my eyes and hair with tragically thin paper towels.

Soggy and slightly less excited to continue our African adventure, I sloshed off toward the inner savannah’s entrance, where a small feeding zoo awaited. One-humped camels called dromedaries, ostrich, wild boar, peacock and deer watched hopefully as our guide prepared carrot strips, distributing them to us in giant handfuls. I approached the dromedaries with only slight trepidation, gauging the distance between their huge teeth and my little fingers – the difference was ample enough to feel comfortable.

Over the next 30 minutes, we fed the animals. The unabashed crowd favorite, the dromedaries, crunched loudly on their snacks while their boar neighbors looked on sadly, unfed. Feeling bad for their adorably ugly faces, I poked carrot sticks through the tightly-wired fence, and they gobbled the carrots down happily. Feeling brave, I finally got up the courage to approach the male ostrich, the less aggressive of the two. He was happy to accept my offerings, swallowing them down whole, blinking at me to indicate that he would like more.

Before we left for the inner savannah, Marcus asked if we’d like to feed a deer. Accustomed to the flighty, nervous creatures in Pennsylvania and Virginia, I laughed inwardly at the idea of a deer allowing human proximity. Much to my surprise, the small deer was not only comfortable with our presence, but willing and excited to eat from our hands. After waiting my turn, I fed her three giant handfuls of carrot, which she took gently. “Best day ever!” my inner child screamed inside.

It was time to visit the inner savannah, and we climbed aboard a different vehicle, this one with a top (hooray!), and ventured out into the open acreage. Bongo, gemsbok, and antelope dominated the plain, but we turned sharply to visit the zebras first. They were not fazed by our motorized presence, and Marcus set the engine to idle as he explained a few things about the common zebra.

The common zebra, also known as plains zebra, are the most abundant of all zebras. They have black and white stripes, different from the Chapman brown, though the females appear a bit browner in color. Their stripes, like all zebra subspecies, serve three different purposes: to help manage heat, with black stripes attracting sun and white repelling it; to identify each zebra, since each pattern is unique like a human fingerprint; and to provide camouflage – when zebras move en masse, they look like a giant, black blob to their predators.

After staring at the zebras for more than ten minutes, we shifted focus to watch the other animals in their habitat. Each is unique and interesting in its own right, such as the gemsbok, or oryx, which is basically a large antelope with two beautiful, identical horns. In fact, because their horns are so identical, the animal is often called the “true unicorn.” Finally, after several more anecdotes and stories, we headed over to the giraffes.

We stopped to grab some low-growing leaves for the giraffe’s consumption, and when it hit me that we would be able to feed the tall, graceful animals, I struggled to contain myself. Cesar, who had just met me the week before, glanced sideways at me. I think he was partly amused and partly perplexed by the muffled squeals escaping from my mouth. I couldn’t help it though, we were about to get up close and personal with giraffes!

While I tried to manage my excitement, the little girl behind me battled to choke down her fear. Over her parents’ reassurances and shushes, varying wails of “I don’t want to!” and “Don’t make me!” filled the backseat. Trying to calm her, Marcus promised that giraffes wouldn’t bite, but she didn’t buy it. “ I empathized with her, recalling yesterday’s “safe” crocodile encounter.

We pulled into the giraffe corral, a large field surrounded by trees. The giraffes were huddled under a wooden structure, clearly as unenthusiastic about the rain as I was. We got close to them, and Marcus called out, tempting them to come for a snack. As the first giraffe lumbered over, I sat transfixed: she was tall, graceful, and very striking. Her fur was exactly as you’d imagine, short and beautifully patterned. Her eyes, heavily lashed, looked down at us, gauging who had the best leaf branch.

As it turned out, no one was in the mood for leaves that day, forcing our guide to pull out the coup de grace: celery sticks. One sniff of celery wafting through the air was all it took, and two or three giraffes stepped out from under their shelter, heading over to the food. I stuck my hand out nervously, not sure of giraffe teeth placement. Sensing trepidation, Marcus assured us again that they would not bite.

Right he was. Black, thick tongues snaked out from inside their mouths, and the giraffes gently munched on the celery sticks, bite by bite. After a few successful celery offerings, I decided to test my luck and reach out for my snacking giraffe. Patient (and hungry, I suppose), she allowed me to touch her, pet her, and even hug her. I was almost beside myself with glee, and checked with Cesar several times to make sure that he was documenting this glorious bonding moment between human and giraffe.

Meanwhile, the little girl – she was at least 10 – was sobbing uncontrollably behind me. She released a piercing cry every time a giraffe approached, even though they were completely disinterested in her celery-free hands. “I wa-wa-waaaaant to go-o-ggggooo!” she belted out, despite everyone’s reassurances. Her parents, fed up and apologetic, told her to stop whining. Beside me, Cesar’s sides heaved as he and our guide tried to stifle their giggles. A smile playing on my own face, I turned my attentions back to the giraffe.

A few minutes later, it was time to leave the savannah. I rooted around the truck, looking for some stray celery stick or excuse to stay a while longer, but none could be found. Admitting my defeat, I sighed, and the truck pulled back into the welcome station. Cesar and I grabbed our bags, hopped back into the Africa Mia van, and rode back to Liberia. I talked his ear off the whole ride, giraffe thoughts still dancing in my head.

We grabbed a quick, greasy lunch in Liberia before meeting our private transfer taxi up to our Rincon de la Vieja hotel. Though the ride is only 40-45 minutes long, taxis charge $60 each way – $120 round trip – for their services, a hefty price for such a short journey. By the time we arrived, the sky had darkened to a familiar shade of stormy gray, and we hurried to our rooms.

That night, tired and spent from the day’s excitement and travels, Cesar fell asleep early, and I headed to dinner alone. After chowing down on delicious spaghetti in mushroom sauce, I returned to my room, and was sound asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

Palo Verde National Park

To my chagrin but not surprise, ear-piercing rooster cackles once again served as an unwelcome and poorly-timed alarm clock. It was 3:30 in the morning, driving rain assaulted the rooftop, and the sun hadn’t even considered waking up. “No way,” I thought, and went back to bed.

A few hours later, I tentatively poked my head out from under the sheets, hoping that the rains had dried up. We were scheduled for a Palo Verde boat tour along the Tempisque River that day, and if Hurricane Gustav didn’t show us some mercy, I had decided to give him a piece of my mind. Luckily for him, the sky was clear.

I was happily lost in a world of eggs, bacon, fruit salad and toast when our guide pulled up to the bed and breakfast a full fifteen minutes before the 9 a.m. scheduled pickup. So used to “Tico time,” the Costa Rican habit of doing everything late, I paused mid-bite to contemplate the situation. A moment later, my brain kicked into high gear, and I shoveled the rest of my breakfast into my mouth. Just ten minutes later, Cesar and I were completely packed – four cameras and multiple memory cards in tow – for our wildlife extravaganza at Palo Verde National Park.

I jumped, literally, into the back of the mud-splattered 4x4. The SUV had a step designed to aid vertically-challenged riders like myself, and I knew what that meant: a tall vehicle built for lots and lots of muddy potholes, flooded creeks, and rutted streets. Indeed, the smoother beach streets soon dissolved into typical Costa Rican back roads, and we found ourselves bumping along to the beat of stones under the vehicle’s wheels.

Filadelfia was our first and last stop before immersing ourselves in the Costa Rican wilderness. A displaced pride coursed through me as we passed the town’s entrance arch. Born and raised in a very different Philadelphia, I looked at its twin city with fondness. Unfortunately, the rains had begun again, postponing my plans to pose at the town’s welcome sign.

Our nostalgic layover behind us, the need for an SUV quickly became evident. Flooded fields surrounded us, and the road had been severely eroded by rain. We passed sugar cane and melon fields, sugar processing plants, and even an electricity outpost, which used sugar cane waste to create energy. Loving bird couples perched on almost every fence post, and our guide patiently explained each bird’s history.

Wide-eyed at the sights all around, I found it nearly impossible to believe that this green, water-logged countryside had seen horrible wildfires in 2007. Today, it is an incredible nature oasis, and our guide stopped to show us several hidden gems: a towering rosewood tree, mother to Costa Rica’s most prized wood; a tricolored munia bird which, as a pet once brought from Australia, only lives in this small section of Costa Rica; a bare-throated tiger heron, a solitary bird that has been known to snatch baby crocodiles for its lunch; egrets dotting the fields, perched on the backs of bored and tired cows.

The 95-minute car trip had whetted my appetite for wildlife viewing, and when we finally reached our boat, I was eager to keep my eyes peeled for new sights. Our traveling companions were a young Californian family of four. After brief introductions, we headed out onto the Tempisque River, cameras at the ready, our guides primed for action, and six heads popping out of the boat.

The sprinkling rain barely tickled my skin as I leaned out of the boat, craning my neck to spot camouflaged animals. Just a minute or two after launch, a guide pointed out the day’s first sight, a beautiful snowy egret. Soon after, our guide glimpsed a tiny pigmy owl, which to my great frustration took five minutes of wrinkly-browed squinting to identify.

During the next few hours, we motored along the Tempisque waterways, struggling to capture the hidden and elusive animals on film. Herons were the easiest to spot, their snowy whiteness contrasting sharply against the dull green shoreline. We also caught sight of howler monkeys, white-faced monkeys, green iguanas, black iguanas (the fastest-running lizard on earth!), black-bellied whistling ducks, black-crowned night heron, bats, and many other animals that were simply too quick for identification.

Before heading back to home base, the boat slowed down to a quiet neutral, and one of our guides grabbed a foam-wrapped stick from the back. Splashing the water, he called out to a creature completely invisible to me. A moment later, realization dawned, Jaws music actually played in my head (not joking), and I physically sat on my hands to keep them safe. Never before had the phrase, “keep all arms and legs inside the vehicle”, held more significance: an enormous American crocodile was slowly swimming our way.

I knew that the guide was right in telling us that we were safe, but the sight of a 400-pound, 12-foot crocodile was mildly terrifying. He slithered like a water snake, his long tail trailing behind as an afterthought. The guides, amused by their passengers’ wary stares, threw ice into the water, splashing to attract the huge reptile. He drew close enough to the boat for a good look – both us at him and vice versa – but he was surprisingly docile. In fact, for all the natural fear I felt for him, he seemed even more nervous about our presence. Photos taken and curiosity satisfied, we left him in peace, and he quietly swam away.

Safely back on land, our small tour group lunched at a local restaurant, where we were treated to a typical lunch, served gourmet-style. White rice, black bean soup, saucy beef, barbecue chicken, salad, fresh corn tortillas still in the cast iron skillet, warm squash salad, fresh plantain chips, and star fruit juice graced the table top. Cesar and I dug in eagerly. It was absolutely delicious and the perfect way to end our action-packed tour.

The late, large lunch filled us up, and when we got back to Coco Beach, a full dinner was an unappealing thought. In the pouring rain, I ran to a small grocery store to pick up a few supplies including ice cream and soda, rainy night necessities. I dined on junk food that evening, read in the porch rocking chair, and finally fell asleep to the steady sound of rain beating against my window.

Playa del Coco

A strange sound jarred me out of a deep sleep and, disoriented, I groped for my cell phone. The backlit clock read 3:02 a.m., and my sleepy brain struggled to understand what had woken me up. “COCKADOOOOODLEEEE-DIOOOOO!!!” came the horrific screech of an off-tune rooster – his internal clock clearly broken. What ever happened to waiting until the sun came up?

It was pouring outside, and the pitter-patter of rooftop rain helped dull the rooster cacophony from outside. Determined to salvage the last few morning moments, I dove under my pillow and shut my eyes. Over the next three hours, the rooster duels invaded my dreams, but I didn’t fully awake again until the scent of a cheese and tomato quiche wafted into the bedroom. Leigh, the B&B host, served a delicious breakfast with toast, homemade mango jam, fruit salad, and a strong cup of coffee – the ideal menu to gear up for a long day.

Unfortunately, cloudy skies and torrential downpours at 8:30 a.m. cut the day’s planned activities short, and our canopy tour adventure was quickly canceled. With nothing to do, we settled down to read local magazines and bide our time, harboring hope that the skies would soon clear up.

Before lunch, we grabbed our umbrellas and walked to an oceanfront cafe, whose food unfortunately did not match its high prices. Cesar enjoyed the most expensive meal he had ever eaten, beef loin in a gentle miso sauce, and I ordered bread with a cheesy tomato sauce dip and a side of salad. Irritable from the poor service and exorbitant prices, we felt the restaurant’s only redeeming quality seemed to be its view, which opened out onto beautiful beach and a tiny patch of blue sky.

Several beachfront minutes later, we headed back to our bed and breakfast. That evening, we planned to watch the sunset from Leigh’s friend’s house, which was nestled in Coco beach’s surrounding hills. We bought a bottle of wine, hopped into Leigh’s car, and wove up the mountain, climbing up to a scenic point known for its views.

We arrived at Bonnie’s house where the view was, indeed, incredible. The home looked out over the bay and its adjacent mountains, their greenery studded by homes and continuing development. The scent of Italian food wafted through the house, and Bonnie met us with a smile as she led us into her home. Out on the porch, we watched twin rainbows paint the sky.

Climbing up to the third and highest floor, I was delighted to find a dome on the upper balcony, homage to my University of Virginia’s famous architecture. Bonnie, a native Virginian, proudly showed us around her beautiful home, and we watched as the sun dipped down over the horizon. Clouds dotted the sky, obstructing our view, but the rains held off long enough to take some beautiful pictures of Playas del Coco from afar.

After the sunset, we dined on pasta in a thick Bolognese sauce, delicious Italian bread, and crunchy salad, chasing it down with hours of intriguing conversation. Finally tired, we headed back down the mountain, ready to end another day.

From Playa Hermosa to Playas del Coco

The phone next to my bed rang loud and brassy, and I reached for it clumsily. “This is your 6:00 a.m. wakeup call,” chirped the voice at the end of the line. “Thanks,” I mumbled, reluctantly pulling the covers off and stumbling out of bed. I opened the room-darkening shades, revealing a bright blue, cloudless sky, yesterday’s rains long forgotten.

The early hour came courtesy of a sailboat tour, which Cesar and I were set to meet on the beach at 8 a.m. I was already cutting it close, since I had to prepare for the day, repack all of my bags, gobble down my breakfast, and check out in less than two hours. With so much to do, the morning moved quickly. Before I knew it, we were barefoot on the beach watching the Kuna Vela sailboat pulling into Playa Hermosa’s sun-drenched cove.

As we stepped onto the boat, Yann, the Kuna Vela’s captain, and Jonathan, its deckhand, welcomed us aboard. Jackouille, the captain’s orange-fronted parakeet, was quick to welcome us as well, dancing on the dashboard and performing an aquatic show in his bathing bowl. Meanwhile, Jonathan set up cushions around the boat, each strategically placed for killer views and optimum sunbathing.

The sailboat cut through the water smoothly, and as Captain Yann maneuvered north to pick up additional guests, Cesar and I eagerly surveyed our surroundings. The day was bright and clear, ideal for photos and a bit of relaxation on the deck. We pulled into Papagayo’s familiar Snake Cove, and waited for four additional sailors to come aboard.

Before long, I spotted a small loggerhead sea turtle. His neck and head stuck up out of the water as if curious to see what the day was like. Drifting in the waves just ten feet away, he barely acknowledged our presence as we motored by. Suddenly, my attention was torn from the floating turtle as someone excitedly yelled, “dolphin!”

Indeed, right next to our boat, a dolphin was swimming beneath the water. He stayed parallel to the vessel, matching our speed and course perfectly. We all scrambled for our cameras, determined to catch the dolphin’s jumps on film. As if aware of our intentions, the dolphin stayed with us for several minutes, and others joined him, entertaining us with their leaps, dives, and playful antics.

After our dolphin friends left and we had settled back onto the cushioned deck, I thought about how determined Northern Guanacaste seemed to be to show me so many firsts. In just five days, I had already seen my first wild howler monkeys, a spiny- tailed iguana, coatimundis, and now, loggerhead sea turtles and dolphins frolicking in the Pacific Ocean. It didn’t stop there, either, as less than fifteen minutes later, the captain pointed out a pair of whales off in the distance.

A mother whale and her calf had been spotted in Snake Bay and other nearby coves for the past month, so Captain Yann knew to look out for them. This morning, they were feeding at Monkey Head Island, an iconic island rock just off of Papagayo’s southernmost point. I squinted my eyes, focusing on the tiny island in front of us, and gasped as the whales spouted water between dives. Unfortunately, they never came up to the surface completely, but I was satisfied to have been within a hundred feet of such amazing creatures.

After our exciting wildlife encounters, we headed to Playa Huevos for an hour of snorkeling. The yellow-sand beach was small and inviting, though I was completely disinterested in its land offerings. I hadn’t been snorkeling in over fifteen years. As a little girl, I came face-to-face with a barracuda whose razor-sharp teeth convinced me that the ocean’s depths were better left unexplored. Today, though, I was ready. As I ventured out slowly, I told myself that there was nothing to fear. Nervous but excited, I slipped my flippers on, pulled my snorkeling mask down, took a deep breath, and jumped into the perfectly cool water.

I drifted along the water’s surface, the ocean bottom just six or eight feet below me. The sun shone on my back – a sensation I would later remember with regret – and marine life played below me, kicking up sand. Blue angelfish, striped tiger fish, and expandable puffer fish amused me, while the slightly alarming crocodile fish urged me to steer clear of their tiny teeth. My favorite sight of the day, a reddish tiger snake eel, fascinated me as his thin, snake-like body slithered along the ocean floor, warning others out of his way.

Satisfied with my aquatic bravery, I swam back to the ship and hauled myself aboard. We had forgotten to bring towels, so I dried in the sun, munching on gourmet snacks like pate, tortillas in a red pepper dip, and a fresh fruit plate. Once everyone else had finished snorkeling, Captain Yann served us a delicious lunch of two salads, sandwiches, and mushroom quiche. His famous rum punch, which I had read about, rounded out the filling, healthy lunch, and we started the trip back to our respective hotels.

We flew across the water as two of our fellow guests, so impressed with the day’s events, made plans to come aboard again the following day. When we arrived at Playa Hermosa, Cesar and I said goodbye to our friendly captain, and Jonathan took us to the beach. Back at our hotel, we called a taxi to take us to Playa del Coco, a $15, 15-minute ride away.

The rains held off, and as we approached Coco Beach, we saw that it was much more urban than either the Gulf of Papagayo or Playa Hermosa. Large grocery stores, which we hadn’t seen in days, advertised along the road, and the town’s main approach was lined with construction equipment, home improvement centers, large restaurants, and even a strip mall. We followed the hotel’s directions, which led us along the beach and up a small road that had been nearly washed out by heavy rains. We arrived at the doorstep of our B&B, sweaty and exhausted

Leigh, the B&B owner and our hostess, greeted us with a big smile and kind words. She ushered us in and showed us our rooms, before we all sat down to enjoy a long conversation. She told us about Playa del Coco, how she had come to the area, and about how much the beach town had changed in the last two years. Later, as if she had heard our stomachs rumble (which, in retrospect, was very possible), she offered to drive us around town, delivering us to the best pizza joint in Coco Beach.

Her dinner recommendation was spot on: the hole-in-the-wall restaurant/bar was owned by an Italian expat who had not forgotten how to make good pizza. Cesar ordered his with pepperoni, and I went crazy with three-cheese (fresh parmesan, mozzarella, and gorgonzola) topped with mushrooms. The tasty pizzas were filling and a good value, and after finishing, we waddled out of the door and onto the beach for our walk home.

Playas del Coco is home to a hard-packed sand beach, perfect for long walks. We strolled silently, watching dusk settle in, and enjoyed the crashing waves. It was a beautiful night, and as we turned east to head up the small hill to our bed and breakfast, tree frogs serenaded us with beautiful song. Back at the B&B, we said a quick goodnight, and fell fast asleep.

From the Gulf of Papagayo to Playa Hermosa

I woke up early, hungry for breakfast and excited for the next leg of our trip, Playa Hermosa, just a few miles south. Over our rice and beans, scrambled eggs, fruit and coffee, Cesar and I both contemplated Papagayo’s wide-water views one last time, happy with where we had spent the last three days, but eager to move on.

Before we left, though, Cesar had one last, small excursion in mind. We walked along the resort’s dirt road, where on-going construction had prohibited car traffic and discouraged those on foot. Undeterred, we headed out to the hotel’s borders and the very southern tip of Snake Bay. If the views from our suite and the onsite restaurant had been incredible, these were even more so: small islands dotted the horizon, boats lazily made their way across the ocean, and the water was clear enough to shame the Caribbean.

We stood for several minutes, simply absorbing the sights around us. In silence, I committed the views to memory and cherished each moment, knowing that this would likely be my last time on this beautiful point. A small vulture perched in a nearby tree, disinterested in our movements, but keenly aware of others. We parted ways, and Cesar led me down a small, bumpy dirt road toward the promised beauty that lay ahead.

The path was covered with hermit crabs, some much larger than any I’d seen before. One in particular caught my attention – almost as large as a ping-pong ball, he plodded slowly down the path, rolling and sliding down stones and hills. I picked him up for closer inspection, and he immediately hid inside his shell, his tiny claws giving me a quick warning pinch. Dragonflies – thousands of them – buzzed all around.

When I looked up, we had arrived at the beach, a tiny strip of pristine gold hidden between two large boulders. I stepped off the path and sank into sand so fine that the words “quicksand” and “escape!” rushed to mind. I calmed myself and tested the beach floor, finding that my feet only submerged two or three inches. Taking my shoes off, I put my hermit friend down, and Cesar and I left our shaded path in exchange for this sunny piece of paradise.

The waves were gentle, and even a few feet into the ocean, we sank down into the sand. The water lapped at our ankles and calves, cool and welcoming, and we commenced with our photo op. Tropical trees reached out onto the beach, huge rocks soared above us, outer islands painted the view, and the sun filled the blue sky. Mr. Hermit, safely on (relatively) dry land, rolled around in the incoming waves, digging his claws in just deep enough to withstand the tide’s pull.

Check-out time looming, we reluctantly grabbed our shoes, rinsed off, and said goodbye to the beach. I dropped Mr. Hermit off on the path where we had first met, and Cesar and I commenced our uphill trek back to the hotel. We grabbed our belongings, said goodbye to the bats who lived on our room’s balcony, and locked up. Reception called us a cab, which whisked us away to Playa Hermosa for $10 – a bit pricey for the ten-minute journey, but very convenient.

As we wound south down the coast, huge storm clouds billowed ahead. With Hurricane Gustav just off the Caribbean Coast, stormy weather had been pulled into the Pacific, and we knew that heavy rains were just a few minutes away. Our beautiful Playa Hermosa hotel gave us a warm welcome and showed us to our rooms, where we dropped off our bags and doubled-back to the onsite restaurant.

Cesar and I, both nature lovers, chose a table right next to the hotel’s gardens. Loud birds called to each other, and it seemed that some were angry about perceived offenses or stolen food. Soon after we ordered – thick-sauced pasta and French fries for Cesar, nachos and chicken for me – the daily downpour began, and we were forced to retreat to an interior table.

It rained all afternoon, confining us to our rooms, but as the dinner hour neared, the storm let up, if only just a bit. Armed with water-resistant shoes and umbrellas, we headed out to explore a bit of Playa Hermosa, since we would continue farther south to Playa del Coco the next day.

Our wanderings led us to the beach, just a few blocks’ walk from our hotel. The night sky was pitch black, and the beach was curiously empty of the typical beachfront restaurants. We managed to find one, though, and we tucked into chicken in a mushroom sauce, shrimp scampi, and a couple of ice-cold sodas while we discussed our adventures. Later, stuffed full of good food, we stumbled back to our hotel in the darkness, and collapsed onto our beds.

Gulf of Papagayo

Sunshine poured through the sealed blinds, taunting me into consciousness, and though I preferred to lay buried beneath the sheets, I unwillingly opened my eyes. Hunger, provoked by last night’s missed meal, encouraged me to race down to breakfast, where Cesar and I wolfed down fruit salad, cereal, toast, and rich Costa Rican coffee.

Satisfied, we returned to our suite to pack our bags for the day’s excursion. We were headed to a nearby hotel, rumored to have a white-sand beach, gentle swimming area, and picturesque vistas. During the mile-long downhill hike under the hot, relentless sun, we wondered aloud if the beach would live up to our expectations.

A turnoff of the main road led to a tree-lined beach path, where we trudged, hot and sweaty, emerging into a small area of sea-sculpted trees, beach chairs, and well-tanned tourists catching a few golden rays. The beach was lovely, and a cordoned-off swimming area offered tiny waves and a sandy bottom – perfect for a peaceful swim or safe kiddy diversions. To my dismay, beach chairs were for hotel guests only, and the guards steered us away.

Despite our seating woes, we quickly made friends with a beach vendor and tour guide, who explained that the small beach had witnessed such sights as sharks (two in the past year), a mother and baby whale (recently), stingrays, and manta rays. Several tourists were snorkeling at the nearby rocks, and reported sightings of angelfish, puffer fish, and other brightly-colored aquatic specimens.

A quick stop at the main hotel led us to its onsite tour agencies, where we learned of several available activities and excursions. High-flying canopy tours, boat trips to nearby Palo Verde National Park, sailboat tours, and water sports such as snorkeling and scuba diving were the most popular options. During the dry season (from December to April), Papagayo would be an ideal base for Pacific Coast exploration and adventure tourism.

With ominous clouds looming on the horizon, Cesar and I decided to head back to our resort for lunch and shelter. An arduous, uphill walk in the early afternoon heat whet our appetites for refreshing drinks and delicious food, which we savored mostly in silence, looking out over the gulf. Despite having enjoyed the same view for five meals, we were still in awe of the wide water vistas and incredible colors.

A few moments into our late lunch, a coati crept out of the bushes and boldly approached our table. His name was Skwinkly, and as the hotel’s favorite coati, he is babied daily with bread, fruits, and other kitchen scraps. Our waiter brought us several slices of bread, indicating that Skwinkly would be happy to accept our yeasty offerings. With shaking hands, I reached out to the raccoon-like animal, and he tiptoed over, as unsure of me as I of him.

Let me assure you that Skwinkly’s razor-sharp, canine teeth could be terrifying under certain circumstances, but his gentle nature and hungry gratitude were enough to instill a small bit of confidence and trust in him. My outstretched arm met with his extended body, each of us afraid to inch any closer. Nevertheless, Skwinkly swiped the bread from my hand, retreating a few feet to enjoy his hard-won booty. When finished, Cesar tried his (much bolder) hand at coati feeding, and even managed to pet the shy animal.

As if sensing the end of our meal and impending walk back, the skies chose to open up at precisely that moment, so Cesar and I hightailed it back to our room, and Skwinkly back to his den. Unfortunately, the heavy downpours lasted into the evening, trapping us in our room until well past the invisible sunset. Perhaps due our late lunch, or soggy spirits, we chose to skip dinner again, and fell asleep to the gentle pitter-patter of steady rain.

Gulf of Papagayo

We awoke on the second day of our journey to a faint rainbow splayed across the morning sky. Unfamiliar birdsong drifted onto the balcony, and the sun slowly stretched its rays upward. It was a glorious morning, not a cloud to be seen.

Cesar and I headed down the road for breakfast, and were treated to fruit, coffee and Costa Rican rice and beans while we watched the water sparkle under the brilliant sun. The Pacific Ocean had changed, trading its sapphire hue for a blue-green shade, almost mimicking the Caribbean’s famous aquamarine color.

After breakfast, we walked to our hotel’s reception, curious to discover what activities were offered. Without a car or a pre-planned, all-inclusive vacation package, César and I were adrift in Papagayo. The small cove – known as Snake Bay – is isolated from surrounding towns, with miles between each self-sustaining resort and their public beaches. Therefore, sans car – a descision I do not recommend – our vacation was dictated by area tour operators, pricey on-call taxis, and our own two (in this case, four) legs.

Unfortunately, the knowlegable front desk clerk had not yet arrived, so we opted to further explore the hotel’s grounds. Despite its many resorts, Papagayo is a haven for untamed flora and fauna, and a day’s explorations are heavy on natural wonders. On this particular morning, white-throated magpie jays fought and played in the trees above, our howler friends roared in the distance, and a pack of mischievious, curious coatis happened along our path.

Before long, lunchtime rolled around, and we headed back to the onsite restaurant for a bit of sustenance. David, the resident spiny-tailed iguana, who we had met on our first day, waddled out from his underground hole, and we tossed him chunks of papaya and pineapple. As we all ate slowly, somber clouds began to roll in and the sky blackened. Without rain jackets or an umbrella between us, we finished quickly and rushed back to our room, just barely evading the downpour to come.

Torrential, crippling rains began around 1 p.m., trapping us inside our room. If you’ve never heard a Costa Rican downpour, the sound is unlike any other: giant raindrops race down from the sky, reducing visibility to less than a few feet, and create a ruckus so loud that you can hardly have a conversation.

We passed the rainy afternoon indoors, reading books and editing the previous day’s sunset photos, hoping for a respite from the deluge. We itched to get out and explore, but the weather had clearly ruled against us. Though we didn’t know it, rain would be an unfortunate theme throughout our trip, courtesy of Hurricanes Gustaf and Hanna, and though we would spend many hours indoors, these first days were particularly frustrating.

The Papagayo Gulf is located only 45 minutes from the Liberia International Airport, and is a popular destination for honeymooners and families alike. Area beaches are recognized for their good water visibility, beautiful views, and waterside wildlife that ranges from hooting howlers to melodic birds. Unfortunately, rainy season (May-November) is not the ideal time to visit, as the gulf sees daily downpours, especially during hurricane season.

At dusk, the cascading water had been reduced to a mere drizzle, and the sun set over the horizon, far tamer than the night before, but beautiful nonetheless. Photographs taken and nature appeased, we headed to the hotel restaurant, sloshing through deep puddles and sidestepping soggy grass. We arrived to a darkened building, not a waiter or cook in sight, and a guard told us that it had closed just 15 minutes before. We headed back to our room, stomachs growling for our lost dinner, the prospect of slogging through rainy, muddy roads too high a price for a restaurant meal down the road.

San José to the Gulf of Papagayo

As I prepared for our trip to Northern Guanacaste, foremost in my mind was the transportation quandary: without a car, how easily would we maneuver between our destinations? My worries were quickly alleviated by research that uncovered several reliable and inexpensive ground transportation options including taxis, public buses, and private door-to-door shuttle services.

For the first leg of the trip, from San Jose to the Gulf of Papagayo, we chose to ride with Gray Line Tours, one of Costa Rica's private transport companies. I met Cesar, photographer extraordinaire and my travel companion, at a downtown hotel where we quietly waited for our bus to arrive. The morning was crisp and clear, typical for San Jose during the rainy season. As I mentally reviewed the 10-day trip that awaited us, excitement brewed in my stomach.

We were headed for Guanacaste, home to fabulous beaches, bubbling volcanoes, adrenaline-pumping adventure tourism, and some of the most beautiful sunsets on the planet. The Gulf of Papagayo, our first stop, is a beautiful arc of sand snuggled into a protected cove. In addition to gentle waters, golden sun and fine sand, the Gulf's location, almost perfectly centered between the Gulf of Nicoya and the Nicaraguan border, makes it ideal for Pacific Coast exploration and excursions.

Our bus pulled in just a few minutes after our 7:30 a.m. scheduled pickup, and the friendly driver helped us load our bags and equipment into the van. Weaving our way through morning rush-hour traffic, we stopped at several area hotels, collecting other travelers headed west. After our last pickup in western San Jose's Cariari, we hit the main highway full throttle, determined to reach our destination as soon as possible.

Staring out my window, I was pleasantly surprised by a well-maintained highway which, in sharp contrast to stories I had heard from road-weary travelers, offered a smooth ride out to Papagayo. Our six-hour journey was an excellent introduction to the country's incredible microclimates, and in our travelers’ excitement, we eagerly watched as the scenery changed around us. San Jose's high-altitude roads quickly wove their way into Alajuela's warmer, mountainous paths, which lead into even hotter, drier Guanacastecan streets. Though it was the end of August, when daily rains are the norm, warm temperatures and cloudless skies highlighted our approach to Liberia.

We stopped at a small restaurant, just north of the road that leads to Nicoya, for a much-needed pit stop and to switch buses. The restaurant served typical Costa Rican food, but its exterior decoration was anything but typical – huge scarlet and green macaws sat in the trees and swooped over our heads, hoping for handouts from wide-eyed travelers. As we rushed to board our second bus, I threw a backward glance at the graceful birds, frustrated that my camera was hidden at the bottom of my suitcase. Another day, I promised myself.

Our road trip continued peacefully, and we passed through Bagaces and Liberia, turning north in pursuit of the coast’s sparkling sands. Flat fields surrounded us and lead up to towering mountains and volcanoes. The deep blue sky seemed to continue on for hours. When we pulled up to our hotel, we felt tired and hungry, but thoroughly excited to have finally arrived.

My first impression of Papagayo was utter awe – the views that stretched out before us were magnificent, the sky bluer than blue, and the gleaming ocean a vivid reflection of the sky above. I hadn’t known what to expect from Costa Rica’s Pacific Coast, but this was far more than anything I had imagined. As we walked toward the hotel's restaurant, Cesar, whose ability to spot animals would be of great use throughout the trip, stopped me with a whispered, "monkeys!"

Perched in the trees just in front of us, three howler monkeys were taking an afternoon nap. I had never seen a monkey in the wild before, and giddiness took hold as I took several photos of dangling limbs and sleepy eyes. In a stroke of good luck, the often-active howlers were completely disinterested in my antics, and allowed us endless minutes to snap at will. Finally sated, we turned away from the monkeys to head for dinner, when Cesar spotted a ctenosaur napping in a tree. Though ctenosaurs, also known as spiny-tailed iguanas, are common in Costa Rica, I had never seen one before. Another round of photos commenced.

Finally, we sat down for an early dinner at the hotel's restaurant. The views over the Gulf were so breathtaking that I paid little attention to the menu. After ordering, Cesar and I looked out over sapphire waters, watched the sun journey across the sky, and adjusted to the afternoon’s peaceful rhythm. Just a few moments into our private meditations, a shy coati poked his head out of the trees searching for leftover food scraps. His flexible black nose sniffed around, and his curious eyes politely asked for food. As if hearing his plea, the kitchen cook hurried out with bread and coati food in hand, and we watched the adorable animal gobble up his dinner.

After a relaxing meal, Cesar and I headed out on a small adventure, walking though our resort and catching glimpses of the gulf from every possible vantage point. At around 5:30 p.m., we walked down to the beach for another nature-centered photo shoot. The sun had already begun to dip in the sky, and incredible pinks and purples stretched out over the rolling waves, quickly upgrading to brilliant oranges and reds. The heavens, as if torn open by the unbelievable sunset, seemed to bleed out into the ocean, and we watched the hues change and grow, each shade more dazzling than the last. The waves crashing at our feet were a kaleidoscope of colors, and sailboats floated by, painted by the sun's glowing embers. Finally, as the sun disappeared behind the horizon and the sky above us faded into lighter pastels, we headed back to our suite. The day was done.

Hello from San José. My name is Erin, and I am very excited to be a part of the costarica.com travel team. Originally from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, I first came to Costa Rica in 1999 for a summer exchange program. After falling in love with everything about the country, I returned in 2007, determined to make Costa Rica my home. Almost two years later, I am still thrilled to be here, and look forward to regaling you with tales of adventures through mountaintop rainforests, afternoons spent frolicking on fine sand beaches, and every travel moment in between.

Poasito and Vara Blanca

My journey home from Puerto Viejo de Sarapiqui conveniently passed the cloud forest town of Poasito, home to Poas Volcano National Park. Looming 23 miles north of Alajuela, Poas Volcano is one of Costa Rica’s five active volcanoes and boasts one of the largest craters on earth.


As I approached the lower slopes of Poas, climbing from 4,500 to over 9,000 feet above sea level, a noticeable chill filled the air. I drove through rolling hills sprinkled with dairy farms and waved at local growers touting their beautiful, fresh strawberries.


The crowds were surprisingly small considering this is one of the most visited national parks in Costa Rica. Its proximity to San Jose and spectacular view of the second-widest crater (9/10th of a mile) in the world draw more than 250,000 visitors each year.

Gazing at the emerald green Botos lagoon, I had to remind myself that Poas was indeed an active volcano. In fact, Poas has erupted several times over the past century, sending massive ash clouds into the air. The park is blanketed in giant ferns and poor man’s umbrella plants, their leaves nearly three feet in diameter. The acid rains generated by the volcano allow few other species to flourish in the area.


From the lookout to the crater, I could smell the sulphuric gas that gurgled from the volcanic fumaroles. The crater was only partially obstructed by clouds, which quickly rolled in and out throughout the morning.


I hiked a couple of the park’s cloud forest trails to other dormant lagoons, and later visited an onsite museum that chronicles the history of the volcano. Without a doubt, the best time to visit Poas is during the dry season (December through April), when crater visibility is most consistent. Although I was visiting in July, during peak rainy season, I still managed to get a glimpse of the crater.




Following the scenic road towards Vara Blanca, I stopped for the evening at Poas Volcano Lodge, a delightful inn that I had always wanted to visit. Nestled between Poas and Barva volcanoes, the lodge sits on a high-altitude ridge which divides the country’s Pacific and Atlantic zones.





Built in 1970 by Briton Michael Cannon and his wife, the lodge’s architecture conjures up images of an English cottage with its exposed beam ceilings, sweeping arches and rough-hewn walls made of stone. What began as a family homestead transformed over the years into an intimate lodge with twelve well-appointed rooms.


My junior suite came equipped with a large bathtub, in-room heater, wireless internet and a French Press for morning coffee or tea. Rates at the lodge also include their famous farmhouse breakfast, complete with home-baked bread and fresh milk from the dairy.


I couldn’t help but feel like I was in the English countryside. Docile dairy cows mingled on the property’s working dairy farm which encompasses miles of green pastures along the foothills of Poas Volcano. That afternoon I took a stroll on one of the lodge’s trails, where guests can often spot black-chested hawks, bush tanagers, scintillant hummingbirds, mountain robins and the emerald toucanet.


Later on, I joined other guests in the lodge’s living room where folks relaxed around a large sunken fireplace. Kids occupied themselves in the games room which had a billiard table, ping-pong, darts and plenty of board games. After a warming glass of wine by the fire, I sat down with our gregarious host Michael for a gourmet feast served family-style.


At our table of six, stories were swapped and emails exchanged as we shared fellow travel experiences. Warmed by the wine and good conversation, I thought this a perfect ending to an already remarkable trip.


Contact Info:

Poas Volcano Lodge
Email: info@poasvolcanolodge.com
Telephone: (506) 2 482-2194
www.poasvolcanolodge.com

Puerto Viejo de Sarapiqui

Continuing my theme of culinary tours, I decided to pay a visit to one of Puerto Viejo’s newest gastronomic attractions – the Black Pepper Tour. Located in Rancho Chilamate less than six miles outside of town, the tour includes a sampling of black pepper-infused ice cream and lunch prepared with heaps of the savory spice.


Following signs from the main highway, I showed up unannounced at the black pepper farm of Don Carlos. I introduced myself to the hard-working family patriarch, who offered to give me a personal tour of the farm after he finished chasing down a few stubborn pigs. As I watched Carlos and his wife herd chickens into a makeshift coop, I realized how much I appreciate Mom and Pop operations. This was a far cry from the polished affairs catering to bus loads of tourists, and I loved every minute of it.


Carlos assured me that with prior reservation, I would have been greeted by the farm’s bilingual guide. Instead, I practiced my Spanish as Carlos and I toured the trails, tasting the zesty green pepper berries which would later be harvested and dried. Native to southern India, black pepper plants were introduced to the Sarapiqui region in the late 1970’s and have flourished ever since.

I learned when and how the unripe berries are dried to make peppercorns, which are then sold whole or coarsely-ground. This well-known seasoning has played a vital role in culinary history. Pepper was once so valuable that it was used as currency, and it was considered a spice exclusively for the rich. Luckily, times have changed, and small-scale growers like Carlos allow glimpses into the history and future of the black pepper trade. The slow-cooked peppered steak lunch was worth the trip alone, but the company of Don Carlos and his family made this home-spun tour one of the most interesting in my travels.



My destination for the evening was Heliconia Island, a tour de force in tropical gardening situated 15 minutes south of Puerto Viejo. Lovingly run by Dutch couple Henk and Carolien, the five-acre island is lush with more than 70 species of heliconia, as well as gingers, bromeliads and ornamental plants. The island was created by a split in the Puerto Viejo River and is only accessible via a wooden footbridge.


I parked my car at the base of the bridge, eager to explore this sanctuary of peace and beauty. Carolien and Henk, along with their three playful dogs, escorted me on a garden tour. We walked under towering bamboo groves and giant ferns, and admired the brilliant colors of each heliconia and orchid. Some had funny names like sexy scarlet and Barnum and Bailey’s, and each revealed some sort of special adaptation. Carolien pointed out an array of unusual species native to other tropical countries and seldom seen in Costa Rica.


The couple also runs a newly-built bed and breakfast on the island. I slept in one of the four spacious suites, each with views of the gardens. The rooms featured unique bamboo furniture, rustic stone floors, A/C, orthopedic mattresses and super hot showers.







We settled in for a hot cup of tea just as the afternoon rains began. From their river-view restaurant, we watched honeycreepers, tanagers, clay-colored robins and iguanas nibble on bananas left on wooden platforms. I watched the river rise slightly as the rain saturated the island, producing that fresh earthy scent that I love so much.