January 8, 2009
Running through the dark to glimpse a wild animal in the jungle, I realized I was getting the hang of it — backpacking with Nito.
The tapir is a strange beast, in shape a cross between a small horse and an anteater, its muscular shoulders betrayed by a silly, elastic snout. Deep in Corcovado National Park, we were eager to cross paths with one. But it wasn’t till late last night, as we dozed on the tent platform of the Sirena Ranger Station, that the creature appeared.
A tapir, radio-collared for scientific study, near the beach in Corcovado National Park (Jeff Muse).
Nito, having never hit the sack, was first on the scene. “Tay-peer!” he whispered in excited Spanish and English. “The biggest I’ve ever seen!”
In seconds, a dozen headlamps flashed through nylon and mosquito netting, followed by a cascade of zippers and excited voices. A mix of Europe and the New World, we sprinted in socks and flip-flops toward the grassy airstrip. There, the rare mammal grazed nervously in the moonlight, its head tilting toward the black forest where predators might lurk.
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Nito points out poisonous caterpillars (Jeff Muse).
Dionisio Paniagua — Nito for short — is our pal from Costa Rica. Born in the highlands of San Vito, a small town three hours from Corcovado, he may be the most dedicated and enthusiastic naturalist I have ever met. It would be easy to call him a professional, as he works as a guide for the renowned ecolodge Lapa Rios. But with Nito, the adventure never stops. His talents — indeed, his very character — are the product of a frenzied, around-the-clock pursuit.
While most of us simply look at plants and wildlife, Nito observes deeply, as if binoculars are tools for treasure hunting and ears were designed solely for the language of birds. He crawls under bushes and wriggles through tangled vines. He darts ahead, he pauses, he stands silently for minutes on end. Then suddenly his hands are reaching — poking at flowers and insects or pulling a curled leaf toward his nose, then peering down its funnel where a tiny bat or a red-eyed tree frog might be hiding.
A red-eyed tree frog clings to Nito's fingers (Jeff Muse).
But it’s not just his intimacy with this forest that’s noteworthy. It’s his affection for it. He lives for hiking in the woods and searching for creatures from the ground up. Were he not so kind-hearted, I might be overwhelmed by his intensity. There are moments when I feel like a mere book reader in his presence, a C student of nature. But self-pity quickly fades as I chase him down the trail, my own eyes and ears swallowed by the scenery and the thrill of learning with a master.
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It’s January 2009. My wife and I have joined Nito and his brother, Francisco Jose, for a three-day backpack on the Osa Peninsula, a steamy finger of jungle jutting into the Pacific Ocean toward Panama. With features akin to South America, this is a lowland tropical rainforest. Where San Jose and the Costa Rican interior had been merely hot at midday, the Osa is downright inhospitable for a dweller above the 45th parallel.
Paula and Jeff backpack along the beach of Corcovado National Park (Jeff Muse).
We’re strolling at latitudes near eight degrees north, almost a quarter of the globe away from our home in Washington State. Despite the heat and humidity, this landscape is thrilling. For it is the very warmth and wet of this place that fuels its fecundity, from nearly 400 species of birds and 140 mammals to innumerable insects and plants, all of them bathed in a daily rhythm of smothering mist and intolerable sun.
Once on the Osa, we began our trek in the raucous, dust-blown town of Puerto Jimenez, where the Golfo Dulce laps lazily on the peninsula’s eastern shore. Rising before dawn, we took a two-hour truck taxi — standing room only — down the bone-jarring road to Carate, a haven for backpacking gringos. By mid-morning, Nito was leading us north along the beach as ten-foot waves pounded charcoal gray sand rimmed by palm trees and towering figs.
At the La Leona Ranger Station, Nito swapped wildlife sightings with a few guide-friends, grabbed our camping permit, then scurried on toward the heart of Corcovado. Twelve miles and seven hours later, the heat of day and high tide behind us, we ambled up Sirena’s airstrip as shirtless men played soccer with makeshift goals.
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Sirena Ranger Station, Corcovado National Park (Jeff Muse).
To our surprise, the Sirena Ranger Station has turned out to be the least enjoyable part of this adventure. The facilities are crowded and border on unsanitary. The cooking shelter lacks a Leave No Trace ethic, and the shower and toilets offer an intimidating mix of mud, mold and microfauna. The people, though individually intriguing with colorful stories of travel and distant cultures, can be annoying as a whole — loud voices into the wee hours, then early if breaking camp before dawn, or chatting incessantly in their tent as others try to snooze.
There’s a college group here as well, the University of Vermont, I believe, studying for several weeks throughout Costa Rica. Renting the bulk of the ranger station and occupying its dank bedrooms and stuffy cookhouse, they act as if they own the place. They, like everyone who lingers near the lodge, crowd the front porch and sprawl on the few Adirondack chairs that catch the shaded breeze.
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A white-faced monkey in Costa Rica (Jeff Muse).
The crowd and wet-blanket heat aside, this is a remarkable experience – indeed, less pleasurable and more challenging than I expected, but completely exhilarating. Never have I camped amid such biological diversity: birds of every color, song and alarm call; white-faced and spider monkeys dangling from massive trees and howlers echoing in the distance; poisonous snakes, siren-like cicadas and spiders the breadth of my palm; army ants and leafcutters crisscrossing the trail; agoutis (large rodents) grazing at field’s edge; and cats like the ocelot, puma and jaguar lurking in the shadows of our imagination.
And, of course, the tapir, one of the goofiest critters I’ve ever seen.
