The Jungle Book

For an hour we sloshed along through the gummy mud and pouring rain, leaving the capuchin monkeys behind us. The shower continued unabated, and along the pathway pools of brown water filled up and gradually trickled over into one another, forming muddy streams that rushed down the jungle trails. We covered our packs with rain guards, sealed tightly and protected, and we moved along with our backs bowed and our heads up, tasting the freshness of the raindrops on our lips. When we got to the first river crossing, the morning rains passed over us and moved on, leaving us soggy and satisfied. 

The rivers were always a welcome stop. Emerging from the thickness of the rainforest out into a clearing and being greeted by the familiar sound of flowing freshwater gave us a reason to stop and gain our bearings. At the first river, as the rainstorm sauntered off, I stepped out onto the bank and quickly plopped down, un-strapping my pack. Yanking my shoes off, I stuck my crinkled toes into the crisp water and pulled out a granola bar to munch on. 

The others dropped their packs and bounded off, back into the jungle with their cameras in hand. I was left alone with the sounds of hummingbirds whirring around me and the click-click-click of river rocks rolling over one another. Behind me the leaves rustled as scaly lizards twitched and shifted, scurrying their way into shady hiding spots concealed from my prying eyes. The thicket around me shook, and I had the sudden feeling that I was alone in a scene from Jungle Book. You know, the part where the man-eating tiger comes roaring out of the bush to devour the little brown native innocently gathering nuts and beans. But it was just the others coming back from their romp in the wilderness in search of exotic wildlife. So we stretched out our legs, strapped on our packs, and headed out, pushing further into the heart of Corcovado.

"That Monkey Was Crazy!"

Spider monkeys are oddly threatening in a fuzzy kind of a way. Their dark brown fur is tinged with a rusty orange hue. They hang from tree limbs with dark, naked palms and, when emboldened, their brown leathery faces contort into menacing grimaces. The first one we passed seemed to be going through a mid-life crisis.

He was a loner, and whether or not that is normal I can't say. But in any case, he made it known that we were not welcome. Spider monkey hospitality is pretty much non-existent in the real world, and this one shook his white whiskers at us, boldly scratching and slapping his armpits, screaming insults, barking in our direction and flinging twigs at us.

It was clear that he had a lot of issues, perhaps with a broken heart or a misunderstanding between best-buds, and he was simply taking it out on us. But whatever the cause of his lonesome distress, we decided to leave him in peace and move on.

Spare the Soggy Shoes

A few hours later past the crazy spider monkey, we came upon our second river crossing. Making our way through the shallow stream, we settled our packs on the other side and sat down to catch our breath and have a snack. 

Have you heard the story of the silly American who tried to feed the maned young lion in Africa, getting closer and closer to it's lazy jaws, until it let out a ravenous roar and he almost had a wet? Some travel tales remind us that we as humans have an innate fear of most things large, loud and wild. 

For instance, imagine that you are sitting in the center of a vast rainforest on the edge of a trickling stream. Your shoes are off and your feet are in, soaking up the cooling sensation of the crisp water. You've hiked miles in, and your only escape is to hike miles out. The sounds of howling monkeys, chattering birds and clicking lizards surround you, and you're filled with the realization that you are alone and remote. You're suddenly aware of how vulnerable you really are, sitting tired and defenseless in a world where large predators with course bristly fur prey upon unsuspecting four limbed fuzzy little monkey-men who sit around whiling away the day over peeled bananas and exotic nuts. In no time, they could be caught unawares, just another unsuspecting victim of a ravenous beast. In a split second, you realize, that could be you. But the key solace and source of comfort are your two companions sitting next to you. 

And then you hear it, a low rumbling in the bush directly across from you. A high pitched chorus of wicked squeals echo in your ears. There's a viscous band of wild, ravenous creatures hidden in front of your very eyes... starving and craving for your fleshy parts and your chubby tummies! And the alpha-male raises his voice... a deep, dark, rumbling growl-grunt! You try to run, but your legs are as watery as the water your feet are in. Before you know it the wild beast is upon you! You turn around and look for your friend, but he's already running upstream, soggy shoes in hand, looking for the nearest tree to climb, screaming, "Ahhh! Piccadilly's!"

Okay, so maybe the peccary never showed itself. But the bush did shake. It was terrifying. And someone did run, (with time to spare to save their shoes), going on about the fearsome pack of fifty piccadilly's waiting to finish us off, in the meantime leaving the rest of us behind to fend for ourselves. In all honesty though, I probably would have done the same thing if I could've made my legs move fast enough.

"I'm So Over This!"

A little over six hours into our hike, the sound of rolling waves reached our ears. In 2 days we'd virtually crossed the Osa Peninsula from north coast to south coast mostly by foot, a journey of over 31 kilometers. At the distant sound of pounding surf, we knew that our trek through the heart of the jungle was coming to an end. Soon we would arrive at the shoreline, and ahead of us would stretch the final leg of our journey, 20 sun scorching kilometers along the peninsular coastline to Carate Town, the first rag tag settlement of civilization outside of Corcovado. But, we'd have to get to Sirena Ranger Station first, and we still had another hour or so to go. Nevertheless, the familiar rhythmic sounds of the Pacific Ocean gave us a little more incentive to pick up the pace.

As I mentioned, we had been hiking for hours at that point, and it was beginning to get to us. Beautiful wild nature surrounded us, but amongst that nostalgia of fairytale feelings, there is a reality. And the reality was that we were all beat. My pack had shifted to every awkward position imaginable, and the soles of my feet were beginning to rub raw from constantly being soggy.

Not only was it physically taxing, but mentally as well. To be in the middle of nowhere with nothing to go by but a half-beaten mud path is a hard thing to get used to. At times we cried out for trail markers, kilometer signs,anything that would reassure us that we were making steady progress. At one point I turned around and sighed, "I'm so over this..." Even Scott cried out for a sign, "Please, give us an animal or something!" Yes, it's true, we were beginning to give in to our comfort loving western ways.

But the trail does not end there. After a little while more of huffing and puffing and trudging through sludge, a furry little creature appeared on the path in front of us. It was an agouti, a small, brown rodent-like creature with a tiny head and chubby behind. She flashed us a look, as if to say: "Don't give up! Follow me, there's something right up ahead of you!" Than she trounced her way down the trail a few more paces before taking off into the bush. And sure enough, just a little ways up and we came across our third primate species.

There once was a man backpacking his way through the wilds of Corcovado. Along the way, he came across a clan of crazy white lipped peccaries. They snorted their snouts in his general direction, and caught wind of the sweet sugary snacks stuffed at the bottom of his pack. They made an advance. He turned and ran. 

Up the nearest tree he went, scrambling like a squirrel monkey in search of a nut. Only he had to hold on for dear life. And hold on he did, for three days straight. All the while, the pack of fuzzy boars waited for him with frothy mouths and dirty looks until they finally got the point, and realized that he wasn't worth the wait. So they begrudgingly went off on their way in search of a simpler treat to eat. 

Such are the urban legends circulating through the dingy hostels and cantina's of Puerto Jimenez, the main entry town to Corcovado. Needless to say, tales such as these were flying through our minds as we set out on the second day of our hike, pushing further and further inland, right through the center of the rainforest. This trek would take us 20 kilometers into the thick jungle, and images of slithery snakes waiting under crackling leaves with fangs full of venom, and steel plated crocodiles sunning themselves along the riverbanks, kept us open-eyed and turning at every sound.

In the Heart of the Jungle

In the heart of the jungle, the trees soar to dizzying heights above your head and create a canopy of filtered sunlight. Their trunks grow down, thick and ancient, deep into the soggy mud, with gnarled roots and knotted appendages twisting their way around your scraped up ankles. 

The air is heavy and sweltering, and the slightest breeze that manages to trickle through the heaving canvas overhead is a welcome respite from the sticky heat that surrounds you. When the rains come you can hear it heading in from the distance. 

It begins with a far clap of thunder booming like a single drumbeat, deep and resounding. And then far ahead of you to the north, the sound of sand falling on thin paper slowly moves in. As the rain shower nears, the canopy above your head begins to flutter and shake and random leaves shower down, bobbing and weaving back and forth. 

The echo of what sounds like lightly pouring sand increases around you until it reaches a crescendo, resounding like a jar of marbles being poured out onto pavement. And then it hits you, a single raindrop on your upturned cheeks, not soft and misty like the morning fog that rolls down the hills of Lana'i , Hawaii at dawn, but thick, fat and heavy and refreshingly cool against your clammy skin. 

You look at your companions and smile or laugh at your first taste of the coming downpour and the shiver of expectation that trickles down your brow. And then you find yourself in the middle of a rainstorm, enveloped by sheets of cooling rain rolling over you like a waterfall.

I once heard a man say: ¨The rainforest? That sounds wet!¨ And yes... it was. Well, at least such is the case with Nacional Parque de Corcovado, Costa Rica´s grandmama of all rainforests. We spent 3 days hiking through its vast wilderness, chasing monkeys and running from mother chonchos. 

Even though Carate, the first town we hit after leaving the park, seemed to be nothing more than a tiny dust plot of tin-houses, emerging from the jungle after stumbling around for days was like stepping out of the badlands back into comfortable civilization. Our packs were damp and our feet sore, but nevertheless, we knocked off our soggy boots, gingerly brushed off our blistery soles, and stepped up to the little snack shop-slash-bus stop and bought a round of sodas, 2 whopping bucks a pop. 

But in all honesty, it was before all that cozy soda-pop fizz, while deep within the primeval hinterlands of Corcovado, that we had our real adventure. The story is squeezed between two points of comfort: the simple joy of our Carate soda-pop fizz, and the soundness of snuggled-up sleep in a comfy eco-lodge on the edge of the wilderness.

Day 1 - From La Finca Kobo EcoLodge to Los Patos Ranger Station

Backtrack three days prior, where we find ourselves bunked up at a cozy 'bed & breakfast' type place called Finca Kobo. It was here that we stopped for the night after a 9 hour bus ride from San Jose, but that's entirely another story. 

The fresh morning of Day One dawned, so we packed our bags and started off early. Or at least we wanted to, but ended up sleeping in. So in reality we got on our way later than we expected, but early enough to make it to the first ranger station on time. 

We took a bus from Finca Kobo Eco-Lodge to the nearest entry town, called La Palma, which is simply a cool little hole on the northern shore of the Osa Peninsula, 30-minutes outside of Puerto Jimenez proper. There we discovered that the taxis, (or rather 4WD pickups with benches in the back), charged 40 bucks to transport us from La Palma to the entry of the park. We decided to shop around and discuss our options before departing. Not shop around for taxi deals, but for fruits and snacks, as this was the last stop before entering the jungle. 

While running our goods by the cash register, we asked the clerk what our options were for getting into the park. He told us three. (1) We could go for the 40 dollar taxi ride, which happened to be a deal because it was normally ten bucks more. (2) We could walk the two hours, which didn't sound so hot since it was so SO hot! Or, (3) we could pay just six bucks to get dropped off down the dirt road at the last remnants of civilization, a bunch of shacks called Guadalupe, and hike an hour upriver from there. This, of course, would be a halfway compromise. 

We found out that the reason why it was only 6 bucks halfway there, compared to 40 all the way, was because of the 20 or so river crossings that the taxi truck would have to make from Guadalupe onward. So, being the thrifty but comfort loving bunnies that we are, we decided to go with Numero Tres.

After a series of random bumps and dusty potholes, the taxi driver kicked us off a little past Guadalupe at the first river crossing. He assured us that we could make it to the entry of the rainforest in about an hour and 20 or so river crossings later. So we slid off our boots, donned our slip-slops and went on our way. 

Entering the Jungle

Hiking upriver allowed us to gradually get a sense of our surroundings. The steamy jungle grew thick and tangled right up to the edge of the riverbank and it felt like we were skirting our way along the fringes of a soon to be discovered wilderness. At one point we took a wrong turn off the worn path into an Indian village, where someone came out and gave us directions. We regained our bearings and headed back upriver, consciously trying to follow in the tracks of 4WD pickups long passed. 

As we moved along, the sounds of click-clicking and rustling leaves told us that we were not alone. Tiny frogs chirped and jumped out of our way, and a jittery jesus lizard skipped frantically across the surface of the water as we approached, reaching the other side of the river and clinging on to a branch that had fallen in. With his head cocked sideways, he eyed us suspiciously as if he wasn't sure what our next move would be. The trek upstream was a stirring introduction to the jungle lands we were about to enter. 

23 river crossings and 9 kilometers later, we came upon the edge of the Corcovado Rainforest, welcomed by a park ranger about to make his way into the interior. He said that after heading straight into the rainforest from where we were, it was still a muddy 2 kilometers uphill before we would get to Los Patos Ranger Station, our stop for the night. He told us that if we followed him in, he could show us a trail to a hidden waterfall where we could wash off. At this point we were clocking in at an hour or so from our first river crossing in Guadalupe. Not too bad, we thought, we were right on schedule.

Stumbling Around and Setting up Camp

We stumbled into camp 45 minutes later-- battered, bruised, and bloodied up. (Don't worry, I just had one of my customary nose bleeds where it looks like someone slaughtered a wild boar up in my nostrils). Anyway, we rinsed off our muck in the camp shower, popped up our tents as quickly as possible, refilled our water-bottles with 'agua potable', and set off on a mini-adventure in search of the fabled Los Patos waterfall.

The side trail took us down the steep edge of a muddy ravine, clinging onto exposed roots and relying on our boot traction for sure footing. At the bottom, we found a piddle of a waterfall, small and frothy, but still cool and soothing after the days activities. The jungle natives were slowly waking up from their afternoon siesta, and all around us the sounds of crickets and cicadas resonated. Initially there was a slight wariness of the trickling waters and mossy rocks as we realized that we were no longer in Hawaii, the land of non-existent land animal threats. But eventually we overcame our fear of the dark log in the middle of the pool and stuck our wrinkled toes in for a quick dip. 

As the day came to a gradual close, we meandered our way back into camp, crossing paths with slithering creatures in search of supper. After a warm bottle of red wine and hearty conversation, we tucked ourselves in under an almost full moon.

Coming Up: Part 2 of "Trek Through the Wilderness" will chronicle the second day of our trek through Corcovado Rainforest, where we meet up with the native wildlife and face up to our fears. Please be sure to SUBSCRIBE and stay tuned...


And now we'd like to ask you: Are you a hardcore adventurer or more of a laid back traveler? What is the greatest adventure you've ever experienced?

I have always been fascinated by the wilderness. While road tripping through the U.S.A., I wanted to explore the remote Boundry Waters to the north. When RV'ing from North to South Island in New Zealand, Marlborough Sounds was a highlight of the trip. And on my first backpacking trip through Southeast Asia, the isolated mountains of Northern Laos caught my attention. So when the idea to go to Panama to visit Ashley, a friend who moved down there, popped into my head, I pulled out a map to search for the nearest wilderness.

Since I was probably going to be flying into San Jose and traversing my way overland to cross the Costa Rican/Panamanian border, I set my sights on the wilderness rainforest of Parque Nacional Corcovado, the “Amazon of Costa Rica.” I decide to tackle the logistics of this possible adventure in two missions...

Mission #1: Find Some Real Life Experiences

Quite a few of my globe drifter friends had gone through Central America recently, but in regards to the Park itself, there was one very real prospective. Ashley, my friend in Panama, had been living relatively near to the Costa Rican border for several months. I knew that she'd already done a few border crossings for her visa run, and chances were she'd probably spent some time in the area there. I decide to ask her.

“Oh, yeah, I think I've been there,” she says. “That was a few years ago, though, when I was living in Costa Rica with Sayward and the boys. Why? Are you thinking of checking it out?”

“Yeah,” I respond. “Depends though...I'm still doing the research. What did you guys do there?”

“Um, I think we drove in, walked around for a little bit and walked up to the entrance or something,” she answers. “I can't really remember exactly. I know it was still pretty beautiful, though. One thing I do remember is there were a ton of parrots flying around. You know, those colorful macaw parrots? There was a whole flock of them.”

Hmmm...exotic wildlife? That sort of catches my attention. “Really?” I say, “And what did the park look like there?”

“From what I remember, it was rainforest, jungle and beaches. Pretty remote wilderness feel.” There's that word, wilderness. I'm caught. “Anyway, if you decide on going there, let me know,” she continues. “I might be down for meeting up with you there and trek around a bit or whatever.”

“Yeah, for sure,” I say. “Will do.”

Mission One? Semi-accomplished. Okay, so it isn't really that much of a real-life experience, but the potential is there, and the search results did come with a bonus: Trekking partner number one? Found. 

Mission #2: Do My Research

I go online and Google Corcovado National Park. A long list of links pop up... infocostarica.org, moon.com, even wikitravel.org, all have information about “the longest stronghold of Pacific coastline primary forest.” I take my time to do some research.

The entire 103,290 acres of national park sits on a piece of land called the Osa Peninsula, which juts out from the Costa Rican mainland into the Pacific Ocean. Not only is it the largest of the country's national parks, but it also takes up about a third of the landmass of the Osa Peninsula. There are multiple habitats, from mangrove swamps to montane forests, all of which harbor within their boundaries a huge variety of plants and animals; birds, amphibians, reptiles and mammals. Apparently, National Geographic referred to it once as “the most biologically intense place on earth.” Some of the wildlife that peak my interest? All four Costa Rican monkey species, crocodiles and caimans, jaguars and pumas, and notorious tribes of peccaries.

Some logistical facts to consider: There are two main seasons...the wet, which runs from December to April, and the dry, which goes from May to November. There are 3 main entrances into the park, all of which have stations: San Pedrillos in the north, Los Patos to the east, and La Leona from the south, and the most common villages/towns for access to these entrances/stations are Agujitas, Las Palmas and Carate respectively. You can camp at these park stations for a fee, as well as book basic accommodations at Sirena, which is the Ranger station in the very heart of the rainforest.

There are countless trails that crisscross throughout the park, some that can be done in a few hours, others that would take the better part of a day. From what I find, it looks like I'm going to have to put aside at least three days to experience what this wilderness has to offer.

And remember: there are no restaurants, no hotels, not even a basic beverage cart. This is a genuine trek through the wilderness, so you'll have to pack in your own food and water for the duration of your trek there. The ranger station at Sirena will prepare a very simple meal for you while you're there, for a pretty penny of course, and you have to give them a heads up in advance if you want to go that route. Otherwise, plan on being self sufficient.

And one last note on research: Pack out what you pack in. There are no garbage cans.

In short, I figure that Corcovado National Park sounds like a great idea. I decide to call up Scott, a fellow globe drifter, to tell him this new undertaking that I have up my sleeve. He's a regular nomad, and he's always up for an adventure. I catch him in the middle of making a pot of spicy curry quinoa and vegetable stew with fresh saffron from his recent trip to Egypt.

“Costa Rica, huh...I went there a few years ago,” he says. “So what's the plan?”

I fill him in on all the logistics of flying in, possible transportation ideas, places to stay along the way, and of course the national park itself.

“Sounds awesome,” he says. “And that's by Panama, right? So you plan on checking out Ash while you're down there?”

“Yeah, I'll just cross over from there and make my way to Guarare,” I say. “And actually, she kind of said she was interested in trekking Corcovado, too.”

“Really?” he says, clearly interested. “Well count me in, J, that sounds like a plan.” I smile, stoked to hear his response. Trekking partner number two? Found.

I brace myself for another wilderness adventure.

For more in depth information on how to plan your own trek here, check out this site @ http://corcovadoguide.com/index.htm

Coming Up: A 5-Part weekly series called "Trek Through the Wilderness" chronicling our time spent sloshing away through the wilderness of Corcovado National Park, so please SUBSCRIBE and stay tuned!

And now we'd like to ask you: What do you imagine when you think of the wilderness?