Mastery

December 2, 2024 ~ A Naturalist ~ Leave a comment

I’m going to just get this out of the way, no build-up or bullshit: I saw a Bushmaster.

A Central American Bushmaster, to be specific. Lachesis stenophrys. The largest viper in the world. A snake so rarely seen it holds near-mythical status among reptile aficionados. One of my animal life listers. Something I don’t talk about much since I’ve never seen one, never expected to see one, and still can’t believe I did. Hell, I found it.

Little is known about this snake. It spends most of its life underground in burrows, often up to a month a time. It only emerges presumably to mate or hunt, coiling in ambush below fallen logs or between the buttresses of tall trees. They are known to prefer deeper, older primary forest, and be sensitive to human disturbance. Their venom is potent and copious, and there is much speculation as to why a predator would evolve such large fangs. Since they are rarely encountered, few people know how to handle them safely.

My job has me leading wildlife surveys a couple of times a day along the trails of our reserve. We don’t get a lot of large mammals here, but the area is relatively famous for being a hotspot for migratory bird and herpetofauna diversity. It’s one of the few known habitats for bushmasters, and several years back a group came here to monitor and track the little-known snake. Over several months, a team of experts found only 6. They implanted them with tracking chips, and planned to return seasonally to monitor the population, even take guests on Bushmaster tracking outings. But over the next year all the tagged individuals either died or disappeared. By the time I got here, there hadn’t been a sighting in over two years, even by the locals. I had heard about the Bushmaster project, but also heard that it had been indefinitely cancelled.

Some nuances of the story were relayed to me recently, more discretely: as part of a favor to the local community, the Bushmaster team left their telemetry equipment behind for local guides to use. However, a bunch of people starting leading freelance tours into the forest to locate the snakes with paying guests. But when the radio signals led to a burrow–as they often did–some irresponsible guides would dig up the snakes for their guests, disturbing and harassing the snake. This is likely why the tracked individuals did not survive, and why the project ended. Now, it serves as a lesson in the complex ethics of wildlife, conservation, and culture.

That fateful day, the survey began as normal. Late morning, I took two of our interns down to a creek we regularly patrol. A path runs along the bed and around some nearby farms, and is normally a good spot that time of day for fruit crows, motmots, and basilisk lizards. Unfortunately, we didn’t see or hear much, and as the survey progressed we resigned ourselves to a few anoles and strawberry poison dart frogs.

Then I popped up over the bank of the creek and came face to face with the greatest snake I will ever see.

I don’t really remember what happened next. Not clearly. It’s a blur. According to the two witnesses I fell back, began jumping around, then collapsed to my knees. I alternated between swearing vulgarity and praising Jesus. I went silent for a long moment, staring at something they couldn’t yet see. At some point, maybe a few minutes later, I managed to tell them what it was: a Bushmaster, right there on the trail.

I couldn’t believe it. I forced myself to look again, then again, making sure it wasn’t a hallucination. Or a mis-ID. Maybe it was a large freakish terciopelo? Or even a rattlesnake, several hundred kilometers out of its range? Either one would have been more believable. Hell, a giraffe would have been more believable. If I got this wrong I would never hear the end of it, and forever persists as the Boy Who Cried Bushmaster. But no, I wasn’t seeing things. We called the rest of the team who descended on the site over the next few hours in chaos and excitement.

Photos were taken. Heads were shaken. Tears were cried. No joke–this really did provoke a reaction. Our hosts–an indigenous Bribri family who’ve lived here all their lives–wept in each others’ arms. Seeing this snake wasn’t just a cool sighting, it was a sign. A sign that this species was still here. It’s status is almost as a totem, its presence a blessing.

But one issue remained: the snake was near a farm, on a trail frequented by people and their dogs. Hell, it wasn’t more than 50 meters from a road. It was too dangerous to both locals and the snake to leave it there, and we had to relocate it. Not to mention the exposure. Once word got out, amateur guides and snake fans would descend on this area, combing and tearing the forest apart for the snake. It would be a repeat of the Bushmaster project all over again.

In the end, our host performed the capture, bagging the snake quickly and confidently. The next day, we hiked it deep into the forest and released it in a suitable habitat, a discrete location known only to us. If anyone else wants to find the snake, they’ll have to do it properly by contacting the Bribri association and using official guides. Maybe they’ll find a snake, maybe they won’t. But they’ll have to earn it.

Unlike I did. Because did I mentioned how unlikely it was to see this thing, let alone where I did? This was our easiest trail, and our most disturbed. I was right next to someone’s farm, for god’s sake, and this was right on the trail staring me in the face. I have colleagues who spend hours deep into the night poking around the darkest corners of this forest only to come back empty handed. I can see the jealousy in their eyes. They might call me a hero, pat me on the back and pour me drinks, but I know better. Still, this proved to be quite the ego boost. I think I’ll be riding this one for a while.

A god damn Bushmaster.

Good Taste

October 28, 2024 ~ A Naturalist ~ 1 Comment

I have a problem, one that may affect my career as a biologist going forward:

I want to eat animals.

I should clarify. I don’t want to eat all animals. Or even most of them. But far too often, I see an animal and wonder what it tastes like.

As a humble meat eater, I see no shame in this. I’ve raised, slaughtered, prepared and eaten my own animals, and have no moral issues with consuming meat. I do so soberly and as conscientiously as I can. I’m a hunter, and only take what can be harvested sustainably. But in my world travels and career in the field, I encounter fauna not generally considered to be menu items and my curiosity wanders.

*For example, since sloths are slow-moving herbivores, I suspect they are tough but flavorful. Does this make me a bad person?*

But that’s not what really worries me. No, that’s the animals that want to be eaten. Specifically, the ones that look like candy.

Above is a Strawberry Poison Dart Frog, Oophagia pumilio. As I’ve mentioned before, they’re common as dirt here. And every patch looks like someone spilled a bag of skittles on the ground. Seriously, look at those little guys! They have fruit right there in their name! They’re red and shiny and look like they would melt in my mouth and not in my hand. I understand this is a warning coloration and this highly toxic frog is anything but edible, but come on!

We get plenty of eyelash vipers here, a highly variable snake whose most common local morph is a yellow so bright it looks artificial. Coiled up in ambush, this thing is a twizzler. It’s saltwater taffy. It’s a novelty candy cane that will stain my tongue and probably also my urine if I eat enough of them. It’s lemon, maybe banana. Dentists hate them.

*You’re supposed to start at the tail, and they’ll probably be recalled one Halloween for being a choking hazard.*

But the biggest offender of them all is this, the Emerald Glass Frog. Take a look and then tell me the first thing that comes to your mind.

Kiwi, right? That thing is a goddamn kiwi fruit gummi. Don’t tell me it’s not. It’s translucent bright green with a white core. It’s squishy. It’s even got little seeds, so you know it’s made with real fruit. These probably come in tiny plastic packets, inevitably melted together, and marketed to parents as “snacks” since they’re organic.

I cannot explain the urge to pop these things into my mouth when I find them. God give me strength, it’s not like we get a lot of sweets out here. And I get no support from my coworkers–they treat me like I’m crazy. But I know better. I know they feel the same. I can see it in their eyes, the thought, the craving.

Happy Halloween.

Caribbean Amphibians

August 25, 2024 ~ A Naturalist ~ Leave a comment

My experience in the Caribbean Coast has been limited. A few days in Sarapiqui. A brief vacation in Bocas del Toro, on the Panama side. I spent maybe a week in Tortuguero a year ago, but I was too busy watching over a flock of fussbudget teenagers to really soak it in. Most of what I knew came secondhand. I was told to expect more rain, more poverty, and a lot more herpetofauna diversity.

*Wow, that was so long ago I don’t feel bad re-using the photo.*

It’s been three weeks now. My impressions so far? Far less rain than I expected. Apparently, the Southern Caribbean in particular gets a kind of “Little Summer” this time of year, with a lot less precipitation and a lot more heat. We even went into drought conditions and ran out of water for a quick minute, but I blame this mostly on more fussbudget teenagers taking long showers. Yeah, that was a grim time. Or should I say, grimy. The place got pretty rank without the ability to wash or do laundry. The next rainfall was greeted with utter grateful joy.

And poverty? Sure, but my view is still limited to the little town we’re in. Plus, we’re in a BriBri indigenous community, where development has lagged behind the rest of the country. Partly with intent. Many houses here are made with onsite materials, off the grid and integrated into the forest. Roads are rough, but there isn’t a lot of heavy traffic. Crime rates are low, at least for our little plot out here in the jungle.

But the herps? The reptiles and amphibians? Oh yes. Oh my yes. Since our main function here is to survey trails for wildlife diversity, and a good number of our transects focus on herpetofauna, I’ve had a great chance to appreciate just how diverse this area is, even on a micro scale.

Some of the rarest snake species in Costa Rica are found here. Some so rare that they aren’t mentioned in most field guides. I hadn’t even heard of them! Red-tailed coralsnake has been documented. There are whispers of Bushmasters. In my first week I saw a False Tree Coral, aka “Turtle Snake.” Terciopelo are so common that we are required to wear boots and literally issued snake hooks for hikes. To think I felt silly for bringing my own.

*I didn’t even know this species existed before taking this photo and I’m already bragging about it.*

And the frogs? My god, the frogs. During the day, Strawberry Poison Dart Frogs call like cicadas. At night, we trip over any of five or six litter frog species, Brilliant Forest Frogs, Green Climbing toads, and rocket frogs. Every rain shower brings out leaf frogs and glassfrogs by the hordes. Ponds and streams are thick with slimy bodies, and egg masses hang heavy from leaves and stems.

Another thing: these are my people. With a true focus on research and staffed by real biologists, I am no longer the outlier, the weird nature freak, the snake guy. In fact, we already have a Snake Guy. That’s actually his job. I can finally relax, as I am no longer on call for every deadly snake capture. I guess I’ll have to find another calling. Maybe I can be Mammal Guy. But not Monkey Guy. I do not want to be Monkey Guy.

And Now for Something Completely the Same

August 11, 2024 ~ A Naturalist ~ Leave a comment

I took a break.

I took a break from work. I took a break from the station. I took a break from blogging. I took a break from falling asleep to the sound of the waves, waking up to the sound of howler monkeys, and in between trying to stay asleep despite the attention of many, many ants. I had some family visit, but other that that, I was pretty much on my own.

*Went back to Monteverde for a bit too. The forest is still cloudy.*

This was mostly due to work reasons. We had about two months of no guests and no volunteers, so I didn’t have much to do. I offered to take a “furlough” and my boss agreed. I had a friend in Quepos who was serendipitously looking for a catsitter, and took them up on it. I lived in an actual apartment in an actual town for about two months, sleeping in a real bed and eating things that were neither rice nor beans. I went for walks. I went grocery shopping. I watched TV. I–ironically–caught Dengue and spent about two weeks recovering.

And I looked for a new job. Because, as I mentioned, the reserve isn’t getting enough business. With only about a dozen groups throughout the year, the place is barely sustaining itself financially. I discussed this with the owner, but they weren’t open to making any changes regarding marketing or pricing. I’m not as useful as a general laborer, so they declined to renew my contract for next year. I spent pretty much the entire month of May planning my next move.

And what a move it turned out to be. I found a position as a coordinator for a research station on the literal opposite side of the country: Cahuita, Limon. The Caribbean. The other lowland coastal rainforest. Pretty much the only part of the country I’ve never seen. A world famous spot for birds and snakes.

I’m there now and settling in. Once again, I’m avoiding specific place names. More on this later. I’ve got a lot to do, but more free time and faster internet than ever. My only limitation is the number of photos I’m allowed to use on a free WordPress account, which, wow, I’m about to hit any day now.

Stay tuned.

Elephant Trunk

April 17, 2024 ~ A Naturalist ~ Leave a comment

Continuing the theme of European visitors, we hosted a British family a while ago. Two parents, two kids–a pair of adorably precocious youngsters in the jungle for the first time. The kids were cute too. I was impressed they came out to a place this remote.

And they were a joy to have here. Polite, enthusiastic, and they really appreciated the nature. Sure, there was a good deal of whining–sorry, “whinging“– about the heat, a long conversation about why they couldn’t have tea, and a fantastic meltdown as one little girl got her first tick. But generally everyone had a good time, myself included.

As their personal guide, I took them on our trails and narrated monkey fights. We visited the bat cave and looked for frogs. They played with hermit crabs for hours. And while the pumas never made an appearance, they understood the privilege of being able to see such an abundance of wildlife, even without large cats.

However, they did have their hopes up for a tapir. And as their trip wound down to its last morning, T-minus three hours from the departure boat, I suggested a quick short walk up to where we used to see the tapirs sleeping.

Sure enough, they didn’t disappoint. We weren’t on that trail more than twenty minutes when we turned a corner and came face to trunk with a tapir sleeping on the trail. The family was thrilled. The kids obediently kept their glee subdued, letting out whispered giggles of delight while mum and dad snapped photos. The tapir woke, snuffled at us in mild interest, then stood up.

And then for no reason that I can understand it got an erection.

Side note: the tapir penis is huge. Almost a meter long. It has one of the greatest phallus-to-body-size ratios of any mammal. Fully extended, it’s longer than its legs. This one was literally dragging on the ground. The head looks like the business end of a sledgehammer. Attached to a pink-gray Louisville slugger.

And it’s prehensile. As we watched, the tapir used it to tap the ground. We could hear this–a dull, solid thumping. I still hear the sound in my mind, even today.

This was not something you could ignore. This was no awkward horse dong, or dangling monkey balls, no dog’s red rocket in a family photo. This was obvious, unavoidable. There was no way not to see it. I had no idea what to say, other than, “Well, it’s a boy.”

*Pictured: a different tapir, on a different day, you perverts.*

And I had no idea what the family would think. I mean, the British are supposed to be open-minded, right? But this? They had little daughters! Would they be embarrassed? Offended? Should I distract them somehow? How was I supposed to distract from that?

One of the little girls asked me, “Is it fully grown?”

“God, I hope so,” I answered. “Oh, wait, did you mean the tapir?”
“Is it going to get bigger, mummy? Is it?”

Dear sweet lord it took all my concentration to keep a straight face. I looked over and saw mum and dad caught in the same struggle. I knew then that things were going to be alright. Eventually, the tapir walked off, dragging its penis with it through the leaves.

On the way back, I asked the kids a question I put to most guests: “If you guys had to describe a tapir to someone who’d never seen one, how would you describe it?”

One of them thought for a moment. “Well, it’s got four legs and a trunk like an elephant.”

I’m pretty sure she was talking about its nose.

Tick Talk

April 8, 2024 ~ A Naturalist ~ Leave a comment

The rains have finally begun, marking the end of the dry season and giving us a welcome reprieve. Not just from the heat–from the ticks.

Yes, there is one more bloodsucking jungle parasite to worry about, and they flourish during the months of January to March. There isn’t much need for alarm–ticks in this part of the world don’t carry any disease. No Lyme disease, thank god.

But they’re still gross. I’m not sure why most people are more bothered by a tick drinking their blood than, say, a mosquito. But if I had to guess, I’d say it’s because they latch on. They don’t just stick a little straw into a vein and sip away like a you were a goddamn cocktail, they stick their entire face into your skin and hold on like, well, a tick.

And they’re numerous. I’m not talking about coming back from the trails with one or two ectoparasites. We get dozens. It got so bad that we started holding a contest as to who could get the most in one day. By that, I mean I started having a contest. And by that I mean that I just started telling people how many ticks I’d pulled off me while they pretended to listen.

“Sixty-eight,” I said with pride one day, as I joined the others for lunch. We had been bushwhacking, marking the property line by clambering through dry brush. Just the place ticks love to hide. “That’s a record.”

“That’s disgusting,” said one of the volunteers, an American guy.

“Hey, we all get them.”
“Not me. I get maybe one or two.”

“What about those on your arm?” I said, pointing to a patch studded with tiny dots.

“What do you mean?” He looked confused.

“Those ticks.”

He went pale. “That’s dust.”

“No, those are ticks. Baby ticks. You must have got a seed tick, a mother carrying dozens of little ones that then scatter.”

He scratched his arm. They didn’t come off. “That’s dust.”

“Ticks.”

He bolted for the shower, and spent some time in there scrubbing away while I stood outside offering advice. “Here’s some duct tape, just stick in on there and peel them off.”

I told him not to worry, and mentioned that thing about no risk of Lyme. I think it helped. But he left soon after. Hopefully, he did a thorough check for ticks first.

Oh, and the reason there’s no Lyme here? It’s kind of funny. There’s a genus of lizard called the Spiny Lizards, Sceloporus, who’s blood contains an antibody for the Lyme bacterium. It doesn’t just cure them, it purges any tick that bites them. Anywhere these lizards live, they create a natural buffer against the disease. The genus can be found Across Western North America down to South America. Weird, huh?

*Turns out I already have a photo of one from Monteverde. Thanks, little guy!*

Eurotrips: An Anthology

April 1, 2024 ~ A Naturalist ~ Leave a comment

I approached the front desk, praying that I wasn’t too sweaty or muddy to be rude. Based on the receptionist’s expression, I totally was.

“Um, hi? I’m supposed to meet two of your guests here for a night hike, only I don’t know their names or where exactly to meet them. I think they’re from…” I had to make a guess here. The only messages I got from the booking guy where in broken English and Costa Rica was spelled “Kostaryka.” “Russia?”

“They are from Polonia.” Ah. Poland. “I will tell them you are here. Please wait…” she took another look at my clothes and boots. “…outside.”

I was soon joined by a stocky man whose face hid behind a black hedgerow of a beard. He held an enormous camera in meaty hands. “Is nice to meet you. My wife, she will not be joining.” He scowled. “She does not like the large spiders.”

He was into macrophotography, I learned. Especially of bugs. Clearly, this was off to a good start.

Sure enough, after an hour we had barely made it to the trailhead. My Polish guest kept stopping to snap photos of fantastic quality of things like land crabs and cockroaches, which I just stepped over. Well, whatever made him happy. Not that I could confidently gauge his mood. He seemed to grumble at everything.

“Ah, here we have a leaf katydid, genus Diophanes, I think. Look, you can see the ovipositor–“

“Ah, here is large spider!” he said, ignoring me to shoot his own discovery. “Very big. Very good.”

Ok, arachnids it was then. I pointed out some fishing spiders, several amblypygids, and we found several scorpions. The grumbling continued, but seemed slightly more upbeat.

Then we almost ran into a tapir. It rose from where it had been resting in the mud and wandered off. But Spider Man wasn’t impressed. “Eh, we see that in Corcovado. Look, here is another spider!” and he bent to hover over a large Cupiennius.

We turned back after another hour. I walked him back to the hotel. As we shook hands, I said I hoped he had enjoyed the hike.

“Was good. Saw large spider. Very satisfying.”

“*Is large spider. Is eating frog. Is good.”*

I watched the boat pull into our cove, and saw them balk at the high tide and heavy surf. Instead of approaching and landing at the main beach right in front of the station, they chose instead to land at the smaller more sheltered beach to the South.

What they didn’t see was the couple already there who had decided to go skinny dipping. People often see our beach and mistake it for somewhere more private. As the boat approached, the naturalistic couple grabbed their clothes and bolted. I went to meet the boat, hoping the guests hadn’t seen. I have nothing against nudity, but I know some people can be uncomfortable and it’s generally frowned up on in Costa Rica. And I didn’t know much about our guests arriving that afternoon.

Turns out, they were Germans. Very enthusiastic Germans. I showed them around the station and gave them a quick orientation. “And there’s a bat cave nearby, if you want to visit it sunset. You can watch all the bats leave as the sun goes down.”

They liked the sound of that. Since it was already late afternoon, we hung around drinking coffee for an hour before leaving for the bat cave. The walk took only a few minutes, and passed by another smaller beach hidden between two rocky points.

Where we found the same couple from before, still naked. Again they grabbed their clothes and ran, again disturbed from their second hidden paradise.

“Eh, they are probably Germans,” said one of my guests. “We like being naked.”

***

I returned to the station to find a gorgeous woman sitting in the study, wearing only a red bikini and reading my copy of Birds of Costa Rica. Clearly, I was dreaming. It’s a fantasy I’ve had before.

“Sorry, I thought this was open. And I was curious,” she said in heavily accented Spanish. She gave me her name. “I am from Barcelona.”

Or rather, Barthelona. It’s a dialect with a heavy lisp. One that I find nearly impossible to take seriously. It’s truly comical. I’ve never tried so hard not to laugh or stare.

Apparently, she was taking an all-day hike from Drake Bay to the edge of Corcovado. She’d seen the sign for the station, and had some questions about the natural history of the place. She mentioned something that several people before had noticed: Corcovado is getting crowded.

“There were so many people there! And so many Europeans!” Huh. You don’t say. “I heard all about the famous biodiversity, but I didn’t see that many animals.”

I told her about our property, a quiet alternative to the national park. How we often saw pumas and tapirs. “At night?” she asked. Nah, often in the afternoon. “But in the forest?” Well, sometimes right in the open. “Vale. That would be so cool to see.”

Vale indeed. I told her I had to get back to work, but she was free to rest in the shade or on the beach. I rejoined the guys where we had been working on the public trail, to find one of the volunteers staring down a puma. “They just showed up,” he said and shrugged.

Make that two pumas. They were calmly walking down the public trail, in broad daylight, not a hundred meters from the station. I raced back to find the Lady of Spain, then led her back to the cats.

She was giddy with excitement. “Ay, how beautiful! How spethal!” The cats lay down, and one of them began licking itself like a tabby. “Prethioso!” She turned to me. “Grathias!”

It took all my restraint not to laugh. But this time, I let myself stare.

Heat

March 21, 2024 ~ A Naturalist ~ Leave a comment

It’s hot.

It hasn’t rained in nearly a month. We haven’t had a cloud in the sky for weeks. Every day, from about 8am when the sun clears the hilltops behind our station, we have nowhere to hide. The sun doesn’t smile down on us so much as glare. We smolder beneath its simmering gaze.

This time of year, Costa Rica sits at the latitude with the most solar exposure per day. It’s the Dry Season, so we don’t even get the benefit of rainfall to cool things down. There isn’t even much wind, either, even though we’re right on the coast. The air heats up, and just stays there, an angry haze.

It affects everything. The rainforest is dry. The plants are dormant or withering. Many go deciduous this time of year, dropping their leave to save water even though they still flower or bear fruit. Animals turn to eating seeds or insects if they can. And everybody spends as much time as possible trying to stay cool, either in the shade, mud, or few dwindling streams.

*Even this body of water is approaching air temperature. Screw you, ocean! You’re no use.*

And as for the people, we try to stay cool too. Which is tough, because the work doesn’t end. We’re sweating enough to fill our boots–and I mean fill them. I end up changing clothes twice a day and showering even more often. I think I got up to six the other day. I would work up a sweat just getting dressed again. I’m doing laundry several times a week.

But we try to use the climate to our advantage. Been getting a lot of painting done–it dries fast this time of year, and we can usually get several coats in. To clean mattresses and pillows, we just drag them out and chuck them onto the corrugated metal roof for the day. The heat and ultraviolet rays “cook” them, sterilizing most of the smell and almost all of the stains. It’s even better than bleach. So we’re getting things done and drinking lots of water and taking a good siesta hour in the middle of the day.

At least, the others are. Because see, my room is on the second floor, right underneath that corrugated metal roof. From about noon to 4pm, it’s the hottest place on the property. It’s a sauna. I can’t be in there for more than a minute during the afternoon. I have to rest in a hammock on the porch. Even by nightfall, every surface is practically steaming, radiating all the energy absorbed over the day. I have to sleep like a starfish, with my limbs spread out as far as possible to cool down. When we threw my mattress onto the roof, it had a perfect brown sweat stain of a human body, spread eagled as if being roasted. Which wasn’t far from the truth.

Cat Tracks

March 15, 2024 ~ A Naturalist ~ Leave a comment

We were out clearing trails when we heard the monkeys screaming.

It was the spider monkeys this time, and the howl was an ungodly screech followed by a chorus of shrill barks. The whole group joined in. It was a familiar sound from my Monkeyverse days, as the capuchins do something similar when they see a threat. It was a predator alarm. Only a couple hundred meters away.

It was a hot day, as most days are this time of year. Peak Dry Season. Late morning. The sun was overhead and we were sweaty and exhausted. Normally, the last thing we’d want to do is hike further into the forest. But my coworker and I were biologists–our curiosity was piqued. We decided to investigate.

Tracking the monkeys wasn’t hard. They kept the calls going for hours, and sitting together in a large tree, shaking branches, and staring straight down, agitated. Monkeys of most species alert each other to threats like predators or snakes by climbing directly over them, staring at the target, and giving alarm calls. Sometimes they drop branches or debris.

We tried to get a look at what was upsetting these monkeys, but below them was a deep gulley. Narrow, with steep sides covered in loose debris. A small trickle of water ran down the middle. It was the perfect spot for a large snake, we reasoned. Even a bushmaster, which neither of us had ever seen. It was worth a little excursion. So we bushwhacked to a part of the gulley that was accessible and made our way down the stream, terrified monkeys hooting overhead.

I led the way, and soon came to a ledge above a pool, something that would’ve been a waterfall at any other time of year. To get around, I had to sort of shimmy across the side of the gulley and then drop down. I did so, then turned around to see what had upset the monkeys.

“Sweet Jesus,” I said. “It’s a puma.” It was a fully grown adult, and it was lying with its ears back and its head on its paws like a chastised dog. It was practically pouting. After all, it had been spotted by monkeys and lost the element of surprise. It was being harassed, and now cornered. And it was barely two body lengths away.

I informed my coworker of this, trying to keep my voice low. “I’m way too close, so I’m going to try to get out of here.” Carefully. I began climbing. “Let’s keep talking, you and me, let it know we’re not excited.” I turned back. The cat had risen to a crouch.

I got out of there, and we both got to a distance where we could see the cat safely. It stared back as we snapped a few photos. During this whole time, the monkeys continued to call.

As we returned to the trail, we were practically giddy. As my previous entries attest, pumas are nothing special here. But we had seen one on a trail. And not just seen it–found it! Tracked it! Using our wits and knowledge of the forest. This cat didn’t strut out in the open for us, right outside the building as if posing for a photo shoot. This was finally a large cat sighting that felt earned.

However, the photos were terrible. We only had our phones on us. Between the lighting, and my hands shaking from the close encounter, all I got was a blurry smudge that barely looks like a cat. So I guess we will have to rely on pumas coming to us in the future.

Up Snake Creek

February 23, 2024July 14, 2024 ~ A Naturalist ~ Leave a comment

I was sitting on the porch, drinking coffee, when the young man–one of the visiting university students–walked up to me and said my favorite sentence: “We saw a snake.”

It’s my trigger phrase. My activation code. It’s been the intro to many of my adventures over the years. Just hearing it puts adrenaline in my blood and has me reaching for a long stick. Unfortunately, I was already halfway into my boots when he then continued that sentence with my least favorite qualifier:

“…last night. In the creek. We didn’t wake you because we thought you’d be asleep.”

Oof. Party foul, kid. Everyone knows snakes are a 24-hour subject. In fact, I have a rule that anyone may seek me out at any time of day or night to deal with snakes. Doesn’t matter if I’m busy or dead to the world. You could probably interrupt my own wedding as long as legless reptiles are involved.

So I sat back down and picked up my coffee. But he still wasn’t done yet. “And it’s still there right now.”

Wow, whiplash! Down went the mug. On went the boots. Out came the stick. “Show me.” He did so, but let me lead the way for the last part. I soon saw why.

Right next to our station building sits a little stream, a modest creek full of debris and sand. It’s not much to look at, although it has a good population of large freshwater prawns and can turn into a frog breeding ground in the wet season. However, follow it up a few dozen meters, and it narrows into a box canyon roofed with bamboo, terminating in a secret waterfall and swimming hole. It’s like our own little Fern Gully, and makes for a great spot to cool off in during the hottest days.

Apparently, some of the students had that very idea. Only, they found they would be sharing the waterfall with a snake. And not just any snake: a terciopelo.

It’s been a while since we’ve seen good ol’ Bothrops asper. I had begun to get suspicious. Had they been eradicated? Had I lost my ability to spot them? It was a little worrying. They used to be so common.

Seeing one was comforting, at least a little. Less so, it’s location. See, the snake was trapped up the creek by all the activity, with the banks of the gully too steep to climb. It had coiled defensively practically right under the waterfall, right where some poor sorry bather would’ve put their poor sorry bathing ass. It’s next move would’ve been to swim down stream, right into the group of students. It was good luck and good spotting that someone saw it.

*Good luck to you as well, trying to find it from a safe distance.*

I let them know this, and conferred with the rest of the staff. The creek would have to be off-limits for now, until the snake left. It was in the worst possible position to remove safely, and the consequences of getting bitten out here are much higher than in Quepos. I was not about to break out the capture kit for this snake.

The students swam in the ocean instead. And we will be approaching that waterfall with caution in the future.