By Will Newbegin
Last Sunday, I set out at noon circumnavigate the trails of Bajo del Tigre. For most of the preceding week, some part of me felt had felt obligated to do so alone. Already had I joined several tour guides on the trails, learning the names and habits of some denizens that dotted the trails. At every hike’s conclusion, however, I felt an urge to circle back and experience the forest with full, undivided attention. From my hikes at home, I knew that hiking solo meant an in-tune-ness with the surrounding wildlife that no other experience could offer. Groups tend to make more noise, and the distracting chatter among individuals (guilty!) will scare off skittish animals, as well as distract you from the teeming biological world around you. In my home state’s comparatively homogenous biological zone this is true. It’s only doubly so in the Children’s Eternal Rainforest, where 0.00015% of the world’s land shelters seven different “life zones”.
But why, specifically, does the Children’s Eternal Rainforest demand this kind of unbridled, undivided attention? It’s easy: at any given moment, a chorus of chirps, squeals, and bonks — thank you, bellbird — combine in a sonorous but overwhelming number; a furious competition for your senses. Hearing each voice in the forest is difficult alone, but when you step into the Children’s Eternal Rainforest, you don’t know whether to keep your head toward the ground, where you spot the leafcutter ants, whose seamly lines stitch up the earth below you; to keep your head level, directed at the orange flight-streaks of butterflies that dive-bomb the flora in your periphery, only to vanish like an illusion when you turn your head to them; or to keep your head. toward the canopy, where the trees disguise the chirping residents that hide among them.
To task myself with observing each bird and bug that resides in the forest would be too difficult. I found it more appropriate to seek the noisiest, most distinct, member of the bunch. On this particular Sunday, I set out to find the bellbird. According to the Rainforest’s guides, it is difficult to spot the bellbird, despite its distinctive call. While I had been fortunate enough to see three — thanks to Greivin, our all-star forest guide — on my second day of work, I wished to find one with my own eyes.
I entered the forest through the Sendero de los Niños, traveling westward along the mountain on top of which Bajo del Tigre is perched. The most eye-catching feature when entering the trail from this direction are the marvelous spiral gingers. At home, I struggle to differentiate plants from one another, but Costa Rican spiral gingers make this task notoriously simple. Not only are its golden-red fruits some of the few edible eats in the BEN (not that I’ve been brave enough to try), but the spiraled distribution of its leaves creates a gorgeous staircase that is equally functional and beautiful; the spread allows for each leaf to absorb the maximum amount of sunlight possible by staggering their growth pattern.
I continued traveling along the Sendero de Los Ninos as it wove itself into the Sendero del Mono, which slices a thin sliver of path from the mountain’s slope. Slowly as I hiked, I still found it difficult to observe every detail of the forest. Your eyes dart and your ears jump and your nose jerks up at the slightest stimulus, and if your mind wanders for just one moment, you will certainly miss the discrete shape of a brown agouti as it dashes into the trees, as I did.
As the mountain path wound into greater tree cover, bird call after bird call rang into the air. Not only was the mountain air adorned with the bellbird’s bonks, but the triplet mating call of the Long-tailed manakin, birds that sound like zippers opened and closed, birds that sound like the squeaking of a rusty faucet, and birds that sound like sonar blips. Cicadas chimed in too, and when I turned into a clearing, I was suddenly greeted by the presence of twin, rhythmic frog croaks.
I immediately grew excited. Frogs have suffered through a near “apocalypse,” thanks to the Chytrid fungus epidemic that has damaged global biodiversity to an extent greater than any reordered disease (SOURCE: https://www.nationalgeographic.com/animals/2019/03/amphibian-apocalypse-frogs-salamanders-worst-chytrid-fungus/). However, according to Monteverde Conservation League’s Executive Director, Lindsay Stallcup, local species of frogs with Chytrid resistance have been discovered, which bodes well for the dwindling body of amphibians.
The source of these two croaks was surely nearby. Swiftly I removed the lens caps from my binoculars and, perching my elbows on the trail’s fencing, peered into the trees to find them. It was to no avail that I searched, though their croaking seemed to grow louder the more I looked. Locked in a proverbial game of Marco-Polo with the two amphibians, I remained blind to their position. I grew frustrated with my fruitless search and gave up. Though they weren’t my intended observation — I was still searching for the bellbird — my inability to find them discouraged me. Did I lack the necessary patience to spot nature’s finest?
It seemed so. As it was for the frogs, searching for the bellbird is no easy task. Whenever a nearby “bonk” resonated, scanning for its source usually resulted in one of two ways. Either I would grow quit, frustrated from crouching and scanning the skies for a sightless patch of white and brick-red; or my slightest movement would scare the bird, and the rustling of leaves and a beating of wings that indicated that my target had, to borrow a phrase from its terrestrial counterparts, flew the coop.
It was as I entered the last leg of the mountain’s winding trail that I finally answered that nearby call. Upon hearing the bellbird in question, I immediately crouched and readied my binoculars once more. Ten minutes hunched over sored my legs, but I remained still in hopes that I would finally see the bird. Five minutes later, in the same position, my binoculars stumbled upon the three-waddled majesty in all of its clattering glory. At last, it had been done. I stared at the bird until it flew off.
I wandered further, maneuvering down Bajo del Tigre’s infamously steep Sendero del Jaguar, and came to a realization. My afternoon’s finest portions came not from a mere sighting of the bellbird, but rather, the great anticipation that I had adopted in my search for it. After all, the Children’s Eternal Rainforest is not a zoo, where views of rare wildlife are only a passing glance away. Rather, it is a booming cradle of biodiversity; you enter as an equal, and your ability to spot a given organism is proportional to its ability (and willingness) to be spotted. In a very real sense, you are at the mercy of the forest.
This I also discovered when, upon reaching the maximum distance from the trailhead, it began to rain, and while my rain jacket hung inconveniently on a chair at home, but so it goes. I can’t wait to do this again.
Will Newbegin is a student at Lehigh Univeristy and is completing an internship with the Monteverde Conservation League from June to August 2019. This is the second in a series of guest blogs written by our interns. Edited by Lindsay Stallcup.