Chapter 17 - Volcán Irazú and La Selva

I wake and think of when Dad and I arrived in San José. Without GPS we got lost within a few

minutes. We only realized we were headed up the wrong road when we reached the entrance to a

National Park and were required to pay an entry fee. We did a U-turn and asked the attendant the

correct way to La Selva. It’s a shame we couldn’t stop. But Dad wasn’t enthusiastic about the

altitude. We were on a volcano—a big one. I find out later it was Volcán Irazú.

This time I’m on my own. The world is my oyster. I climb into clean clothes, put my superman

boots on and fly to a local coffee shop. I read the guide book about nearby volcanoes. Volcán

Irazú appeals. It seems to be on the way. I fill Priscilla with gas and enter Volcán Irazú into

Sheila. I blast “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” through the speakers and keep time with

one hand and my left foot. Startled pedestrians flee for their lives.

The brooding massif of Volcán Irazú emerges through the cloud, and I start the long climb to the

peak. I discover that Sheila can report altitude as well as GPS coordinates, so switch to a mode

where I can monitor this. The road hairpins its way up the mountainside and 9,000 feet gives

way to 10,000 feet. I pay my entry fee at the park entrance and continue my climb. I emerge onto

a flat area of scoria and look for a place to park amongst the SUVs and tour buses. Sheila tells

me I’m at 11,000 feet. Stunning.

There is a crowd of school kids around the coffee/souvenir shop. They appear to be feeding

something. I amble closer. It’s a white-nosed coatimundi (Nasua narica). The kids soon lose

interest and disappear into the mist. The coati sniffs hopefully and stands still just long enough

for me to take a couple of pictures. I never see it again.

I cover the back pack with the built in rain cover and hit the trail. It isn’t far to walk to the main

caldera, but I am definitely feeling the altitude. Along the path I encounter enormous umbrella

leaves and a bright red flowering head. Later I identify it as Gunnera insignis and learn that it

has a symbiotic relationship with a cyanobacterium which allows it to fix nitrogen. It seems

totally at odds with the lunar landscape around me and I spend ten minutes setting up the tripod

and taking wide angle photos with the 17-40mm on the Canon 5D Mark II. I’ve packed a

microfiber towel and use it every couple of minutes to wipe down the camera gear that gets

coated with droplets from the pervasive mist.

I move closer to the caldera. At the perimeter fence I see an emerald lake far below. According

to the information signs it is 1,000 feet below me. The crater itself is nearly circular and almost

three-quarters of a mile across. It is the highest of Costa Rica’s active volcanoes. The most recent

major eruption started in 1963 on the day President John F. Kennedy visited San José. There

have been minor eruptions since. On a good day you can see both the Caribbean and Pacific

coasts of Costa Rica, but this is not a good day.

My attention is attracted by a dull colored bird, about the size of a blackbird. I’m annoyed at it.

This means I have to take the Canon 7D out of the backpack, and it’s still raining. I wrap a

plastic rubbish bag around most of the lens and stalk the bird. It doesn’t fly much but scurries

around the surprisingly luxuriant vegetation like an avian rat. It’s like playing whack-a-mole.

Whenever I manage to locate it and try to focus it pops up again somewhere else. I swear at it

under my breath. This is unusual. I typically have unlimited patience but I’m becoming cold and

the camera is getting wet. I hear people approaching and of course they scare the bird into both

silence and immobility. I consider some sort of diversionary tactic—bearing my canines and

frothing at the mouth perhaps. But they sense my pre-occupation and move on. Birdy hops onto a

low branch to taunt me one more time but through luck, rather than judgment I nail the shot.

I walk to the end of the trail. The fence is too far from the caldera to get good wide angle shots. I

look around guiltily. No one is within sight so I hop through the fence and take my photos and

videos. From here I cut towards the old crater rim. There are low lying plants fighting for

survival in the scoria. Some of them are fruiting.

The photography continues until the rain intensifies. I weigh my options, which seem to consist

mostly of heading back to Priscilla as the visibility drops to 30 feet.

Bent over against the wind, I struggle back uphill to the car park. I am close to the coffee shop so

head in there, where, along with a bunch of like-minded people, I heat my hands up on a fresh

cup of Joe and enjoy the warmth from the heater.

Semi-dry and semi-warm, I realize I probably need to head for La Selva. The research station is

set in an area of lowland rain forest on the Caribbean slope. I figure I’m a couple of hours away

and want to get there in daylight so I can settle in. The rain eases a little, and I make a dash for

Priscilla, stuffing the backpack in the back seat next to the cooler.

As I open the driver’s door the driver next to me shouts and gesticulates. I look down to find the

driver’s side front tire is almost flat. I thank him, sigh, climb out of the car and retrieve the tools

necessary to lower the spare wheel from under the car. Well, they may be the necessary tools, but

I can’t do it. Try as I might, I can’t engage the tool with the shaft that lowers the wheel. I

endeavor to stay dry but quickly realize the futility of the exercise and end up lying on the gravel

and mud underneath Priscilla staring at her naughty bits. I fetch my headlamp and shine it

through the hole through which I am supposed to insert the handle that lowers the wheel. The

more I try, the colder I get and the more frustrated I become. “Fuck it!” I finally explode. I look

for the electric pump which should be in the back of the car. I reckon if I inflate the tire enough I

will be able to make it to the garage I saw during the climb. I clamber in the back and start

throwing stuff around. And then I do it again. It finally dawns on me that my prized pump has

been stolen during the Antigua break in. Well, I mused. Don’t need the pump. I can use the

pressure can of “Fixes Flats.” I find the can, attach the plastic inflation tube to the valve and hit

the release button. There is a wet fart noise and froth issues from the nozzle. The device is

broken at the release valve and is unusable. By now I am distinctly unimpressed.

I retrieve the wheel wrench and loosen the lug nuts. They’ve seen me coming and have tightened

almost to the point of immobility. I briefly consider a universe in which lug nuts fall off by

themselves when you don’t want them to but clamp down tighter than a clam when you need to

remove them. I overcome their stubborn resistance, climb onto the roof and unlock the snow tire

which I have now carted around Central America and Mexico for over 3,500 miles. I throw it to

the ground and replace the wheel with the snow tire. I briefly examine the flat and find the head

of a bolt between the tread.

Getting the wheel onto the roof isn’t easy. First I lift it onto the hood and climb up to join it.

Then I heft it onto the roof, scramble after it and hold it in position with bungees. Priscilla makes

interesting noises all the way down to the garage. I can hear the studs on the snow tire over the

sound of the heater which is at full blast as I try to remove the condensation from the windows

and warm myself up.

I pull into the garage and almost immediately see a machine for removing tires from rims. I pull

into the bay and mime to the attendant that I have a flat tire. I climb on the roof and hand the

wheel down to him. Fifteen minutes later the snow tire is back on the roof and the flat is fixed.

I’m also getting dry. Bliss. I pay for the repair, tip a week’s wages and enter La Selva

coordinates into Sheila. As I will later find out, this was a mistake.

I’m enjoying the drive. The road descends the flanks of Volcán Irazú passing through small

villages and herds of dairy cows (or was it small dairy cows and herds of villages?). At this

altitude it’s hard to remember I’m in the tropics. I drive around the volcanic massif and head

north towards Puerto Vallejo de Sarapiqui. As the road becomes progressively worse and worse,

I lament that I couldn’t afford new springs before I left Denver. I shoot a short piece of video

with the FLIP, driving with one hand on this road isn’t a good idea, so I keep the sequence short.

I pass few vehicles. It really feels, and probably is, the middle of nowhere. I catch up to and pass

a man on a moped, which increases my testosterone levels. Then I overtake an ambulance. It

doesn’t seem to be an ambulance in a hurry—there’s no flashing light or siren, so there is no

apparent reason not to pass it. The driver considers this an attack on his masculinity and rides my

bumper for a mile or so until I speed up and leave him behind.

I arrive at La Selva, as I usually seem to arrive everywhere, in the dark. The man at the gate

knows I’m coming and gives me a key to an accommodation unit. As I drive I realize that it is

the same place I stayed in when I visited with my Dad. I unload my photographic gear and my

soft sided bag that contains my clothes, then head into Puerto Vallejo for essential supplies (ice,

beer, and red and white cans). When I return I just have time to grab a meal at the dining hall

before it closes for the evening. I catch up on email, make a Facebook post and then go searching

for frogs.

La Selva is well set up for researchers and photographers alike. There are several miles of

concrete trails. While they make for easy walking they also present disadvantages. The station

rents out bikes to students and researchers. These are almost silent and over the next few days a

silent cyclist will scare the crap out of me on several occasions. The more considerate riders will

let you know they are coming with a cheery “coming through” but the newbies just don’t know

to do this yet.

The evening remains dry. This is good for the camera gear but not good for frogs. They mostly

decide to stay in bed. I stay out long enough to convince myself I’ve given it the good old

college try and then head “home” where I shower, drink a night cap beer and read my novel until

I’m sleepy (which takes about ten minutes).

My morning plans are pretty straight forward. Head off into the forest and look for blue jeans

poison dart frogs (Oophaga pumilio previously Dendrobates pumilio). On my previous visit to

La Selva I only managed to locate three of these little beauties. I had been shown how to find

them by another biologist. The trick is to listen for their call and then try to triangulate on their

position. The males typically stand in front of the buttress roots of a rain forest tree and this

small amphitheater projects the sound. I finally managed to locate a calling male and when I got

closer, observed him indulge in a microscopic wrestling match with a rival while the female

watched. My photos weren’t very good so I am eager to improve on them.

At first I have no success but I do learn something about the La Selva. It is crawling with

opiolines—harvestmen or daddy longlegs in common English. I see movement on a leaf and

when I move closer it resolves into the most ludicrous animal imaginable. There is a pinhead

sized body raised way above incredibly long spindly legs and the damn thing is running

backwards and forwards. Trying to focus on it challenges both my expertise and my patience.

After ten minutes or so the harvestman moves too high for me to reach, and I reluctantly let it go.

Almost immediately I notice another one. This is much bigger and has shorter legs. Perched on

the edge of a log it proves to be a most amenable photographic subject, and I am able to fill the

frame using the 100 macro and my macro twin lite flashguns.

A third, triangular bodied, long-legged species follows. Harvestmen are an interesting group.

Despised by some cultures for a non-existent venomous bite, they are actually totally harmless to

humans. But they certainly look as if they should be dangerous. They are unusual amongst

arachnids in that the order includes species that are omnivorous. Their eyes are apparently unable

to form images so food is located using their second pair of walking legs. While feared by

humans (probably because they look like particularly energetic spiders) they appear highly

vulnerable to predation. They do, however, have a few tricks up their multiple sleeves. Many of

them are fast, able to hightail it away from danger. Others play dead, while some long-legged

species “vibrate” while perched on their stilt-like legs; this makes it difficult for a predator to

find an “aiming point.” Many may utilize chemical defenses. Most can autotomize legs when

captured. The leg will twitch after separation and, depending on species, this twitching can last

anywhere from a minute to an hour. The theory is that the predator will concentrate on the leg

while the seven-legged harvestman makes its escape. In view of the fact that there are probably

100 times more calories in the intact opilione than in its leg, only a mentally defective predator

would opt for the leg.

But the aim for the day still remains blue jeans poison dart frogs, and in this I’m failing

miserably. Of course the fact that I’m red/green insensitive (“color blind”) doesn’t help matters.

A gorgeous basilisk runs across the trail and conveniently freezes on an accessible branch. I

change to the 100-400mm zoom and obtain some nice shots. As I’m about to put the camera

down a self-assured blue jeans poison dart frog ambles into the frame. It’s far too small to

photograph with the big zoom so I swap back to the 100mm macro. Froggy proves almost as

difficult as the harvestmen and I end up pursuing it for 30 minutes. The frog really doesn’t seem

in the slightest bit concerned by my presence, but it’s like the famous bunny in the battery

advertisement. It simply won’t stay still, and if it does stay still all I can get is a picture of its

bum. To obtain a successful shot I have to get down to ground level which dictates elbows and

knees as a minimum. For really good shots I have to be eye-to-eye with the frog which requires

lying down. Lying down in leaf litter in a temperate forest is usually no problem. Doing so in a

tropical rain forest is inviting trouble. I manage a couple of good compositions and then it

suddenly dawns on me that I’m lying on top of a leafcutter ant nest. For a moment I forget the

frog but then realize that, unusually, the colony is apparently having a siesta. Even the scouts are

asleep. But I’ve seen what happens when one thumps on a nest. Giant soldiers come swarming

out to defend the colony. I move more gently in pursuit of the frog.

He, or she, eventually proves a perfect model. In quick succession I take photos of the frog posed

on dead leaves, on a recently detached green leaf, and finally on a log.

Blue jeans—also known as strawberry dart—frogs are exquisite jewels. The body is scarlet while

the legs are a lovely blue color. Hence the common name of blue jeans dart frog. Males mate

with females at a spot of the male’s choosing. The female lays 3-5 eggs, which the male

fertilizes. He then tends them until they hatch. Blue jeans dart frog males are highly solicitous of

their brood. They will eat infertile or diseased eggs and moisten fertile eggs with bladder water if

they become too dry. Females return to the nest site as the tadpoles hatch and accept several of

these little wrigglers on their back. They then climb rainforest trees, stopping off at various small

“ponds” along the way. These are most often bromeliad “tanks,” the pools of water that collect in

the center of the leaves, but have even included soda cans. There isn’t enough food in this tiny

aquarium to keep the tadpole alive, but Mom has this base covered too. She lays several infertile

eggs in the pool and the young tadpole eats these. Every few days, until the tadpole

metamorphoses, the female will make the arduous journey to the tadpole and deposit more eggs.

I can’t believe my luck, my first day at La Selva and I’ve already completed my major

photographic task. But there is still much more to find and see with only a few days left to find it

and see it. I head back to the complex. I suddenly detect an unpleasant odor. I raise an arm and

take a tentative sniff of my arm pit. All I can smell is a faint lingering soap smell. Relieved it

isn’t me, I keep walking as the odor intensifies. Suddenly a group (sounder?) of peccaries

charges across the trail. There are several dozen of them complete with incredibly cute, striped,

youngsters. Despite having changed to the 100-400mm zoom they are too far away for good

photos and they are gone in a few seconds. I arrive back too late for lunch so head home for

potato chips, a beer and a nap. The latter requires clearing my untidy bed.

That night I head into the forest. Once again it is too dry for the frogs to be out but I search

diligently anyway and detect glowing red coals, enormous eye shine from a big frog. I move

closer but the frog is spooked and jumps away before I can get good shots. I’m pretty sure it is

the smoky jungle frog (Leptodactylus pentadactylus). Once I reach the lab complex I retrace my

steps. As I approach the frog position I slow down. Frogs are often fairly territorial and will

frequently return to a favored hunting spot. I’m in luck. Froggy is back in residence. I turn down

the intensity of my headlamp and this time the frog allows a couple of photographs. When I

check my LCD screen the frog’s bloodshot eyes glower back at me. The eye shine is

unbelievable. But at least I confirm the identity as the smoky jungle frog.

The next day is more of the same. A foray into the forest after breakfast, and along the way I stop

to photograph a bullet ant (Paraponera clavata). It’s a really handsome animal, perhaps an inch

long and surprisingly obliging. It stays still just long enough for a couple of photographs. Bullet

ants get their common name from the severity of their sting which is reputed to feel like being hit

by a bullet. An entomologist, Justin O. Schmidt, has written several papers that rank the severity

of various hymenopteran (ants, bees and wasps) stings. This, the “Schmidt Sting Index” ranks

the bullet ant as the most severe. He describes the sting thusly, “Pure, intense, brilliant pain. Like

fire-walking over flaming charcoal with a 3-inch rusty nail in your heel.” I stay away from being

stung—for now.

There are millipedes here, Nyssodesmus python, lots of them. Curiously they are often in pairs

with one riding on top of the other. This is a behavioural mechanism to prevent the female from

mating with other males. It’s kind of hard to do this when you have another millipede on your

back. Nothing seems to predate these guys, at least I never saw it happen. It turns out they have

powerful chemical defenses; a mixture of benzaldehyde and cyanide.

I meet a fellow biologist—Kellie Kuhn. She’s working on her doctoral thesis investigating

plant/ant interactions. She’s obviously busy and eager to complete her observations but takes the

time to explain what she is attempting to achieve at La Selva. Kellie is a real field biologist with

little time for lab-bound researchers (of course good biologists do both—but some lab biologists

look down on field biologists—a bit like the Pope pontificating about pre-marital sex). I share

with her the research project of a student I have encountered earlier (impact of heavy metals on

frog tadpoles). It seemed to both of us that there was absolutely no need to come to Costa Rica to

do this. She’s suspicious of me too, having seen too many nature photographers who bulldoze

their way around with little regard for the environment or their subjects. It looks as if I’m on

probation until I prove that I’m one of the good guys. As I amble back to the research station I

take high def video of a huge forest tree.

Later we chat over lunch and Kellie introduces me to a fellow myrmecologist, Hannah Larson,

and offers to preserve my amblypygid from Caves Branch in something more suitable than the

plastic baggie and single malt scotch that it is currently in. Hannah invites me to visit a bullet ant

nest with her.

During the afternoon the only thing stirring is a large ground lizard that looks like a skink to me.

It pounces on a huge grasshopper, efficiently stripping off the rear jumping legs before biting it

into submission.

I arrive at the dining hall too late for dinner so head into Puerto Vallejo where I order a pizza.

The thing is way too big to scoff in one sitting, so I ask for it to be wrapped in aluminum foil,

and pop it into the cooler when I get home. Before I sleep I make an internet booking at Las

Cruces, another Organization for Tropical Studies research station in the southwest of the

country. It’s within shouting distance of the Panamanian border, but I am running out of time and

don’t relish an additional border crossing on my own.