Mission In Action
Justin Featherstone describes his adventures in Costa Rica -
“Urbano wants to know why you always have to come in the wet season,” asked Ronald as we discussed the plans for my expedition three weeks away. Ronald Bottger was organising the in-country planning and logistics for my attempt to cross Costa Rica from the Pacific Ocean to the Caribbean Coast over the period 19 December 2010 to 3 January 2011. The concept had been born from a hazy conversation with Ronald over guaro and coke during a previous trip in 2004. As guaro is a particularly lethal sugar cane run, it seemed like a straight forward idea at the time. Previous transects had been completed but they had used roads and large trails and eaten up the distance by cycling much of the way. My trip would be by foot and kayak and would take a straight line from the Pacific, through the rainforest and up over the Talamanca Mountains, before plunging down to the Rio Pacuare. At this point, I would transfer to a kayak and take the river all the way to the ocean; how hard could it be?
I was serving as an infantry officer until 2007, when I made the decision to leave the Army with a view to concentrating more time on expeditions. However, as the reality of starting a freelance business came home, the Costa Rica concept was pushed to the side and I only thought of it sporadically. However, by the beginning of 2010 I realised that I had made such a significant change to my life for a reason and could always find excuses not to do things; the trip was back on. I e-mailed Ronald in Turrialba and asked him to start the preparations but the timing could not have been worse. Over the years, the damage done to my left ankle after a climbing accident in 1998 had deteriorated despite a series of operations. My consultant had decided the only option remaining was to fuse the offending joint and he would do that in late July. Spending 12 weeks on crutches whilst largely unable to work had left me broke, despondent and barely able to walk the dog. The consultant said I should not attempt any strenuous activity before 2011; there was no option, I would cancel the attempt. As I contemplated my decision, serendipity played its hand and I received an e-mail, explaining I had won the inaugural Berghaus Adventure Challenge competition. Everything had changed. I would go.
The team would be small. Tet Stavely and I would be accompanied by Urbano Chavez and Martin Venegas from Costa Rica. Urbano was a Cabecar Indian friend, who had acted as guide and interpreter for most of my previous trips, and Martin was a farmer who knew many of the Cabecar areas we would pass through. Preparation pushed ahead in earnest on both sides of the Atlantic but the challenges kept coming. As we made a series of changes to the proposed route, I found myself in hospital in November for a routine operation. There were complications and I developed a large haematoma which required emergency surgery the next day. Three weeks before we were due to fly I was at a really low ebb and worried about whether I had the physical robustness to attempt the journey. Now to add to these problems, Ronald was telling me that the heavy rains had led to many trails and rivers becoming impassable and he was not sure whether it would be possible to succeed.
Standing on the sands of the beach at Dominical, on the Pacific Coast, on the 19th of December, these set-backs that had dogged my preparations seemed insignificant. As Tet and I posed for photographs, the sense of excitement for the journey ahead flooded through me and as we began to walk inland, I felt in great shape. The next three days were a straightforward walk along the road to San Isidro and beyond it to the village of San Gerardo, the gateway to the cloud forest and the Talamanca Mountains. I had made the decision to use this route to save time and to avoid a more contrived trail through the cultivated Pacific hinterland. By the afternoon of the 21st, we had taken the 47 kilometres in our stride and at an altitude of 1500 metres were able to look up at the dominating bulk of Cerro Chirripo, at 3800 metres. As the highest peak in the country, this was to be the objective for the next day and the key to gaining the valleys that would lead us to the Caribbean.
I knew there was a problem the moment Ronald came back to the refuge from going to collect our permits to enter the national park. “Justin, they won’t let you through.” Despite having spoken to the Rangers and having obtained the letter they requested from the local Cabecar Cacique, the park authorities had decided that they would not allow us to cross Cerro Chirripo as a point of access to the Caribbean side of the mountains, as it was a biological reserve. Frantic casting about for alternative routes drew a blind and the only potential option would take an additional week to 10 days; time we did not have. However, a chance encounter with Jorge, one of the porters who worked on the peak, delivered an option we had not considered. There was a route the Cabecar used that followed a steep and difficult ridge called the Fila Palmito Morado. Jorge would guide us as far as he could in half a day and then we should be able to follow the trail recently cut by a Cabecar party.
We crept out of the village in a car at three in the morning and drove just 300 metres up a farm track, in order to avoid being spotted by anyone in case they decided this route was closed to us as well. Setting off by torchlight, we began the plodding ascent of the loose and densely forested spur. By now my ankle had begun to flare and every other step sent a shooting pain through my leg but I just kept telling myself that it would all be descent after today; just one day to hang in and get it done. After 6 hours, Jorge said goodbye and trotted off down the hill pointing the rough direction we should take as he went. His kindness to this strange band of 4 people was incredibly touching and pivotal in our ultimate success. Upwards progress was interminable as we spent time hauling ourselves through the thickets of bamboo and vegetation that thrived beneath the canopy, on the constantly slipping mulch that constituted the forest floor. Fleeting glances down from the ridge allowed us the only visible reference point as we continued to climb in silence. Steadily the group pulled up the ridge before we at last broke through to where the forest ended and the tall grasses and dwarf shrubs of the paramo began. At around two o’clock in the afternoon, we stood at the paso de los Indios, the high pass that was the gateway to the Caribbean side of the country. At 3,300 metres, the anticipated view was obscured by the swirling and humid mist. After a few hurried photographs, we began the tramp down the North East side of the col towards the cloud and rainforest below. Thoughts of celebration were dimmed by our empty water bottles and the need to find a source of water and somewhere to camp in the next couple of hours.
Immediately, the rain shadow of the Caribbean side of the country made its mark as we struggled down through sloughs of thick peaty mud, whilst battling through the tangled vegetation that covered the trail in many places. The relentless stumbling through the cloud forested mire took its toll and it was with great relief when we finally stopped at a clearing at around five. A small area had been cleared by Cabecar who used the trail and water was found 20 minutes away. Wearily, the tents and tarp were erected and we gorged on the food cooked by Urbano and Martin. Huddled in a jacket to counter the relatively cool temperature, I looked out over the Chirripo Valley far below and felt that we had cracked the hardest day.
Over the next 3 days we inched down the ridge, before crossing a number of swollen rivers. Often hand over hand we slid barely in-control down the unconsolidated ground and hauled ourselves up the tangled hillsides of the rainforest; on the 8th day we climbed a total of 800 metres to make a 200 metre descent. Finding trails washed away and the various rivers and streams running dangerously high, we took 3 days to cover what a fit and unburdened Cabecar would make in a day. Each day, the relentless rain added to the mud we ploughed through and caused us to have to walk kilometres to find alternative river crossing points while most of the time submerged in the mottled green subterranean light below the canopy high above. At last on Day 9, the open lands of the Sitio Hilda community came in to view and we found ourselves walking though the orchards, cleared from the forest, plucking guavas and sweet lemons from the surrounding trees. Straddling the banks of the thundering white water of the Chirripo River, this small collection of buildings is the centre of the Cabecar community in the area. Intrigued to see us, the local people offered us the school’s kitchen to sleep in and we took the opportunity to wash our clothes in the nearby stream. Sitting on the raised wooden platform of the school, I found that this was the first time that I had found to enjoy the majestic and sweeping panorama of the rainforest and wonder how it might be to live in this place, which was at least 2 days walk from any vehicle trail. Clean, content and reflective, I reminded myself that it was Christmas day and at this moment, there was not a single place where I would rather be.
The next 2 days proved no easier, as we trekked to Chrippo Arriba and then on to Paso Marcos. Although still in the heart of the rainforest, banana plantations became more frequent around the palenques (the traditional thatched rounded huts) of the local Cabecar and by the afternoon of Day 11, most of the forest besides the trail had given way to cultivated land. I was walking very slowly now as my ankle grated with every step and it was in complete silence that we finally slipped in to the sleepy little village of Paso Marcos at nine o’clock at night. There, on the veranda of the local shop, we were greeted by Ronald and his team who had laid out a fantastic meal of chicken curry, rice and coffee. For nearly half an hour, there was little sound as the four of us ate in a cold, dispirited silence. Slowly, as the realisation came that the hardest part of the route was behind us, small, imperceptible elation began to noticeably build across the 4 of us. This was made even more palpable by the knowledge that tomorrow was our first rest day since we set off. As we squelched through the foot deep water that rushed across the field bordering our camp site for that night, it was clear we would succeed. We pitched our tents in an open-sided extension to a dilapidated house and went to sleep having cherished a cold beer brought by Ronald in the resupply. This was the first time that we had been outside of the Cabecar lands and it felt odd to be staying at a location with a vehicle track, street lights and a centralised community.
Our rest day on the 28th of December was passed not moving from the concrete plinth that was our camp site. We read, played cards and I spent much of the time improving my understanding of Cabecar culture and language, with Urbano as my coach. The rain continued and the Pacuare river, only metres away, looked hungry and swollen; my first concerns about the forthcoming kayaking leg began to surface.
We swung our packs on to our backs for the final 2 days’ trek the next morning, if not fully refreshed, feeling stronger and determined. Our final destination would be the put-in on the river, below the village of Pacuare, and we would stop at the Cabecar community in the Peje Valley for the first night. Although we were still surrounded by the rainforest, it was far more fractured by regular settlements and more Hispanic families but we took more time to soak up the environment. We had seen little wildlife over the preceding 2 weeks but now it seemed everywhere, as I was buoyed by the confidence of success. Giant blue morpho butterflies languidly loped through the air, above the ever-present columns of leaf-cutter ants. A terrapin rushed across the track below the circling black vultures. This greater awareness was intoxicating and made up for the disappointment of seeing little other than tapir trails and hearing monkeys crashing through the forest canopy.
As we walked down the first hard-topped road we had seen since the Pacific coast, the village of Pacuare seemed almost non-existent in the downpour that had dogged us all day on our 13th day. As we settled down in an open-sided barn used for community parties, I noticed just how much water was present. As we were cooking dinner that night, Ronald’s minibus hove in to view. “Justin, you have 30 minutes to make a decision; stay or come with me,” was the unexpected greeting. He and Millie then explained a landslide meant the only road back to Turrialba would be closed within the hour and he was not sure when it would be opened again. He added that no-one would be running the Pacuare for at least 2 days as it had risen by nearly 5 metres in places. My immediate reaction was to sit it out but I realised that this was not the best option for the others. A hollowness filled my body as we packed our kit in to the vehicle and started along the road back to Ronald’s house just 45 minutes away.
The next day was New Year’s Eve and a big party was planned. Ronald indicated that there was little chance of getting on the river for at least another day but this had changed by the early evening. “I am putting a rafting trip on tomorrow morning; be ready to go at 0830,” he said as the first beer was cracked. One thing was certain, I would run this section on a raft with Tet and Martin, as I felt that it was simply too pushy for me at this extremely high level; Urbano had left to see his family. Having re-acquainted myself with Guaro, I was relatively subdued when we found ourselves on the banks of the Pacuare gearing up to join the rafting party. I was frustrated that I was not kayaking but I became far happier with my choice as we surged through the 24 kilometres of almost continuous rapids. The river was almost unrecognisable at this level and the testing Class 4+ rapids were a challenge even by raft. All too soon, the take-out at Siquirres came in to view and as the other rafters left, we put up our tents in Ronald’s shed. Waiting for us were the 2 duckies, or small inflatable rafts and my kayak. That evening, we carefully prepared our dry-bagged loads and slept dreaming of the 40 kilometres of river that separated us from the Caribbean Sea.
It was overcast, cool and drizzling as we slipped in to the fast-flowing the next morning. After running the small rapids in the first few kilometres we fell in to an easy pace as we were carried along on the rain-swelled Pacuare. The river cut through patches of wet land, dry forest and hectare upon hectare of banana plantation but still we saw very few people. High grasses and tall, vertical banks meant landing the boats was difficult and it took some time to locate somewhere to find a lunch stop. As the hours crept by, I began to worry about not finding a camp site in this waterlogged land and so we stopped at a farmstead, or finca, at around three. We ate dinner in another downpour, constantly irritated by the numerous ants and mosquitoes and decided that we had probably come around 16 kilometres and so would have another full day tomorrow.
On the final morning the sun blazed overhead and we were all smiling as we knew that we had done it. After an hour we stopped for photographs on the water and chatted as we drifted for a while. Then I noticed that we were rolling up and down and noticed the horizon line. Paddling forward, we rounded the last bend to see the breakers of the Caribbean crashing at the mouth of the river; we had woefully underestimated the distance covered yesterday and had reached the sea. We had done it. 212 kilometres across a continent; 65 kilometres by river and 6,465 metres of ascent. We turned back inland and paddled the last few kilometres to find a boat that would take our elated party to a town with a road and thought only of the cold beer we would have in celebration while we waited.
The worm that ate away at me for not kayaking the Lower Pacuare was sated a few days later when I returned to a slightly calmer river and kayaked it with Urbano and one of his friends. As we hugged each other at the take-out it seemed a fitting conclusion to this challenging journey. 2 friends from 2 different continents united in their love for this diverse and incredible country.
Justin would like to thank Berghaus who made this trip possible and AS Watersports who have always been there over the last 20-odd years.