In late January of 2006, I had just begun living in Costa Rica for the first time. I was part of a study abroad program, and as part of that program, on the second day the directors had packed our group into a private bus heading to a highland region of the country called Savegre. While other students socialized between themselves, my face was plastered to the window. The scenery was unbelievable. The mountains were soaked in vibrant greenery, and as our bus ascended the narrow and uneven roads (Costa Rica has some infamy for its rough infrastructure), they were increasingly ringed with clouds. Eventually, we too passed through a cloud. I could not believe it. We had driven through a cloud. I was surrounded by rainforest. It all seemed too serene.
The program director's name was Zaida, and halfway through the three or so hour trip stood at the front of the bus to speak. She told us a little about Savegre, how it was a cloud forest that had only been settled fifty or so years before, and that there were many birds there. Although it was only my second day in Costa Rica, I knew from my research that the cloud forest was the home of the resplendent quetzal. I immediately asked Zaida if there were any in Savegre.
"Yes," she said. "I believe so, but I've never seen one. You'll need a lot of luck, since we'll only be there for three days, but it is possible." Zaida then asked me how I knew about the bird. I, of course, had brought the field guide I'd bought for my stay, the legendary Stiles and Skutch. I flipped to Plate 26, the trogons and jacamars, and showed Zaida. She smiled and held it up for the entire bus to see.
The resplendent quetzal is itself a trogon, but it's beauty, especially of the male, far exceeds that of each member of an already remarkably attractive family of birds. The majority of its plumage is a crisp, glittering green, including the head, which sports a spiky mohawk, most of the wings, and tail feathers, except for the lower retrices (tail feathers visible only from the front), which are white. The lower breast is a deep maroon that shades to a bright crimson on the belly. I read later that there's a legend that after a battle between Mayan warriors and conquistadors, the quetzals emerged from the forest and wept over the bodies of the fallen Mayans, forever soaking up the blood.
The most noteworthy of its physical features are the four tail coverts that extend into long, wispy streamers. They can reach the length of up to 11 inches, and place the bird in a realm of beauty that surpasses all its peers. It's widely regarded as the most beautiful bird in the western hemisphere, and perhaps the world.
When we arrived at Savegre, we ate a lunch of Costa Rica's ubiquitous gallo pinto, which is essentially just rice and beans. Some of the students teased Zaida about how they planned to spend the rest of their time in the hotel drinking, and they were only partially joking. After the meal, we had some free time, which I chose to spend hiking around the area. It was very forested, damp, and slightly cold, as is unexpectedly the case in the montane areas of tropical America.
Another member of the group, whose name was Ezra, joined me, and we spent some time talking and walking around the premises. The abundant hummingbirds were gorgeous and exciting to watch as they sped by. I identified several, including mountain-gems, violet-ears, and sabrewings. The names of hummingbirds are almost as much a thrill as they are. There were also flame-colored tanagers, which do justice to their namesake, and healthy flocks of shrieking barred parakeets.
We had walked very slowly through the adjacent forest, which is often my habit, as I become easily engaged by my surroundings and often make little forward progress along a trail. We turned around when we realized it was nearly time for us to meet again with the entire group.
We turned a bend as we approached the hotel, and like a bolt of lightning, my arm shot up and pointed ahead of us. A resplendent quetzal. I knew it from the very moment I saw it. It remained completely still, perched on the bough of a large tree, and blended in exceedingly well with its surroundings, despite its bright red belly. But for some reason, it jumped out at me from far away, and I saw it as clearly as a rose in a bed of daffodils. I should have known then, right at that moment, that the forests of the neotropics were eager to disclose some of their closely guarded secrets to me.
After marveling for some time at the beauty of this remarkable creature, which remained perfectly still as we observed it from a respectful distance, we returned to the hotel. As I approached Zaida, she made eye contact with me, and I blurted out, "I saw one! I saw a quetzal!" She laughed and smiled. She thought I was one of the jokers. Slowly, her face twisted into a stare of disbelief. I asked her then, "Would you like to go see him?"
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Place Entry 4
As I approach my faithful chair, always waiting for my beside the pond, I notice that the snow is of a far different quality that it was last week. It's stiff and icy, and breaks off in chunks now. It's also dirtier and has streaks of gray in it. The last snowfall has not come for a few days, although there is still plenty of it because Pittsburgh received so much. No one else has made their way to my chair, I can tell, since the only other footsteps appear to be the rounded and not partially filled in ones I had made a week ago. I'm starting to feel some ownership of the chair, and even the pond, and I'm amused by this notion, since it's rather ridiculous considering that not only does it obviously not belong to me but because of the sheer magnitude of people that pass close to it everyday.
It's late in the afternoon, and not as cold as it was last week. Unfortunately, I'm wearing a few layers less clothing because I knew it wouldn't be as cold, and because of that poor decision actually feel colder.
The crows are, as almost always seems to be the case, flying overhead in groups of 5 or 7 and sometimes larger groups of up to 30. There are no other animals, even birds, anywhere near. No turkeys or doves. No sparrows, not even house sparrows. I've been seeing several white-throated flitting among the house sparrows recently, and I prefer their song.
There are no small charismatic mammals like squirrels or bunnies, the latter of which I was surprised to see a completely eviscerated individual on Woodland Road close to Wilkins just the other day. A squirrel had been near the carcass and repeatedly uttered a prolonged squeak that, to my ears, actually sounded like a lament. It seemed rather strange behavior, although I'm aware this is a terrible projection of human values, and I couldn't help but wonder to what if any degree these two different species were capable and inclined to mourn for each other.
But by the pond today, there is nothing, besides the steady passage of murders above. The pond is still frozen except for the area immediately around the fountain, although the ice is no longer covered in a beautiful layer of white snow. Now, it is gray, dirty, and uninviting. There are no fish, neither dead or alive, to be reported this week either.
It seems strange, this blatant deficiency of life. Since it's late afternoon, a time of day nearly as productive as the morning for wildlife viewing, I'm surprised by the absence. My other visits have been much more lively and social, since a healthy degree of creatures had often passed by and saluted me. The colors of everything, the trees, snow, sky, are subdued and grimy. It's a rather depressing scene.
The only flurry of activity to report is what appears to be the complete troop of on-campus MFA professors suddenly emerging from Mellon Hall to my left. There must have been a meeting. I begin to wonder about Mellon Hall, and remember that it had been my intention of researching some of its historical significance to Chatham. I've recently made Dr. Lenz's acquaintance, so perhaps I can ask him for some guidance and insight before my next entry.
It's late in the afternoon, and not as cold as it was last week. Unfortunately, I'm wearing a few layers less clothing because I knew it wouldn't be as cold, and because of that poor decision actually feel colder.
The crows are, as almost always seems to be the case, flying overhead in groups of 5 or 7 and sometimes larger groups of up to 30. There are no other animals, even birds, anywhere near. No turkeys or doves. No sparrows, not even house sparrows. I've been seeing several white-throated flitting among the house sparrows recently, and I prefer their song.
There are no small charismatic mammals like squirrels or bunnies, the latter of which I was surprised to see a completely eviscerated individual on Woodland Road close to Wilkins just the other day. A squirrel had been near the carcass and repeatedly uttered a prolonged squeak that, to my ears, actually sounded like a lament. It seemed rather strange behavior, although I'm aware this is a terrible projection of human values, and I couldn't help but wonder to what if any degree these two different species were capable and inclined to mourn for each other.
But by the pond today, there is nothing, besides the steady passage of murders above. The pond is still frozen except for the area immediately around the fountain, although the ice is no longer covered in a beautiful layer of white snow. Now, it is gray, dirty, and uninviting. There are no fish, neither dead or alive, to be reported this week either.
It seems strange, this blatant deficiency of life. Since it's late afternoon, a time of day nearly as productive as the morning for wildlife viewing, I'm surprised by the absence. My other visits have been much more lively and social, since a healthy degree of creatures had often passed by and saluted me. The colors of everything, the trees, snow, sky, are subdued and grimy. It's a rather depressing scene.
The only flurry of activity to report is what appears to be the complete troop of on-campus MFA professors suddenly emerging from Mellon Hall to my left. There must have been a meeting. I begin to wonder about Mellon Hall, and remember that it had been my intention of researching some of its historical significance to Chatham. I've recently made Dr. Lenz's acquaintance, so perhaps I can ask him for some guidance and insight before my next entry.
Prompt Entry 3
On one rainforest excursion, I had set up my tent and slept adjacently to a biological field station in a very pristine swathe of lowland jungle known as Corcovado. The night was very humid, and I slept only in a thin pair of shorts. There were many sounds in the jungle night, but one grows accustomed to them anyway and eventually I fell asleep. I awoke sometime later to the sound of the most horrific shrieks. They were not quite human, but clearly belonged to animal being killed in the night. I felt as if electricity had surged through my body. I was suddenly wide awake, and I needed to investigate the screams.
I strapped on my teva sandals, and slipped out of my tent. Although my boots would have been a safer option, considering there are some venomous snakes like the fer-de-lance and bushmaster that are more active at night in those areas, and feet are particularly vulnerable to them, I was in such a hurry to investigate that I only had time for the tevas.
I was practically naked, robed in only my thin blue shorts and sandals, plus my flashlight, and like that I set out on a trail I had explored earlier in the day that seemed closest to where the screams had come from, which had by now ceased. I suspected that they belonged to some primate, four different species of which occurred there, and were quite common. No doubt the aggressor was some jungle cat, of which there were also many present.
There was little or no moon, and of course no artificial light, so the night was almost impenetrable. The way my flashlight, which was quite powerful (I'd brought it for these occasions), only illuminated a small area further magnified the grandness of the forest. Death was fresh in the air. Everything was hot and humid, and in truth I was quite exposed to an environment that, while not being directly hostile, is not without its dangers, especially in the night.
I searched in the canopy with the light, hoping to illuminate some foreign eyes that belonged to the killer. I was fairly certain I stood near the spot of the monkey's death. The trees were several stories tall, as one might expect, and loomed over me. They were not menacing, but they were imposing figures.
Not seeing anything, I decided my final hope was to conceal myself in the darkness, and perhaps the cat would be lured into exposing itself. I turned off the light. It was incredible how quickly the darkness swept over and all around me, completely enveloping everything. It evoked the strongest sense of insignificance. I couldn't see anything at all, and the little bit of hum and distant noises I could hear only added to the intensity of the moment.
I consider myself a fairly intrepid visitor of the forests, but it was impossible to not feel some fear in that moment. There is something incredibly unnerving about the sensation of one's eyes being wide open and seeing only black. It was primal human fear, and although I was not overcome by it, I felt it keenly. It was exposure. It was vulnerability. It was biology. Truly, it was genetic memory.
I tried my hardest to count to ten before turning the light back on and searching again, but I always fell short the few times I tried it. The darkness was too much, too debilitating.
I did not see the cat, did not see anything at all, but the experience ranks highly among my most cherished rainforest memories. After much contemplation, I've come to understand that the reason for that is because of the magnitude of my exposure, my vulnerability, which was perhaps never higher in a wild place. To some degree, my actions were a little reckless, although I do not think terribly so.
By exposing myself, I achieved an incredible degree of intimacy with a location I'm terribly enamored of. Just like love, it seems vulnerability is a prerequisite to any sort of real connection to a place.
I strapped on my teva sandals, and slipped out of my tent. Although my boots would have been a safer option, considering there are some venomous snakes like the fer-de-lance and bushmaster that are more active at night in those areas, and feet are particularly vulnerable to them, I was in such a hurry to investigate that I only had time for the tevas.
I was practically naked, robed in only my thin blue shorts and sandals, plus my flashlight, and like that I set out on a trail I had explored earlier in the day that seemed closest to where the screams had come from, which had by now ceased. I suspected that they belonged to some primate, four different species of which occurred there, and were quite common. No doubt the aggressor was some jungle cat, of which there were also many present.
There was little or no moon, and of course no artificial light, so the night was almost impenetrable. The way my flashlight, which was quite powerful (I'd brought it for these occasions), only illuminated a small area further magnified the grandness of the forest. Death was fresh in the air. Everything was hot and humid, and in truth I was quite exposed to an environment that, while not being directly hostile, is not without its dangers, especially in the night.
I searched in the canopy with the light, hoping to illuminate some foreign eyes that belonged to the killer. I was fairly certain I stood near the spot of the monkey's death. The trees were several stories tall, as one might expect, and loomed over me. They were not menacing, but they were imposing figures.
Not seeing anything, I decided my final hope was to conceal myself in the darkness, and perhaps the cat would be lured into exposing itself. I turned off the light. It was incredible how quickly the darkness swept over and all around me, completely enveloping everything. It evoked the strongest sense of insignificance. I couldn't see anything at all, and the little bit of hum and distant noises I could hear only added to the intensity of the moment.
I consider myself a fairly intrepid visitor of the forests, but it was impossible to not feel some fear in that moment. There is something incredibly unnerving about the sensation of one's eyes being wide open and seeing only black. It was primal human fear, and although I was not overcome by it, I felt it keenly. It was exposure. It was vulnerability. It was biology. Truly, it was genetic memory.
I tried my hardest to count to ten before turning the light back on and searching again, but I always fell short the few times I tried it. The darkness was too much, too debilitating.
I did not see the cat, did not see anything at all, but the experience ranks highly among my most cherished rainforest memories. After much contemplation, I've come to understand that the reason for that is because of the magnitude of my exposure, my vulnerability, which was perhaps never higher in a wild place. To some degree, my actions were a little reckless, although I do not think terribly so.
By exposing myself, I achieved an incredible degree of intimacy with a location I'm terribly enamored of. Just like love, it seems vulnerability is a prerequisite to any sort of real connection to a place.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Place Entry 3
Before I could begin any deep ruminations or piercing observations, my first task was to wipe off the wooden lawn chair that rests under the oak tree by the pond of the foot of snow on the seat. Beneath the few inches of snow delicately resting on its arms, there was also a fairly thick crust of ice. After brushing off some of the snow and nestling my feet in front of the chair, I sat down to discover my two layers of pants would not resist absorbing some of the frozen moisture beneath me.
The snow had been a very polarizing force these last few weeks, pun intended. After the initial snowfall, many people emerged and frolicked in the bountiful powder, despite the great inconvenience of buried cars and halted bus service. But the swollen ranks of those who loudly professed their love for snow just days before had been gradually eroded by the inevitable attrition of continued snowfall, until their numbers had been whittled to a beleaguered minority.
I still counted myself among them, but I'll admit it was quite cold that late afternoon. The sky was just one shade lighter than the gray color of the snow that was absolutely everywhere. I believe I saw Sheryl St. Germain walk out of the Lindsey House, but she did not turn to face me and I cannot be sure. I did note that she walked quite coolly, and so perhaps she had not yet switched allegiance as well. Three mourning doves were perched above me in the large branches of the oak that craned over me, their feathers puffed up in their own attempt to block the cold. To my right, there were two more doves in a smaller tree. A steady stream of about a dozen or so crows flew overhead every minute, approaching from behind me and then gliding away.
To anyone hoping for a new dispatch concerning the pond fish saga, I am sad to report that I cannot provide an update this week. The pond is almost entirely frozen solid, except for a small area by the fountain, and is completed blanketed by a layer of snow. It is impossible to see what lies beneath.
The good news is that a new saga can now begin, for as I sat in the cold, I observed a large rustle of feathers across the way and behind Dilworth Hall. A hawk, I thought to myself, until I noticed the large avian form hop through the boughs in a manner completely unlike a raptor. In fact, it moved in much the way I have observed cracids like guans and chachalacas move through the rainforest canopy in warmer climates. It could not have been a cracid because their family is not represented in Pennsylvania, and so I knew what it was. As I watched, another of its race made itself visible in a slightly lower section of the tree canopy, hopping about the large branches in a similar manner.
As the night approached and the dim light grew even fainter, a steady stream of mourning doves began perching in the trees that surrounded me, preparing for the coming night, until there were dozens of them all around. But my eyes remained locked on the two large fowl that were still faintly visible.
Two Wild Turkeys.
The snow had been a very polarizing force these last few weeks, pun intended. After the initial snowfall, many people emerged and frolicked in the bountiful powder, despite the great inconvenience of buried cars and halted bus service. But the swollen ranks of those who loudly professed their love for snow just days before had been gradually eroded by the inevitable attrition of continued snowfall, until their numbers had been whittled to a beleaguered minority.
I still counted myself among them, but I'll admit it was quite cold that late afternoon. The sky was just one shade lighter than the gray color of the snow that was absolutely everywhere. I believe I saw Sheryl St. Germain walk out of the Lindsey House, but she did not turn to face me and I cannot be sure. I did note that she walked quite coolly, and so perhaps she had not yet switched allegiance as well. Three mourning doves were perched above me in the large branches of the oak that craned over me, their feathers puffed up in their own attempt to block the cold. To my right, there were two more doves in a smaller tree. A steady stream of about a dozen or so crows flew overhead every minute, approaching from behind me and then gliding away.
To anyone hoping for a new dispatch concerning the pond fish saga, I am sad to report that I cannot provide an update this week. The pond is almost entirely frozen solid, except for a small area by the fountain, and is completed blanketed by a layer of snow. It is impossible to see what lies beneath.
The good news is that a new saga can now begin, for as I sat in the cold, I observed a large rustle of feathers across the way and behind Dilworth Hall. A hawk, I thought to myself, until I noticed the large avian form hop through the boughs in a manner completely unlike a raptor. In fact, it moved in much the way I have observed cracids like guans and chachalacas move through the rainforest canopy in warmer climates. It could not have been a cracid because their family is not represented in Pennsylvania, and so I knew what it was. As I watched, another of its race made itself visible in a slightly lower section of the tree canopy, hopping about the large branches in a similar manner.
As the night approached and the dim light grew even fainter, a steady stream of mourning doves began perching in the trees that surrounded me, preparing for the coming night, until there were dozens of them all around. But my eyes remained locked on the two large fowl that were still faintly visible.
Two Wild Turkeys.
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