by Levison Wood
Sometime before dawn, my fitful sleep was interrupted by the rumble of thunder and the incessant flashes of lightning. I could hear the horses neighing and snorting, terrified by the storm. Suddenly I heard an almighty crack and the whole sky lit up. It was like being in the middle of an explosion. The lightning must have struck a nearby tree, as I could smell the stench of burning and feel the electricity still in the air. As if my ears weren’t ringing enough, the dank atmosphere was filled with the buzzing of mosquitoes whining around my head. It made me nervous about what other bugs and creepies might be crawling around beneath me. I wished I’d not been lazy and had bothered to string up my hammock. What if there were snakes around? What was I thinking? Of course there were snakes around!
I tossed and turned to the sound of Alberto’s contented snores, and the endless torrential downpour. I could make out a shadow of some sort, not too far away, of what must be a deer, and then a pair of eyes. Of a jaguar, perhaps? I wished that dawn would come faster, so that we could get going and I wouldn’t be at the mercy of Costa Rica’s wildlife.
We woke up at first light, but still tired. I resolved to be more patient with the horses; maybe they needed a few days to get used to us and they’d probably had a worse night than us in fairness. The ranger came back and helped us to load them up, securing the bags and fastening the ropes so as to avoid the previous day’s struggles. We set off along the muddy track and for half an hour I was feeling vaguely optimistic.
But soon enough Pancho was playing up again. He kicked and snorted and refused to move.
‘Walk, you pelaná, piece of shit,’ Alberto screamed at the animal. He was at his wits’ end, and to be fair, so was I. I’d blown an enormous chunk of money, almost two thousand dollars, on these horses and they had reduced us to covering less than ten miles a day.
‘Lev, this is a complete joke.’ I turned around to see Alberto attempting to feed Pegasus. ‘He just won’t eat. We have to get rid of them.’
I was beginning to agree. The novelty had worn off after only four days. The animals were refusing to cross rivers, bucking and rearing every time we tried to lead them through water, of which there was increasingly more, the higher we got into the hills.
That night we found a little hotel where we could stay and feed the horses properly and give them some shelter. Perhaps they were just tired? The following day we started to saddle up early, hoping that we could cover some ground. We left the hotel heading south, but we had gone no further than two hundred metres when Catherwood started to have a mega-fit, shying and thundering across the road. He kicked out, trying to hit Stephens, and ended up booting my rather expensive Leica camera in the process. It was the final straw.
‘Alberto!’ I yelled, ‘Get Stephens. Let’s take these bloody creatures back.’
I led a whinnying Catherwood back in the direction we had come. As well as having wasted more dollars than I cared to think about, the horses had left us woefully behind schedule. Luckily, the owner of the hotel agreed to buy the beasts. Unluckily for us, we got less than a third of the money back that we’d paid for them, although to be fair, she didn’t charge us for lunch.
Costa Rica is home to five per cent of the world’s biodiversity. To all intents and purposes, this stretch of our walk should have been paradise on earth. But instead, for days and days, we would start walking just as the heavens opened, trudging past endless banana plantations on the muddy hillsides. No views, no people, and constant pelting rain.
One day we approached Arenal volcano, supposedly one of Costa Rica’s most spectacular sights, but we got there to discover a complete white out – there was nothing but fog and clouds to be seen. We were cold, wet and miserable – and pretty tired of walking. The reality of walking in the rainy season had finally caught up with us. Boredom was setting in as well. With nothing to look at, there was little to distract us from the repetitive grim slog of putting one foot in front of the other. It reminded me of my time in the Army slogging across the Brecon Beacons and the thought sent a shiver down my spine.
The fields around us had turned into filthy brown ponds, and raindrops dripped down the back of my neck. The more it rained, the heavier our packs became. What on earth am I doing, I thought to myself. I swore I’d never do a walking expedition again after the Nile and the Himalayas, and yet here I was getting cold, wet and miserable, when I could have been at home with my feet up in front of the fire.
I’d spent so much time away the past three years that people had stopped inviting me to weddings and birthdays. My social life had turned to shit and I couldn’t manage to hold down a girlfriend for more than a few months without them realising what they’d let themselves in for. And worse still, I was being thoroughly selfish to my family and loved ones; never committing to anything or anyone, because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to confirm that I’d be there for them. It was a depressing thought and the more I walked, the more I wanted to pack it all in and get a normal, nice nine-to-five job.
Mosquitoes became a feature of most nights, and enormous spiders a big part of our days. We’d stay in tiny lodges with limited electricity, which meant that at any point after dusk we could be plunged into darkness. One evening, a venomous coral snake got into the toilet while Alberto was answering the call of nature. Though they’re small, their venom is lethal, and sends a powerful poison round your nervous system that paralyses the breathing muscles. If he hadn’t been wearing his head torch, he might never have seen the slithering little beast and might have spent his final moments in agony on a public latrine. Luckily, he had a very narrow escape.
The road weaved south and we passed briefly through the capital of San José, where we were able to have a last-minute reprieve before tackling Cerro Chirripó and the southern mountains. After two days of confinement to a hotel, due to the heavy rain and storms, we set off, determined not to let the weather and conditions beat us.
The following morning we met up with Mari, a local young guide. We were heading along a stretch of road that weaved its way south through the cloud forest and then into Chirripó National Park, in order to summit Costa Rica’s highest peak. As we ascended, a thick mist was rolling in and the road ahead of us was shrouded in a dense, grey fog. The visibility wasn’t more than twenty metres. Mari was one of Costa Rica’s new breed of young environmentalists. At just twenty-four and as fit as us, she had already explored much of her own country and seemed like a good choice to get us over the mountains.
‘We call this road the road of death,’ said Mari. ‘It’s often like this and the people drive like crazy, so there’s a lot of car crashes around here.’
But we hardly needed to be told. As Mari said this, a car hurtled around the corner behind us, as if by divine example. It overtook the truck that was passing us, despite the ludicrously narrow gap. It was as though the driver couldn’t see the vertical precipice to the left of him. The roads were slippery and muddy from the continuous storms and rainfall and I could imagine a car skidding on a hairpin bend. I’d had my own close shave with death in the Himalayas when my car had lost its brakes and plunged into the jungle. I did not want a repeat of that. Nor did I want to be squashed by an oncoming lorry appearing out of the mist, so the sooner we got up and over these mountains and away from the main roads, the better.
‘It scares me. It worries me a lot,’ said Alberto. ‘One of these guys in these big trailers, they don’t see us and they might just drive on top of us.’ Alberto was right. Walking along these roads was one of the most dangerous things that we do on these sorts of expeditions. People worry about snakes and crocodiles and getting shot at, but the most common cause of death and injury is always going to be road-related.
‘Let’s stop for some food as soon as we can, and get out of the elements. Maybe we can wait for this fog to clear a bit,’ I suggested.
We found a roadside café, which reminded me of the truck stops back home. But it did nothing to calm our nerves. We certainly weren’t going to get any d
istraction or respite from the horrors of the road of death here. The walls were covered in photographs of car crashes – hulks of vehicles wasting away in valley floors, trucks that had collided with trees, cars that had spun off the road – everywhere we looked, crumpled metal adorned the walls, contorted and deathly. It was an eerie place. I dreaded to think how many casualties the photos represented.
Alberto looked anxious. ‘It’s like a scary movie. I really hope that we don’t end up a part of it.’
A truck driver came in for a coffee break, and even though we might have been keen to avoid hearing more stories about the road, we asked him to join us out of politeness.
He told us his name was Jair.
‘There are so many turns,’ he told us, ‘and the weather up here means that it gets very slippery.’
‘Have you ever seen any accidents up here?’ I asked him.
‘Plenty. Many. I have seen dead people. People drive very fast in their cars here. They’re not conscious of what they’re doing. They are trying to get to where they want to reach, but they never get there, because they are driving too fast.’
‘So you’ve never had an accident?’
‘I’m very careful. I take a lot of precautions. That’s what keeps me alive.’
The mist didn’t look like it was about to clear any time soon, so we decided that the best thing to do would be to get off the main road, where there would be less risk of being smashed into by a lorry. A narrow, steep path led us ever upwards in the direction of the country’s highest peak.
The next day we finally reached the montane forest of Chirripó National Park. At almost two hundred square miles, the park is one of Costa Rica’s biggest, highest and most remote jungles. As a result, it’s been protected from development by its sheer inaccessiblity. It is home to miles and miles of trails that weave through more ecological zones than are found in most entire countries.
The ascent through the dense and humid forest was steep and littered with bubbling streams and gushing waterfalls – it reminded me of the Himalayas. Overgrown ferns and tangles of lichen and moss spread onto our path. Crooked, contorted branches jutted out in our way. Above us, oak trees more than thirty metres high towered over the canopy. It was a tough climb, with sections that were a steep scramble up muddy paths. Mari pointed out a poison arrow frog and huge wasps, and green- and-orange bugs that no one could name. The canopy was thick and no breeze permeated the lower layers.
‘I have never heard my heart so loud,’ I heard Alberto gasp behind me. At an altitude of two and a half thousand metres, there’s a hell of a lot less oxygen to breathe, and this was Alberto’s first mountain. Howler monkeys seemed to mock us and our gasping breaths from their high lairs. All the while, toucans with their distinctive kaleidoscopic beaks hopped through the trees; wild chickens scuttled ahead of us, and a dopey-looking sloth seemed to grin like a madman at us from the branches. The whole jungle was laughing at our slow, painful climb. A giant red tarantula was enough to remind me of the presence of hidden beasts lurking on the forest floor. ‘I bet it’s crawling with nasty snakes, too,’ said Alberto, keeping firmly away from the encroaching undergrowth.
The trail forged on. As we climbed higher and passed above three thousand metres, this forest gave way to a bare, windy plateau – a biome known as the Páramo.
‘Two people died on the mountain this year,’ said Mari.
‘Snakes?’ I asked.
‘No, one had a heart attack and the other died from exposure,’ she said.
‘I’m not surprised, its fucking freezing up here,’ shuddered the Mexican.
‘And a few years ago, a scientist came up here on his own to study the wild plants,’ she carried on, ignoring Alberto’s complaints.
‘What happened to him?’ I asked.
‘We’ll never know,’ she said. ‘He just disappeared. All they found was his camera and a hat. Probably killed by a jaguar and finished off by the wild pigs.’
Finally, after ten hours of some of the hardest walking of the expediton, we reached a little dell, sheltered from the wind. In it, across the valley, was a long building. It was the base-camp lodge where we would spend the night. I looked at my watch, it was four p.m. and behind us the sun was setting below the soup of clouds.
Who knew what tomorrow would bring? Somewhere, just a few miles ahead, hidden by the crags, was the summit of Chirripó. But for now, utterly exhausted, we staggered into the lodge and collapsed into the dormitory.
17
Paradise Found
The alarm buzzed and I shuffled awake in my sleeping bag. It was cold and I just wanted to ignore it. It was 2.55 a.m. Alberto’s went off a second later and I knew it was futile. We’d come this far and there was no way we could give up now. A groan came out of Alberto’s bed.
‘Can I stay here?’ he grumbled. ‘This isn’t a civilised time to wake up.’
‘Come on, let’s get up.’ I said it more to motivate myself than him, as I slipped out of bed and into the cold dark air of the dormitory. A draught whipped through the room from an open window down the corridor and I was quick to get my clothes on. Alberto did the same. For the first time on the journey we needed woolly hats and warm jackets.
Mari was already waiting in the entranceway to the lodge, sipping on hot tea.
‘Morning,’ she whispered, as if speaking at full volume this early was a taboo.
‘Good morning,’ we whispered in reply.
We left the lodge and walked out into the pitch of night. There was no moon and yet the sky was ablaze with a billion stars and barely a cloud to disguise them. The Milky Way rose like a vast smudge across the sky, broken only by the jagged silhouette of the black mountains that surrounded us. It reminded me of the cold, clear perfection of the Himalayas.
‘We’re lucky,’ said Alberto. ‘It’s clear.’
‘It’ll take two or three hours to get to the summit,’ said Mari, ‘Just in time for sunrise, as long as there are no problems.’
With Mari staying at the rear, I led with our guides, Ken and Dave, probing the path by torchlight. It was slow going in the darkness. Even with our own torches, each step was perilous as the frosty ground was slippery to walk on, and as we handrailed a cascading river we had to be careful not to slide into the freezing waters.
The path wound through the rough heath, up and down over the glacial moraine and snaking between huge boulders and lonely bushes as it led us up towards a steep ridgeline. The air was thin and cold and with each breath we exhaled a plume of warm steam. Above, a shooting star sliced the heavens in two. It gave me a rare sense of wonder, and it felt for a moment as if we were the only creatures in the world, stepping on this plateau in a land that time forgot. The climb got steeper as we progressed and Alberto started to lag behind.
‘Are you OK?’ I shouted back into the darkness. For a minute it was quiet, so I stood still, waiting. I looked down and on the trail were the frozen paw prints of a large animal – a wolf or a jaguar, perhaps? We weren’t alone after all.
His heavy breathing grew nearer as Alberto’s ghostly figure appeared out of the shadows. ‘This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done,’ he said, grimacing. I shined my torch in his face and his eyes closed. He was obviously struggling with the ascent.
‘Come on, not far to go. Another hour, and look …’ I pointed towards the distant ridge. In the darkness it was impossible to tell exactly how far away it was, but it couldn’t be more than two miles away. ‘There it is. Mount Chirripó.’
He tutted and shook his head. ‘It’s so far away and I can barely breathe. And I’m hungry. Maybe you go ahead and I’ll wait for you here,’ he said.
‘Well, you’re probably not the only one who’s hungry. Trust me, you don’t want to be hanging around here.’ I pointed down to the paw prints of the wolf.
‘Alright, alright, let’s go.’ And with that he steamed off ahead.
As we got closer to the peak, the trail became a series of steep, rocky ledges
and steps cut out of the mountain, but with each forward step there came a little more light. It was blue to begin with, as the earth tilted slowly towards the sun, but it was heralded by the occasional flash of lightning that cracked across the distant jungles of the south.
‘We’ll need to be quick,’ said Mari. ‘The clouds will be coming, I think. We need to get to the top before sunrise.’
So we struggled on, each breath more unforgiving than the last, until we made it to the final rocky climb. By now there was no need for our torches as a glow emerged on the horizon. We were almost there. Another hundred metres away was the invisible summit, and there was just a final scramble over the boulders and crags to get there.
‘Come on, mate, I’m proud of you.’
I patted Alberto on the shoulder. I really was. I couldn’t believe he’d made it this far, and I wasn’t going to let him not make it. With a remarkable grit and determination, he gritted his teeth and grappled his way behind me until the cairn of the summit came into view, and with it a large Costa Rican flag, flapping in the morning wind.
‘Let’s do this together,’ I said. ‘Give me your hand.’
He reached out and I hauled him up the last few steps and there we were, standing on the roof of Central America. The sun was glinting above the horizon; it was a miracle, after weeks of non-stop rain, we’d come to the highest point of the journey in the middle of the rainy season, and we’d been rewarded by a clear morning. Standing there on top of the windswept mountain, I think we were both lost for words.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Alberto, gazing out across the misty valleys. ‘It’s got to be one of the most spectacular views I’ve ever seen.’
