September 28, 2023, Costa Rica. I was jolted awake at 5:30 a.m. by a dog barking furiously and digging as if it were trying to get into my tent. Great. I can’t escape these canine assholes—even in remote places. The air was already warming up by six, so I packed up the tent to let it dry and headed for a walk along the beach.

I’d woken up a few times during the night, worried I had set up camp too close to the tide line. I’d found a crab when I pitched the tent, and the waves had sounded particularly fierce. I remembered a supermoon was coming in a few days and wondered if it might bring a king tide. I started picturing myself being washed away in my sleep and wondered whether that would be easier than death by snakebite. The joys of camping in the wild.

I’m skittish about stepping on live critters and still have fast reflexes—even at 5 a.m., pre-coffee. As the fog lifted, the beach revealed a sunny stretch lined with palm trees. It felt like the edge of the world. But always, inevitably, within reach of a dog. Right on cue, a German Shepherd ran toward me. The only footprints I’d seen in the sand had been dog prints. I decided not to tempt fate.

Then I remembered running into Blue MacLeod at the Campbell Scottish Highland Games—what a dear and earnest person he was. I’d been thinking of Miles, a wild ex-boyfriend who once attended a ritual at Clan of Oak Moon, invited by Blue and Sherry. Right then, I looked up and saw a pair of scarlet macaws flying just above the palms, heading down the coast. “Hi Blue,” I thought. Like the macaws, you were a good and loyal companion. He died of esophageal cancer in 2015.

Back at the car, another dog barked loudly and scared me, but somehow I sensed he was friendly. He jumped on me a few times, claws out, until I firmly said bajo. I suspected his owners had sicced him on me. They were the only people around, and someone had piled sand on my windshield and car roof—probably their passive-aggressive way of saying, “Don’t park here,” even though it was a public road. It took forever to clean off, wasting precious drinking water, and I still couldn’t get it all. I eventually asked for help at a gas station in Puerto Jiménez.

That seemed like a good cue to turn back. I stopped at a river crossing to rinse off myself and the car. Then I visited the Osa Campus to ask for drinking water. A woman in the front house kindly obliged and asked where I’d spent the night. I told her I had camped and had wanted to stay there, but it was too expensive. She agreed. When I suggested maybe it was for a good cause, she didn’t seem convinced. That struck me—it had felt a bit money-grabby when I had visited before. She said they often saw monkeys and other wildlife. I liked her; she wore a shirt that read “Donuts for Breakfast.” I didn’t get the joke until she told me she was the cook.

Later, I met the administrator of the other Osa office in Puerto Jiménez, which apparently has separate funding. He said they’re struggling to stay afloat. Their office focuses on community partnerships and marine biology—both essential to the Osa mission. It seemed like such a shame.

I stopped in Matapalo, a place Vanessa had recommended, hoping to catch the artisanal market run by a German woman on Fridays—only to realize it was Wednesday. A motorcyclist with a surfboard sidecar pointed me toward Playa Pan Dulce. Clever setup. The beach was peaceful at low tide, and I wandered through adjacent coves lined with coconut and almond trees—favorites of scarlet macaws and toucans. Food trees, of course.

I wandered onto a property I thought was a hotel to ask about rates. No one was there, but I considered how easy it would be to settle in. Of course, cameras made it clear this was not encouraged. I wanted to stay longer, but it was hot and I needed to move on.

Back in Puerto Jiménez, Milton—the guy who’d tried to sell me coconut water on my last visit—found me again. How did he know I was back? He had the instincts of an ant, showing up within minutes. Last time I had no cash, but this time I gave in. For less than a dollar, I got a coconut with flesh scooped out—two for one. He told me he lived a couple kilometers outside town and had animals—cats, dogs, pigs—and that travelers had stayed there in the past. I mentioned I’d been camping and might be interested. He was eager to host me, but his water wasn’t working, and I felt the need to keep going. I made a mental note to ask him again next time.

I was craving a cappuccino and tried Helen’s Café, but the espresso was bad and the milk worse. A woman in broken English told me to try a spot near the airport. I remembered a resort by the airport and decided to give it a shot: Botanika Osa Peninsula, Curio Collection by Hilton.

Very swanky. The receptionist said I might have to pay to enter, but after checking, they let me go in and out freely. I walked past a warning sign with illustrations of snakes, crocodiles, jaguars, and monkeys. “Lucky if you see any of those,” I thought. The bar overlooked an infinity pool facing the jungle and river—appropriate for the area, though no ocean view. My cappuccino was excellent—worth every bit of the $6.10. I spoke with Shawn on the phone, then headed to Finca Kobo for a chocolate tour, but they were closed. Low season strikes again.

I drove down to Playa Blanca to see what the fuss was about. It was a quiet cove with mangroves and modest beachside lodging. I passed four people bobbing in the ocean and later saw their colorful van—Los Mexi viajo del mundo—painted with monkeys, toucans, and tapirs. I regretted not asking about their trip. They gave me the idea to drive my own car through Central America.

I stopped at Soda Esmeralda and ordered a casado de pollo con ajo. While I ate, five SINAC park rangers arrived. One carried a gun. I asked about their work—they said they enjoyed it. I wondered if, like U.S. park rangers, they were more enforcement than conservation. The fresh fruit drink—guayabana, papaya, mamón—was delicious.

Then I checked out El Chantal, listed as a good wild camping spot. It was deserted. Only a massive iguana stood guard in the lot. I considered staying, but didn’t want to risk an unexpected encounter—reptilian or human—so I returned to Playa Blanca.

I went for my first ocean swim since arriving on the Osa. I love swimming, but many beaches have rough surf. Here it was calm. I stayed in the water for about 40 minutes until a storm rolled across the bay, dumping rain, thunder, and lightning. When it got too wild, I got out, sat in the car, and waited for the rain to stop so I could pitch my tent. An official-looking truck kept circling, and I wondered if wild camping here was illegal. But the van folks were clearly staying, so I decided to follow their lead. No one bothered me, and I slept soundly.

September 29. I was woken at 5:45 a.m., groggy but grateful for the breeze. Everything was damp from the storm, so I laid out my gear on the beach to dry and took photos of a fisherman in the morning light. I met an older man named Rafael and we ended up talking for two hours while walking along the coast.

He told me about growing up in Puerto Jiménez, moving to Golfito to work for United Fruit, then to Limón. He said United Fruit had treated workers well, even building nice homes with what he described as “American architecture.” Maybe like the ones built for canal workers in Panama City.

He and his wife had recently come from Limón after he nearly died of COVID. They were caretaking a shack in Playa Blanca for a few months. We sat outside, talking about environmental degradation. He was surprised to hear Panama might be worse off than Costa Rica. As a child, he remembered flocks of 50 scarlet macaws in Puerto Jiménez.

He has no phone, no social media. He lamented how lost people seem in their screens and stressed the need to teach young people environmental stewardship early on. He and his wife hope to sell their house in Limón and buy land in Playa Blanca to build a small home. If not, they’ll return to Limón in December. I said maybe we’d meet again and headed off.

On the way to Soda Esmeralda, I saw a sign advertising cappuccinos and stopped. There I met Jose Eduardo, co-owner of Pastelería Dey. It was only 9:30 and they didn’t open until noon, but he graciously made me a cappuccino. It was very good. I ended up buying a slice of maracuyá cheesecake and cake, and we talked for over an hour. He told me about his nearby finca, the rustic cabanas he’s building, and the 40-some titi monkeys that climb a tree near his house every night. I would’ve loved to see that. I wished I’d met him earlier—his place sounded perfect.

His land borders Corcovado Park, and many animals leave the park to eat and sleep. He described seeing tapirs, scarlet macaws, toucans. He takes his boat out to the nearby islands and grew up just a kilometer from the bakery. His wife’s cakes were stunning—moist and artistic, a rarity in this part of the world.

From there I returned to Soda Esmeralda and had another casado de pollo. Then I headed toward Kukken Lodge, curious after passing it earlier. I wanted to scope out nature lodges, but was wary of remote places—bad dogs or bad vibes. The road down to the lodge was at a near-60° angle, only doable with four-wheel drive. I descended to sea level, parked, and within a minute met the owner, a warm, twinkly-eyed man from Málaga, Spain. He invited me to visit Andalusia—already on my bucket list.

He was setting up a TV in the open-air lounge to watch the Barcelona-Madrid match (rooting against Barcelona). I ordered a cappuccino to be polite—it was undrinkable. I poured it into the bushes. Five dollars down the drain.

I asked if I could walk the property. He said of course. I explored the lookout, chicken coop, trails, and admired the expanse of land. According to Google Maps, it’s part of a wildlife reserve. I thanked him for his hospitality and left. Rooms were $250 a night—well above my budget. I guess I got off easy with the $5 coffee.