October 5, 2023, Costa Rica. From the main office, I got Wi-Fi, looked up a good place to eat, and then started walking toward the volcano on a guest path. I had tried going the other way but quickly hit tall grass and worried I might step on a snake. Soon, I found myself surrounded by toucans—finally spotting one, though they’re masters at hiding. After hiking until my lungs begged for mercy, I headed back to my car and drove a few minutes to a waterfall.

The entrance fee was $18, so I skipped it and instead went to a highly recommended breakfast spot. The pancakes tasted like plastic, and the syrup was fake—yuck. I paid quickly and headed to Café ?, about five miles out of town toward Monteverde, boasting a stunning jungle view. I stayed two hours chatting with the two young workers, who showed me videos and photos of birds, sloths, and frogs they’d spotted there. What a great spot! So great I had two double lattes and a brownie.

Next, I drove to El Castillo, where I enjoyed a delicious tipico meal from La Mesa de Mamá—my usual chicken, very tasty. It rained cats and dogs while I watched some kids wrestling. It was peaceful, with a lovely lake view, perfect for relaxing before continuing my drive to Monteverde. I stopped in Nuevo ?? for German Danish and bread, though I didn’t eat the Danish.

The drive was sinuous, often with my lane obscured by vegetation. I was lucky there wasn’t much oncoming traffic. The last hour was a pothole-riddled dirt road. I arrived in Monteverde that evening—dark and incredibly foggy. Searching for a place to camp, I drove to the end of the road and spotted the Hummingbird Café. On the way back, I noticed Selina Hostel and checked their rates. They had a four-bed dorm with just one occupant for the night—$21, cheap for Costa Rica, especially there. I booked it, including the hot tub, and ended up staying three nights.

October 6. I had to change rooms because the four-bed dorm filled up, so I moved to a six-bed dorm with some guys. The room smelled like athlete’s foot and mildew. While there, I met two lovely Mexican men who invited me to breakfast, sharing pancakes and fruit. I was ravenous and gladly accepted. They were headed to La Fortuna, so I gave them a rundown of the area and hikes. Oswaldo works in tourism south of Cancun; his English is excellent. Walter lives in Chicago and works for an organization. We talked a bit about racism toward migrants from south of the border. Oswaldo said, “As long as they aren’t in my face, I don’t care what they believe.” I was impressed by his tolerance.

We said goodbye, and I headed to Santa Elena for milk for cereal and fruit for smoothies. I noticed a tourist information center and asked about hiking trails. I was told all trails here are private and require a fee. The only public path was toward Cerro Amigo, up a dirt road. On the way back, I found a lovely hotel with a pond, bar, and herb garden—but it was closed.

I wanted to try the three recommended coffee spots and chose Choco Café because it was nearby. The cappuccino was okay, but the street noise was horrible—most motorcyclists here ride without mufflers. It’s basically a country of Harleys. Afterward, I explored some hidden nature resorts. As my stepdad says, “Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

I drove into several resorts and was chased off a few times by employees in electric carts. I claimed ignorance and said I was looking for trails—which was true. I learned about various conservation organizations initiated by resort owners and their ecotourism models. One road led me to Hotel Heleconia, resembling the place my mom and Bob stayed.

Nobody was around except workers, so I parked and walked along a blocked road. To the right was a trail leading to another trail, then a river, then a troop of monkeys—and finally, I met the people who had started the trail construction. They were surprised to see me and laughed when I said I was the first tourist to try it. They asked how it was, and I said, “Great.”

It was a beautiful stretch of mostly primary forest—probably the prettiest I walked during my stay. I thought about visiting the cloud forest but was put off by the $28 entry fee. I later learned I could have asked for a discount but didn’t want to push my luck. On the way back, I stopped at the Children’s Eternal Peace Forest, which has 3 km of trails. I was shocked that they charged $20.

Back at the hostel, I tried to make a smoothie, but the blender didn’t work. Frustrating! I ended up draining the liquids and eating the fruit. There, I met Nacho, a Costa Rican who grew up in Opus Dei. He joined me on a drive back to the Hummingbird Café. It was very foggy, and hummingbirds were scarce, but I found a trail behind the old building and followed it with him. At one point, I thought I saw puma tracks. He said cloud forest rangers had spotted them in the area. I doubted we’d see one during the day but was intrigued.

The trail became slippery and foggy; we both slipped—him in PF Flyers, me in flip-flops. It led to a water storage tank, then a house, where I decided to turn back. I tried another trail on the way back but it became narrow and difficult.

On the way back, I stopped at the Monteverde Institute. I saw a tree symbol dedicated to two American biologists who worked there. We signed a book to hike their trails—free trails! No one had told me about them. Just then, it started pouring. A man from town was taking photos. I ran over and learned he was photographing a multicolored-beaked toucan—the first and only one I’d see, though it was backlit and hard to make out.

While waiting for the rain to ease, we discovered the center’s library, filled with surprisingly radical books on the Nicaraguan revolution, nonviolent communication, community building, biodiversity, and conservation. It reminded me of my library at home. After browsing, I went outside where a couple was quietly reading and working on the internet while watching the rain. Jean and Tom Cox have lived here for two years, joined the Quaker community, and work with poor communities to address climate change.

They told me about Monteverde Institute, the Quaker community, and local trails. They also mentioned a cheese factory started in 1951 by a Quaker from Missouri, who is Alejandra’s great-grandfather—Alejandra is a staff member at Selina and grew up in the Quaker community descended from American conscientious objectors.

Tom said there was a book talk that evening by a man building a wooden sailboat container ship in Punta Arenas, aiming to revolutionize shipping away from fossil fuels. It sounded like a pipe dream to me, but it was hopeful to see such collaboration.

The boat builder spoke at lightning speed in Spanish, peppered with Costa Rican expressions. I understood less than usual and thought about leaving but stayed till the bitter end. Around 7 p.m., Nacho and I returned to the hostel. I spent an hour in the hot tub before making food and hitting the hay. I asked the hostel manager if I could move rooms because I couldn’t stand the smell in mine. He gave me my own dorm room, which I had to myself for the next two nights.

October 7. I decided to take advantage of waking early on a clear day—something rare in Monteverde, where it’s mostly rainy or foggy. I headed down the hill toward San Luis and met Robert at Jaguar Arte Studio. He’s lived in Monteverde over 10 years, worked as a nature guide, and now paints full-time, mostly oils and acrylics. He’s working on a hypnotizing piece depicting a jaguar dissolving into the landscape.

Robert suggested walking the road at dawn to spot quetzals, which he often sees. I parked at a lookout over San Luis, a beautiful valley town near Monteverde. Driving down, I met José Francisco, an older man weed-whacking for free—he said he did it for the community. He told me about growing up in a small valley house, and how his father married the granddaughter of the local big landowner.

José was kind and told me about Sendero Pacifica, a Quaker-initiated trail running from San Luis to the Pacific Ocean, with an alpine-style guesthouse. It sounded lovely, and I was tempted to hike some of it but didn’t have time. I thanked him and drove down to a brightly painted school.

Exploring blindly was fun—I was surprised to find CEII, which seemed to teach biology and environmental studies—my kind of place.

Starving with no breakfast, I found a cafeteria with bread, jam, and cereal laid out but no staff. I made toast and ate cereal clandestinely behind a bush, nervous I’d get caught as people approached. I’d scouted alternate routes back to the car just in case. The grounds had many trails leading into beautiful primary forest—much nicer than much of Monteverde.

Walking through the dark forest, full of giant Ceiba and Guanacaste trees and moss-covered ground, I kept an eye out for snakes but saw none. I could’ve walked for hours but cut it short to avoid getting lost.

At the road’s end, I found a finca belonging to one of José’s cousins, renting rooms for $25/day with hikes, a swimming hole, and a kitchen. Nearby was the barn where their father processed sugar cane.

Back at Selina, I cooked some food, then saw a backpacker hiking down the hill. He was a Polish guy from Warsaw who had studied three years in Amsterdam before interning at Selina San Jose. He’s organizing a surfing tournament.

I offered him a ride to the bus stop and then to Café Monteverde. They had a two-for-one sale celebrating International Coffee Day. I splurged, buying coffee beans, a smoothie, a cappuccino, and a tomato caprese sandwich. They also hosted painting with coffee grounds.

Afterward, I visited the farmers market in a stadium-like building with an internal courtyard. The garden beds were half-hearted, and the market felt like an expensive gringo hippy bazaar—out of reach for locals.

Next, I explored a strange park with mystical animals and dinosaurs but didn’t want to pay the entry fee, so I turned around. On the way, I spotted a jaguarundi crossing the road—a rare, long-tailed, dark brown or black cat. I felt lucky.

I turned onto a road leading to Valle Escondido, a permaculture village. Driving down the driveway, I saw two colorful motmot birds sitting nearby. I filmed them from the car to avoid disturbing them—my first sighting in Costa Rica.

At Valle Escondido, I asked to use the restroom. I had severe diarrhea, apologized for the smell, and washed my underwear as best I could, even swabbing the floor. The kind staff suggested chamomile tea, which I politely declined.

I explored the misty gardens and trails perched on a valley’s edge. The waterfall was lovely despite the fog. I skipped climbing the endless stairs due to my still-healing knee. Signs explained permaculture features like fish ponds, compost piles, and innovative material reuse.

Later, I stopped at the dairy factory started by Alejandra’s great-grandfather—turns out I’d already bought their cheese at the market. I passed on the ice cream, which didn’t look appealing.

Back at the Monteverde Institute, I signed in again, hoping to hike the trails. I ran into Tom and Jean and joined them briefly before a heavy rain forced us to seek shelter. I abandoned the hike and returned to the hostel, too tired to attend the Quaker contra dance that evening.