Enduring a Jungle Trek in the Costa Rican Mountains

They loaded up their backpacks in the early morning light and headed by van to the Chirripo/Uran trailhead high up in Parque Nacional Chirripo in the central Costa Rican mountains. He was about to turn 50 years old and wanted a physical challenge to celebrate this milestone. His wife was somewhat younger and, while game to join in this adventure, was looking forward to the more relaxing beach time they had scheduled later in the week.

Their guide, Fabio, was waiting patiently at the trailhead while standing next to his horse with no name that was laden with food and supplies.  It was a very warm and muggy start and they were sweating profusely soon after starting.

Fabio spoke English very well and said he liked that he was going to be able to strengthen and practice it more intensely while guiding them over the next four days.  He took to calling the couple Marcos and Maria. They learned that Fabio was also going to have a birthday while on this trek and would turn 34 on exactly the same day Marcos was turning 50.

Around noon they were up into the clouds and cooler temperatures.  By mid-afternoon, they arrived at Rudolfo's Hut, the most extremely rustic sleeping and cooking accommodation that they had ever seen or have had the pleasure to spend the night in.

They were up before first light while Fabio cooked them breakfast.  He told them that his father-in-law, Arcenio, would be arriving shortly to help carry the food and other gear since horses were not allowed into the National Park, which was just up the trail from where they were camped.  Arcenio said he left at 3:30 a.m. without a flashlight to get to their camp by 6:30 a.m. in time for the day's trek.

They were off at 7:00 a.m.  Fabio stayed behind to tidy things up while Arcenio led the couple up the trail.  They knew only a little Spanish. Arcenio knew no English. So, a few words and hand signals were their only means of communication until Fabio caught up to them about an hour later.

Arcenio and Maria

It was a brutally tough trail.  One of the toughest they had been on.  It was very rocky and muddy.  It made for slow going.  The entire way was in the fog and clouds, not good for any long distance scenery, which off into the white and gray they knew existed but could not see. However, they grew to accept the eeriness of their fog-enshrouded surroundings as it added a different and out of the ordinary visual dimension to their day.

They covered only 5 miles that took all of 7 hours to complete.  They stumbled into camp just as the clouds and fog turned into a steady and persistent rain.  Camp was called Paseo Los Indios or Indian Pass in English.  They saw a hunched over group of rain-soaked travelers off in the distance. Fabio thought they might be native Indians, many of whom still traverse the pass from their villages on the Caribbean side of the divide to work and trade with others on the Pacific side of the divide.

Their accommodations were a wood and tin open air shelter, with an adjacent enclosed room serving as the sleeping and cooking area.  The privy was a stool inside a separate three sided shelter, with no wall or door on the fourth side that was open to the elements looking south into the valley below (a room with a view!).

Over dinner, their guides said tomorrow’s trail would be tougher than today’s.  They didn't know how that could even be possible.  They were both drained and well fatigued.

They were out the door before 6:00 a.m. In the faint light of the new day, they could see that the skies were clear, remaining stars were shining brightly, and the lights from the city, San Isidro, were shining in the valley far below.  Conditions looked promising for the day's trek to Chirripo and thereafter Los Crestones Refuge.

The weather deteriorated soon thereafter. 3-1/2 hours into the day’s hike, they made it only as far as Cerro Uran, the second highest peak in Costa Rica.  Fabio sat them down as they took some pictures and wrote in a trail log to mark their presence.  He gave a reasoned explanation as to why he thought they shouldn’t go on and instead should turn around.  Their pace was painfully slow due to the muddy slog and the high, 10,000 foot plus elevations.

They still had about 10 km to go, which at their rate of progress, would have taken another 10 hours or so.   Also, the weather, which was foggy for the better part of this morning, was further eroding and now spitting rain and ice pellets. They took Fabio’s advice and headed back down, disappointed, in the direction they came.  Instead of scaling Chirripo, the tallest peak in Costa Rica, they had to settle for Uran, the second tallest.

They were back to Los Paseo for some hot coffee and nourishing soup.  The rain was coming down hard. After this brief warm-up, they had no choice but to continue and head off in the cold, high mountain downpour all the way back down to Rudolfo’s Hut, their first night’s stay, and now, their last.

It was very tough going. The conditions were terrible. The trail was a river of water and mud which at times was knee deep. There was no let up of the rain.  It was no longer possible to stay dry. The rain from the skies, the dripping leaves from the jungle greenery, or the standing water in the trail itself - it didn't matter the source, their world was one of only wet and water, nothing else. Maria and Arcenio were making better progress despite the conditions and were far ahead. Fabio hung back with Marcos as they slowly made his way up and down peaks, mud, rocks, and water.

It was nearing dark as they trudged on into the jungle forest which made for even darker conditions.  Marcos’s sweat steamed up his glasses.  Rain drops cut down his visibility even further.  His depth perception in these conditions was minimal.  Slipping and sliding, he fell several times - many times - too many to keep track of.

Finally it was too dark to see.  His head lamp and the faint outline of Fabio was his only guide for the remaining couple of kilometers.  The going continued to be very difficult for him.  His only focus was to cautiously take each step to make sure he was placing his feet securely on a rock to avoid slipping or falling further. He was not always successful and had a lot of scrapes and bruises as a result. His efforts took on special importance when at one point, Fabio pointed out that they were on a saddle between two peaks with thousand foot drops only a few meters away on either side of the trail.

Meanwhile, Maria and Arcenio had made it to Rudolfo's Hut. They couldn't access the door since Fabio, who was now far behind with her husband, had the key. They huddled under the small overhang in an attempt to get warm and dry off.

She pulled out a pocket sized Spanish dictionary that she had forgotten was buried in her pack to attempt communication. Worried, she asked how much longer Arcenio thought that her husband and Fabio would be. As he pantomimed a response, they saw in the far distance moving specks of light, her husband's and Fabio's s headlamps, snaking their way down the mountainside and into their rain-soaked valley.

Marcos could barely walk. Finally, in the now shortened distance, Rudolfo’s Hut made its welcomed appearance through the rain, dark, and fog.  He couldn’t have been more relieved!  Nor could Maria and Arcenio, who had been waiting for them for 1-1/2 hours.  It was now 6:45 p.m., and they had just finished over 12 hours of horrid and treacherous hiking.

After a quick pasta dinner and some hot coffee, they were into the sack and slept the sleep of a dead man.

Revived by their solid, warm, and dry sleep, they left Rudolfo’s Hut at 7:00a.m. After several hours, they were into the valley's farm and ranch lands.  They saw Arcenio's footprints in the mud. He left camp before sunrise to check on his cattle. The man was a machine, obviously faster and now way ahead of them as they made their way to the end of their trek.

They stopped to take pictures of farmer with a pointy stick driving two oxen forward pulling a cart full of grass and feed up to pasture. The farmer obliged them as he conversed with Fabio. There were coffee plants along the road.  Fabio gathered some beans for them to eat and more to place in their packs.

Soon, they saw Arcenio coming up the road to greet them in his jeep.  It was salvation for Marcos’s toes were hurting and Maria’s knees were aching. The four of them drove down the rutted and bumpy track eventually stopping at a crossroad cantina where, in a couple of hours, a van would pick them up for the drive into town.

First things first; a round of cervezas for all of them. Then, more cervezas and a platter of thick, juicy, and greasy hamburgers.  They were stared at by the farmers and ranch hands that strolled in with their machetes, used for cutting sugarcane, strapped to their backs. They whispered in Spanish, likely commenting on their muddy and bedraggled appearance and their wolf-like consumption of food and beverage.

(l to r) Marcos, Fabio with daughter, Maria, and Arcenio

They were stiff and sore, but now relaxed. Content, they gathered outside for pictures, gave away some of their gear that Fabio and Arcenio admired (carabineers, rain poncho, walking stick, etc.), gave each of them a generous tip, shook hands, and saw them take off.  They'll be missed. They were great guys.  They'll remember them forever. They'll remember their trek forever as well.