Our new buddy, Manuel, joyfully drove us five hours from San Jose to our next stop – the Arenal Lodge overlooking the active Arenal volcano. Conversation with Manuel was as lively as ever. We discovered that he was an avid bird watcher (like every other Costa Rican), a father of eight and a huge fan of Pamela Anderson. So every time the boys went off talking about American bikini-ettes, Manuel would get pretty excited, sucking in his breath, whistling and smacking his knuckles together – although never quite losing control over the van. What a hoot.

Hissing Beast

On the road, which took us through countless hillside coffee (C.R.’s premiere export) plantations, Manuel would occasionally whip ‘er over to sample a local fruit or to gaze at rare bird or the occasional monkey. With each new sighting, Manual would pull out the binoculars and the well-worn bird book to confirm his suspicions. He would even make little notes in the margin of his book next to each species we saw with date and location of the sighting. It was amazing how he could spot some crappy little brown bird in a tree 300 yards away while traveling 65 miles per hour. I don’t know how he did it.

We finally arrived in Arenal, home of the volcano and world-renowned hot springs, and checked into the Arenal Lodge. Before Manuel left (for his five hour return trip), he insisted that we hang on to a papaya that he picked up for us on the way down. None of us were fans of papaya – but we enthusiastically accepted to spare Manuel’s feelings.

The hotel felt like being at summer camp – the rooms were sparse and the tile floors utilitarian. What furniture we did have was mismatched and aging. The bathrooms were nothing special and the linens were a bit stiff. But it could not have been more perfect – right slap here in the middle of the jungle. All eight or so rooms at the lodge had private balconies with French doors that opened the room up to a stunning unadulterated view of the volcano.

Balcony View (Obscured by Mist)

The damn volcano looked like something off the cover of a Tolkien novel - perfectly conical, billowing smoke and blopping out chunks of bright orange lava. Christopher was beside himself that he didn’t have a either a zoom lens or a camera that allowed from extended exposures. Oop – look at the time. Cocktail hour, so we enjoyed an aguila or two on the porch and listened to the hissing beast in the foreground.

The lodge was an old wooden structure with a makeshift gift shop, a library with loads of left-behind dog-eared paperbacks, a pool table and a bar with about three stools, and a campy cafeteria (I swear it was like being transported back to Camp Popo-Winnesoquottowatha when I was nine).

Arenal Lodge Lobby

The brothers were a little paranoid about getting sick from bad food here, and rightly so.  A lunchtime burger turned out to be a freezer-burned, partially cooked, watery mash of bleedy ooze. In essence it was the angel of death on a stale bun. Where's the dog? Or a gimpy howler?

That afternoon we hiked through the rain forest and up through the freshly dried fields of a hardened lava rock at the base of the volcano. The landscape was very eerie. There we were amidst the dense jungle overgrowth and the next minute we were climbing over the desolate, black fingers of lava that recently bulldozed their way through the jungle. This was the first hike in Costa Rica and we were excited to explore the territory.

A Bursting Arenal

After our hike, we hopped in a van to the Tabacon hot springs and spa for a little R&R (and an aguila or two). When we got there it was more much commercial than we had expected.

Nevertheless, the place was pretty cool – the volcano actually heats a fairly large stream to about 100 degrees, and the steamy water cascades through lush tropical foliage as the rumbling volcano looms in the background. The spa fashioned several tile and cement swimming pools in this steamy water and bathers were treated to cold beverages while soaking their day away. Adjoining the pools is a large restaurant and bar catering to the travelers. It has a bevy of showers and restrooms, and there are several levels for dining above the pools. As I recall, the only downside was that the place was a bit of a tourist trap – charging the handsome sum of $15 for access to the pools. But the steamy ambiance was cool enough to warrant a poolside table, appetizers, and chasers.

Jake on the Moon

As the night wore on, the boys became more animated.  I guess they managed to procure a 12-pack from I-don’t-know-where, and hauled it back at the lodge.  Long after the rest of the Lodge cozily retired, the boys were sitting on the porch guzzling and giggling into the night as they tried to focus on fiery dribbles of lava that rolled down the volcano.

The next day they were a bit slow to the morning table when we were trying to figure out what that day’s adventure would be. Someone recommended that we should explore the nearby caves. That sounded good to everyone but Christopher, who read a little too much about rabid bats in his trusty guidebook.

Hot Waterfall

This is what happened: When we arrived our guide-to-be, Minor, issued each of us a scratched and scraped hard hat, well worn wading boots and a powerful 6-volt waterproof flashlight. The guide asked us several probing questions about both our physical and mental health - including questions about a handful of debilitating phobias - and our overall athleticism. Oh great. Who the hell has ever heard that line of questioning on a vacation?  

Jurassic Park

After the pop quiz/physical, Minor explained the value of the boots by way of a humorous little story. As it turns out, he was walking through some brush, or cutting cane, or some damn thing, and suddenly one of the world’s deadliest snakes, the Fer de Lance, struck his leg. Minor was wearing boots, but one fang managed to clear the top of his boot and plunge into his leg. Minor nearly died. He remained in a coma for three weeks. Finally he awoke and he was blind and partially paralyzed for several months. As a coup-de grace, Minor lifted his pant leg and showed us the most disfiguring scar that you could imagine on one man’s leg. And dead in the center of the scar –the single fang puncture could clearly be seen amid the atrophied muscle. OK – woohoo! Let’s go!!

A Recent Flow

Through the Jungle

We met up with a young honeymooning couple from Seattle at the base camp.  The whole bunch of us set out across a buggy field to a stream flowing out of a mountainside. After stepping through a makeshift cement doorway we were in. Already knee-deep in water we thought that we had experienced the requisite amount of physical exertion and discomfort. Of course all went pitch black almost immediately, but we had our six-volters. Onward ho. We strolled through a large room filled with bats and guano and thought "what a breeze." Soon however, Minor hailed us over to a narrow peeping crawlway that opened about four feet off the ground. What the hell – we were spelunkers now. We took turns hoisting everyone up and through the hole, leaving Jake to pull himself up and through the crevice.

Once through the hole we turned off our lights to experience the pitch blackness. Next, Minor shined the light down a slippery hole that dropped about 20 feet straight down. I thought he was kidding, but after he pointed to the footholds, I slowly descended with the others, as we went one by one, with help from whoever was immediately ahead acting as a guide. Ok, now I was sweating - we were all sweating.

We walked along a damp narrow crevice as Minor instructed us not to run our hands along the walls. Why? Because the scorpion spiders, of course. Scorpion Spiders!!?!! Jeeezus! Minor shined his light on a few of these gigantic hideous bugs, and man, Wes Craven couldn’t have imagined a more frightening creature. Well great. Now we were creeped. After that bit of useful trivia – we wandered down the crevice to an apparent dead-end.

Getting a bit Cramped

Ok. Going Down

Jump In!

One Way

Agua Frio!

No sir.  Not a dead end.  There was a tiny hidden crevice about a foot tall at the bottom of one wall. Minor informed us that this was called "the Birth Canal." We were flabbergasted. He wanted us to leave our flashlights behind, lie down in the dirt on our backs, and shimmy through the canal. He suggested that the smallest person go first (congratulations Suzie!). She reluctantly dropped the flashlight and with a bit of effort she bravely scuttled through into the darkness.  Who knew what was on the other side – aside from the ubiquitous scorpion spiders? Something worse? Now we knew why the hard hats were imperative.

Once everyone was through we descended some more and passed through an underground waterfall with a rare head of subterranean fresh-water coral. Who’d of thought? Next we entered a small passage and had to fight against rushing waist-deep water. At one point, we were instructed to jump to avoid an alleged 10 foot deep hole, which in the rushing water would have certainly meant curtains for a hapless rube. From there, the path narrowed to a triangular crevice and the speed of rushing water increased. At one point, we had to turn our heads sideways and dip down to our chins to get through an extra narrow portion. There was no escaping it. It seemed that each time we thought we’d seen the worst, we would embark on a more harrowing endeavor.

Underground Waterfall

After a couple of hours underground we popped into a room with a crag of vine-obscured daylight at the top. We were so close but so far away! How the hell were we going to scale thirty feet of near sheer slimy rock to get to the top. The answer was in an exit route not far ahead . . . a muddy, rocky, bat-filled, steep and dangerous chamber.  Already our guide had badly sprained his ankle and I know we were all thinking, "If this guy goes, we are SO screwed!" But Minor was solid. With considerable effort he shimmied up a ledge to a point where he could get a grip hold. 

One Slip - Certain Doom!

He fashioned a makeshift rope from his tattered shirt and amazingly hoisted us up, ledge by ledge, one at a time.  When we actually did get out (it was touch and go for a while there) we were all exhilarated and equally relieved. After this experience, the honeymooners were more like family than strangers, and we took a whole roll of survivor’s film Thanks to Minor for the ziplock bags, Christopher’s camera took a beating but managed to survive with some reasonably good pictures.  Apparently Minor was so relieved to have young athletic people on this tour that he took us through the cave "the hard way." In retrospect I am glad he did.

After the caves and the stories and the post-cave-at-the- exit-shower-and-beer, we headed back to the Lodge.

There, we again showered, ate voraciously and retired to library for a little pool and a nightcap as we traded thoughts on the experience. As I settled in for the evening, I remember looking at the full moon casting a silvery glow over the misting hills and listening to the throaty growl of the indigenous howler monkeys echoing through the jungle.

What a place.

Whew!

The next day at 7am our friend, Manuel, reappeared and cheerily hauled all our luggage to the van. By now, he had concocted nicknames for us – I was reina and Jake and Christopher were the muchachos and Suzie was…hell, I can’t remember what Suzie was called. Anyway, we piled into the van with homemade sandwiches from the cafeteria and were about to be on our way when Manuel came sprinting back to the van holding that damned papaya that Christopher had conveniently left in his room. "La papaya, la papaya!" Oh Jesus. He headed directly to the kitchen and had it cut up for our trip back to the airport at San Jose. Great. Christopher and Jake spent the balance of the ride surreptitiously dropping bits of that stinky fruit out the back window of the van.

Looking Back

The ride back was raucous and jubilant. We joked about Baywatch and blond latinas and mean people. When we got to the airport, Manuel joined us for lunch and sat with us until our flight departed for the Oso Peninsula and more specifically, Puerto Jimenez.