Week 3 -- January 25

January 25:

After a delicious breakfast of huevos rancheros, pineapple, papaya, watermelon and assorted breads, Dad and I met Arnolo for our trail ride. Pinto was a quiet and good mannered beauty with blue eyes and a white face; Dad’s steed was a bit stubborn and spirited and was constantly grabbing for a bit of vegetation. We headed out on a scenic ride, first down a wide rocky path through towering jungle trees, then through a meadow and orange orchards. Along the trail we spotted our first keel-billed toucan and heard the Montezuma oropendula. The oropendula has a song (if you could call it that) that sounds like radio or TV static. Definitely the strangest sounding bird I’ve ever heard! Oranges are in season, and we passed workers knocking fruit onto big blue tarps spread under the trees. The toucans and oropendulas are citrus feeders and frequent the groves. After an hour and a half ride we met Mom and another guide with the 3-person canoe. We donned our life vests and grabbed our lunch cooler, and just before pushing off, the guide said we would run into a couple of mild rapids. But not to worry, we would be fine. Five minutes or so into the float down the placid green Macal River, we spotted the first “white water”, which probably fit into the class 1 category. Because there was a tree on the left side of the river, with branches hanging into the water, we decided to aim for the middle. In spite of our best efforts, the strong current grabbed hold and sent us straight into the dangling branches and vines. In the front, I ducked to the right to avoid a scratched face but made the mistake of clutching my paddle in a death grip across the bow of the canoe. Next thing I knew, the branches grabbed ahold of my paddle and pulled it up and over my head. Wondering if I would dislocate my shoulders, I suddenly realized I was under water. Seconds later, I bobbed to the surface, my hat still on my head and my paddle still in my hands. I knew instantly someone else had fallen in, and in a moment of panic looked around to assess the situation. Dad was still in the canoe, trying to stay nearby the scene of the accident, and there was Mom, clinging to the overhanging branches, like an ungainly Tarzan. I could see her yelling something but couldn’t hear the words, as the water rushed around me, and I began laughing uncontrollably at the ludicrous situation. I quickly rejoined the canoe and we talked Mom out of the branches and made our way to the opposite tangled bank to take inventory. Mom told me she had been yelling at me to grab her glasses, which she had watched floating past me and down river, never to be seen again. We realized she had broken her middle finger on her left hand, evident because the tip was bent at an unnatural angle. And the final blow was the discovery her binoculars were waterlogged and fogged. Amazingly, we did not lose the cooler or my pack, which were sitting behind me and were not secured to the canoe. Losing my pack would have been disastrous, as it contained my passport, credit cards, cash, camera, iPod, and a bird book. Just as miraculous was the fact my binoculars suffered no damage, in spite of being submerged in water for at least three minutes. We bailed water with one of the water glasses from our cooler, and after narrowly missing impalement on a nasty thorny bush (which we learned later causes painful swelling), Dad pushed us off the shore so we could resume our journey. Happily, the river water was unexpectedly warm, and with the sun peaking out from a cloudy sky, we began to dry out on the float back to the lodge. The remainder of the trip was enjoyable, in spite of a couple of other encounters with white water. There wasn’t another soul around, except for a young family along the shore, at one point. During the trip we spotted a neotropical river otter, green kingfisher, a sungrebe, grey-necked wood rail, and a pair of brilliant blue buntings drinking at the water’s edge. Close to the lodge’s beach, we spotted huge orange and green iguanas sunning themselves on the limestone outcrops. After we beached at duPlooy’s (and I changed out of my sopping jeans) we relaxed in the sand and ate lunch out of the cooler. We vowed, after our return to Portland, we would create t-shirts that say, “I shot the Macal River rapids”, to commemorate our memorable adventure. In the afternoon drinks were in order (a shot of Stoli Vanil to kill any bacteria or protozoans imbibed from the river) and explored the Botanic Garden next to the lodge. Rufous-tailed hummingbirds and a white-bellied emerald buzzed in between bushes festooned with white flowers, and we spotted an agouti grazing on the lawn. For dinner that night I indulged in a huge helping of pesto pasta with vegetables, vegetable soup, and coffee flan!