Shortgrass Country

By Monte Noelke

Briefing for the September trip to Costa Rica took less research than other countries. Rare is a travel magazine published without a feature on the rain forest aerial tram running over the tops of the jungle, or a story of the butterfly farms, or the abundant bird population. Thirty percent of Costa Rica is in national parks. Much material on nature is available because of this big development.

Flooding during the hurricane season limited the choices of where to go when I visited. Tropical storms washed out so many roads, our day trips depended on accessibility by two-wheel drive. I might add the four-wheel vehicles costing so much dough in the U.S. take five fortunes to buy in Costa Rica.

On the morning we went to the Aerial Tram Service, we drove through the pristine wilderness of the huge Braulio Carrilo National Park. In fact, we drove so long through dense jungles, we passed by the tram service's gate. Mile after mile of winding highway in the predawn light dulled our sense of distance. The service operates on 2000 acres of private lands right on the edge of the 80,000 acre park. So we didn't need an alibi for missing such a small target.

Tickets cost $50.00 U.S., or about 10,000 colones for adults. Children under seven years of age are free and school groups receive special rates to encourage the students’ interests in the park systems. Costa Rica is geared toward educating the masses to protect the environment and improve living standards. Kids are carted off to school in big numbers. Texas made the same mistake in a way, allowing the pool halls to close and blowing thick wads of money on public schools, causing a serious shortage of cowboys and trappers and sheep shearers. Looks like Costa Rica is determined to cut off her own nose taking the money for an army and spending it on education. With all those strawberries and coffee beans to harvest and a half dozen Central American countries spoiling for a match any time another country so much as sneezes in their direction, I don't see how they got their priorities so confused.

Trams ascend to heights of 130 feet into the canopy of the rain forest. We took the first gondola at 7 a.m. to watch the awakening of the forest. Five passengers and a guide glide along, floating in the air. The rides last for one hour and twenty minutes to cover nine-tenths of a mile.

No other place in the world offers the same experience. Engineers spent three years swinging the cables and perfecting the system. All is in top order from the swinging foot bridge flooring covered in hail screen to give traction to providing ponchos to deal with the 26 feet of rain that falls every year in the forest.

We floated along above royal palms opened into huge umbrellas of green fronds and by long rope-like vines in 100-foot strands. Falcons stared as unperturbed as taxidermist models. The car swayed close to huge mahogany limbs wrapped in a green moss and spotted in ectophytes, which turn out to be a parasite that makes our mistletoe look like a recipe for weak tea. Straight trunk Inga trees looked polished from squirrels gnawing the bark clean. Spider webs glistened in dew drops from the night. Blue morpho butterflies drifted in our wake. An owl or a hawk flew away at our exact altitude.

Prior to the development of the aerial trams, only scientists willing to scale such heights saw this portion of the rain forests. Walkers sloshing along on the ground floor of a jungle never hear or see more than the rustling of branches. Speed of the tram was perfect to photograph the upper reaches of the jungle. I leaned over the side in complete safety.

I showed the guide a book of postcards made of Central Texas. I wanted to finish telling him about the time a guide on the Amazon grabbed my walking stick to flip a 14-foot cobra out of the trail, but he seemed to have other matters on his mind and my hosts appeared distracted from the tram ride.

Toward the very end of the ride, we began to hear human voices and logging trucks straining on the steep grades of the distant highway. Nevertheless, being the first tram, we missed the school children and had the outdoor restaurant for our own private dining room.

In a climate where 312 inches of rain fall annually, you would think the eggs came soft boiled from the hen, but they don't. Costa Ricans use a different name for scrambled eggs than cowboys do from Northern Mexico. The waiter wanted to speak English and all I wanted was breakfast, so you will have to rely on someone else to translate the Spanish down there...