El Rio

Today I fell in a hole in a river. This story actually began with events of yesterday.

Don’t do anything risky, you’re not as young as you two think! This was cautionary counsel from one of my daughters (you know who you are) before we came to Costa Rica. Good advice, but at our mutual advanced age we can’t remember everything – and when we do, it’s usually too late.

The Kid is off to San Jose for a few days and has conveniently left his four-wheeler (and its key!) at our place. Not having any other wheels yesterday – a sunny day that begged for exploration – on impulse we decided to take a ride. Pecos fired it up, I climbed aboard, and we set off. We had no plan other than to head down a narrow road we’d often passed a few miles away. This road crests along the mountain ridge that falls off to the Pacific. We’d never been down that road. I grabbed my hat and we were off.

Pecos has actually been a passenger on this four-wheeler – twice. A driver? Yes, but only once before. Our first few miles were reminiscent of my adolescents taking their maiden voyage with a stick shift. The four-wheeler bucked, snorted and bounced us along the gravel road – with Pecos repeatedly yelling, “Hang on!” while Yours Truly clutched him tightly, shouting, “Despacio!” in his ear. This word for slow was the closest I could come to an expletive in Spanish. Each of the occasional villagers on horseback or walking along the road stopped to watch us come closer. All grinned wildly and either gave a great wave or a loud “Ole’!” as we passed by.

Pecos slowed to just a few miles per hour when we reached the narrow lane and turned in as this is where the gravel ended. A rain-soaked farm road of clay, covered here and there with grass, meandered at dizzying height along the crest of this part of the coastal range, a death-defying, jungle-edged drop-off on one side and pastoral scenes of grazing cows and coffee and banana crops on the other.

This remote lane was deeply-rutted from recent rains. Cascades of flowers hung from shrubs and trees and the only sounds other than us were the cows and an occasional far-distant dirt bike. When the lane turned sharply downhill, we leaned back. Climbing back up steep slopes, we both leaned far forward. I looked by my foot and read the pasted warnings stating to not carry passengers, to wear helmets, to avoid steep inclines. We were in complete violation.

The four-wheeler lurched and jumped as the road became a downhill ditch of deep ruts with even deeper puddles, some several feet across. It was all Pecos could do to maintain control of the vehicle and I held on for dear life. Clumps of mud splattered both of us.

Finally, about four miles down this mountain, a few Tico houses appeared and finally, the ditch became a road again – dirt at first and then gravel. Around a bend, there was a concrete bridge and river. We stopped. A long series of small waterfalls and pools cascaded from up above, down to where we were, and continued out of sight. The setting was incredibly beautiful. We climbed down rocks to the river, washed the mud off, and hiked around for a long time. The river flowed quickly and had carved deep holes in flat expanses of staggered rocks, at a few places bubbling upward from underwater passageways. Fish swam in the clear water and some of the smaller pools held bucketsful of pollywogs. We basked in the sun and water and hated to leave.

Back on the four-wheeler, we went just a little further and came to a tiny village comprised of a few houses and a pulperia. Pecos bought us cold drinks. He didn’t have enough coins for the purchase and they couldn’t break his 5,000 colones note (equivalent $9). The proprietor insisted that we take the bottles of water regardless.

Climbing back up the mountain was more treacherous than going down, due to the steep grade. The four-wheeler leaned far to the sides as it bucked the ruts. Pecos drove it slowly. The vehicle sputtered wildly before stalling on a steep, slippery slope. Pecos shifted gears and it suddenly bolted up. The front wheels rose up to flip us over backwards. I screamed, Pecos cursed and somehow we both fell forward on the machine to knock it down on the ground again. It landed on three wheels, one still spinning mid-air over a rut. Mud now splattered us head to toe.

As we headed home ever so carefully, Pecos informed me that The Kid had told him that if we ever use the four-wheeler to be extremely careful as he has flipped this vehicle three times – once nearly toppling over the precipice to jungle far below. The Kid said that at one of these times he’d actually dangled mid-air at the very edge before pulling himself back up. It was best not to mention this to me, The Kid told Pecos.

So! I’m not supposed to know this, but unfortunately now I do. This information has been mentally filed away under “Things a Mother Should Not Be Told.”

Last night both Pecos and I ached from our hours of rough riding and wondered why anyone would have a four-wheeler when they could have a regular 4-wheel drive vehicle (not that one could have negotiated our day’s trip).

This morning, however, things looked different. Again impromptu, we decided to repeat the adventure, this time with the camera. I wanted to take photos and Pecos wanted to give the pulperia the few cents owed. I grabbed my bag and Pecos brought a few bottles of water. This time he wore riding gloves and sunglasses. We tied our hats on and took off.

Where the trees broke alongside the top of the lane, you could see the Pacific far below. Whenever I yelled, “Stop!”, Pecos either stopped or slowed down enough for me to shoot pictures. When we reached the river, two boys about 12 years old were diving – diving! – into one of the largest pools, about 15-ft. across by a three foot waterfall. They also did backwards flips and cannonballs; apparently the holes were quite deep as they would dive straight down and wouldn’t be visible in the clear water until emerging upward at the far edge of the swimming hole.

We played around by the waterfalls and climbed down sheets of rocks to further pools and falls. The river kept going, one bend more beautiful than the other.

Just as we were ready to leave, I decided to climb under the bridge to take pictures from the other side. It was dank and the water looked deep and dark. A few steps in and I lost my footing, sliding down a vertical rock to the river. Bottom was about six feet down with a tangle of weeds at my feet, and I bolted upward, afraid of snakes, and swam to the pool where the two boys looked stunned. Pecos was yelling to go back and get the camera. The camera, oh no! Pecos pulled me up from the water and then he got a long branch and fished for the camera, first pulling up my waterlogged bag and then the camera itself. Water poured from the lens. We quickly took out the disc and dried it. Back at home, today’s pictures were miraculously uploaded to my laptop.

It was a cool ride home as my clothes were soaked and my hiking boots squished when pressed. My beloved camera may never work again. This camera had accompanied me to Iran and now Costa Rica, and I had plans to bring it to Africa in a year or two. It is/was special.

The Kid has come back safely. He laughed at our tale of woe and said it was good I hadn’t gone in the river with passport or internet phone, both safely at home. Before taking his four-wheeler to his finca, however, he promised that we can borrow this all-terrain vehicle again in a few days to repeat the trip, this time with his camera if mine cannot be revived. There are some great shots I missed on the way home. 