Abstract
It was quiet as we carefully made
our way up the slippery trail, clambering
over the occasional fallen tree,
avoiding the hanging Hanas and the
vicious thorns on the stems of the
chocho palms while picking out the
jagged volcanic rock boulders littering
the path with our flashlights. As
we neared the top of the ridge, the
sky lightened with the rays of the rising
sun. The air was cool and damp.
At the top, the four of us sat under a
gigantic strangler fig tree and waited
in silence.
The dawn was swift as usual in the
tropics. Down below us in the mist
covered valley, the lead male in a
troop of howling monkeys began to
give voice, the sound echoing against
the hillsides. Over our heads we
heard the unmistakable creaking cry
of a Keel-billed Toucan. It was
answered softly by another and then
we watched seven dark shapes dive
down into the greyness of the valley
like cormorants diving into the sea,
bill extended and wings held back. As
they reached the tree tops lower
down, they began to fly and disappeared.
We listened to one of the many
songs of the White-breasted Wood
Wren and the forest stirred with daylight
life. The leaf-cutting ants began
to run along their trails with their
load of freshly cut leaves, entering
their nest through holes in the top of
little perfectly formed inverted
flowerpot mounds under a nearby
tree. Then we heard the lowing of
cattle in the distance and the murmur
of people rising and starting the day's
work. The idyll was interrupted and
we were reminded of our purpose
there.