A short walk into the rainforest - Daytime

     I am slowly and quietly walking alone through a tract of lowland rainforest in the Osa Peninsula in the southwest of Costa Rica. They say this is primary forest, the type of forest characterized by having the highest diversity of organisms. It is silent; it is still. I am making my way to the buttress, a large root, of a crooked-leaning canopy tree where I intend to sit for a while. There is a small chatter of only two notes, followed seconds later by a deafening cacophony of alarm calls that explode from the tree tops above me! The hair on my body stands on end as it rarely does these days, and as I gaze upwards I see that I am surrounded by a troop of over 20 previously unseen squirrel monkeys (Saimiri oerstedi) that are quite literally leaping into action to announce to the forest that I have arrived. The sounds of squeals, high-pitched chatter, and a minute though surprisingly far carrying screaming fill the dense air. Now this is not the first time that I have been surprised by a hidden troop of monkeys, and compared to some (howler monkeys) these are rather quiet and polite (capuchins like to break off branches and throw them at you!). But something is different about this encounter, I still can't put my finger on what. I continue to sit quietly on the root, and eventually the monkeys settle down and continue with their daily activities. Once again the forest around me is silent, with the only sound to be heard being the constant rain of debris that the monkeys displace as they forage in the canopy overhead.



   

   It is at this time that I start to think about encounters and interactions with the rainforest's secretive inhabitants. There is a marked difference between the two- a willing interaction and an encounter, with the latter being far more common. I think about my most recent encounter, the monkeys. It could be described as "natural", although it was my being noticed as out-of-place that initiated the encounter- the monkeys reaction to a perceived threat may be a natural response, but my intrusion that forced it was anything but natural. On the walk to this part of the forest I travelled through a patch of old-growth secondary forest which afforded me my most recent, and greatly appreciated, interaction with a "lone man". As I stopped to take in the scenery for a brief moment, I heard the tell tale buzzing that signaled the approach of a hummingbird. Out of nowhere there appeared in front of me, a Long-billed Hermit (Phaethornis longirostris, lone man). She had a brown body with a decidedly long white tail that tapered to a fine point, topped off with a handsome, and rather long, decurved (downward curving) bill. She flew up to me, in open space, to inspect my being. She hovered there for somewhere around 30 seconds, changing her angle and view every few moments, as to get a better look at me before flying off. What a meeting! Face to face with a WILLING rainforest inhabitant. Aside from brief moments like these, the only interactions that one is likely to be privy to are the all too often "exchanges" with the very willing mosquitoes.

     As I sit here, not counting the monkeys or the huge living pillars of green and brown that support the roof of the rainforest, the first sign of life makes itself known to me; or should I say herself. It is an ant, but not just any ant, it is my favorite ant. Yes, I have a favorite ant, and how could you not, with so many different options out there- Odontomachus with their 180 degree trapjaws, Crematogastor with their heart shaped abdomens, or the infamous Paraponera bullet ants with their legendary size and sting? I have found this ant at over 38m (125ft) up in the canopy of a Vantanea tree in a North Atlantic premontane rainforest and now right here, sitting on a root in the forest's basement at almost sea level in a South Pacific lowland rainforest. It can be a large ant of spectacular yellow, iridescent golds, and contrasting black. I do not know her name, nor have I ever even asked. I have never tried to take a picture of her before for fear of spoiling her beauty with a lack-luster photo. While she remains a mystery, she is always there, wherever I travel in this country. An omnipresent, and most welcomed, familiar face.

     It is only with time and patients, sitting on a root perhaps, that you get the chance to observe this forest as if you were absent, to see the way it works. Now this doesn't mean that with a few silent moments all the jaguars will come back out onto the pencil-thin trails, the bushmasters will come out of the dark, damp crevices to lay on sun-baked trunks, or the Atelopus will hop right into your view finder... it means that the organisms, starting with the smallest ones, will start to reveal themselves in the most natural of ways. Encountering an animal while walking on the trail usually elicits one of two responses- the animal flees or relies on its evolutionarily perfected cryptic camouflage to remain hidden from you. Instead of a brilliantly colored Pepsis wasp flushing from under the thud of my footstep, I am able to watch as it lands on a tree trunk and begins to very methodically search for its arachnid prey with rapid twitches of its antennae. These tarantula hawk-wasps as the they are often called, seek out spiders which they then capture and paralyze, bury, and lay their eggs on. Upon hatching, the larvae proceed to eat the still living, though immobile, spider. And then, from my left comes a new visitor- a male lizard of the species Norops polylepis, the Golfo Dulce Anole. Previously hidden on the mottled brown bark of a nearby tree, the Norops leaps onto a large, broad leaf of a fishtail palm. As he lands, perched so perfectly, head proudly raised at such an angle that I could never recreate this image with a few moss covered sticks and leaves in an open-air rancho as so many of us as have tried, he positions himself with all the glory of the smaller majority and lets fly his enormous orange and yellow throat fan for all competitors, females, and I'd like to think for me, to see. Never before has such an image, on such a background been captured in the confines of a studio.

     The rain is coming and going now, though nothing too heavy yet. I expect the worst of it will come a little later in the afternoon. Every time the rain stops and the sun comes through the canopy of this old light gap, a temporary exuberance overcomes the forest. The cicadas erupt in a chorus so drowning that even your thoughts become lost amongst their dull roar. Upon widening your gaze from the immediate area you notice that there are actually several little yellow-orange flags being flashed throughout the light gap, signaling the even spacing of each male Norops's territory. The hummingbirds dart in and out of the gap in a seemingly precarious manner, flaring their tails, flashing their gorgets, chasing and harassing each other while visiting flowers of several shapes and sizes- to name only a few these included heliconias, gingers, Columnea, and other flashy Gesneriads. The names of these hummingbirds start scrolling through my head, names as colorful as the birds themselves. It isn't until now that I realize how aptly named these birds are: Violet-crowned Woodnymph, Purple-crowned Fairy, Long-billed Starthroat, Coppery-headed Emerald, Bronzy Hermit... They form a beautiful, easily personified assemblage of celestial-like inhabitants of the forest- the Fairys, Nymphs, and Hermits- the original natives of this realm.

     I suppose this onset of this heliophilic activity could be attributed to the fact that during this time of the year, every ray of sunlight that makes its way through this cathedral-like canopy, between these short downpours, could very well be the last of the day. At least that's my reasoning for sitting here silently on this root in the middle of the rainforest. 

-Don