Canoe Costa Rica

Approaching the take-out on the Rio Toro

The explosive, body-tingling roars reverberate up and down the lush river corridor. Instinctively I grip my paddle tighter. Jaguar? Costa Rica’s largest carnivore is extremely rare and usually nocturnal, but in this land of startling diverse wildlife, anything seems possible.

Paddling the swift current of the Rio Penas Blancas, my comrades and I maneuver our four tandem canoes around several jungle-lined bends before spotting the source of all this guttural angst. A troop of agitated, lustrous black howler monkeys is jumping about in the highest trees, glaring and grimacing at us through the leaves. You’d have to hang out underwater to hear a louder animal on the planet—only a lovelorn, mate-seeking blue whale puts out more decibels than a defiant howler. As we paddle closer, the stocky, bearded, big-balled alpha male once again sounds the alarm. Unwilling to endure the bellowing crescendo, the eight of us keep moving on this fine, sultry February morning.

It was just yesterday that I arrived at Juan Santamaria International Airport and noticed all the dreadlocked surfer dudes milling around with their flashy, seven-foot fiberglass boards. Ordinarily I’d be tempted to join them, but this time I wasn’t in Costa Rica to catch the waves on the sun-baked playas. Or to ride a raft down any of the highland’s steep whitewater rivers. Instead, I was headed north into the Caribbean lowlands, a little traveled interior region not far from Nicaragua, an emerald green hinterland of wetlands, rolling sugarcane fields, remnant rainforests, and luxuriant, rarely paddled, quickwater rivers. I was eager to get to know the landscape and experience the deliberate, unhurried intimacy you just can’t get stuffed into a bedroom-sized raft with shrieking strangers.

That evening in the hillside suburb of Escazu I met up with my paddling mates for our 11-day, seven-river adventure—a decidedly non-shrieking crew. We were a cozy group of six. Normally, my boyfriend, Larry, and I scout our own rivers, plan our own itineraries and lug our own boats and gear. But early on we realized that finding put-ins and running shuttles would be nearly impossible in this northern backcountry of unmapped, unsigned dirt roads. So we found the consummate outfitter: BattenKill Canoe of Vermont (800-421-5268, battenkill.com), one of only a handful of companies offering canoe trips in this astonishingly varied country. With 12 ecosystems crammed into an area the size of West Virginia, Costa Rica holds bragging rights to not only endless beaches and fertile valleys, but also to coastal plains split by rugged, cloud-forested mountains and rimmed with more than 100 volcanic cones.

We met our guide, Carolyn Parker, a strapping outdoor woman with short-cropped dark hair. Her co-guide Carlos Mairena, a genial Tico with warm brown eyes and a comedic streak, would serve as trip naturalist. Though not required, everyone had some canoeing experience, which would no doubt prove helpful on these moderate-to-quick flatwaters, with random Class II rapids, stray boulders, and six-foot crocodilians tossed in for thrills.

“The only hazard you’ll really need to watch for is strainers,” Carolyn counseled us, referring to any obstruction in the water which allows the current to pass through. In a nation where the average annual rainfall is 100 inches (with some steep eastern slopes fetching an implausible 25 feet), downpours and floods can tear out copious bankside vegetation, creating these midstream nuisances. Last month’s heavy rains had, in fact, done just that, contributing to the current debris load on many of Costa Rica’s rivers.

Gazing outside our white-linen restaurant to its peaceful sunlit patio, languorous with purple and pink bougainvillea, I was having trouble envisioning torrential downpours and floating kapok trees, but implicitly trusted our guide’s advice.

It’s our second day on the Penas Blancas. With the river to ourselves, the group moves smoothly through a narrow tunnel of green upon green upon green. Small waterfalls rush between the exposed roots of towering mahogany trees, emptying into the quick-flowing water. A kaleidoscope of birds flits in and out of the steamy forest: red-rumped tanagers, shimmering violet hummingbirds, yellow-tailed Montezuma oropendolas as long as my arm. Iridescent blue-green swallows perform graceful arabesques above the water while a skeptical-looking green heron silently observes us from his lofty perch.

Paddling closer to one tree to admire its immense white flowers, the blossoms begin to quiver ecstatically, then leap from the branches and fly away. “Cattle egrets,” Carlos laughs, but that’s far too plain a name for these gregarious small herons, who sport buff chests and spiky orange crests during breeding and delight in hitching rides on bovines or congregating in trees. As if on cue, a sun-cured cowboy in a big-rimmed black hat rides up through a small clearing looking for strays, a reminder that there’s trouble even in paradise. Beyond this verdant jungle-lined river lies a sea of pineapple, coffee, and cattle. Even though Costa Rica’s national parks and reserves are the envy of the world, the sad truth is that much of the country’s unique flora and fauna remain at risk from ongoing deforestation.

Drawn into a calm side eddy, we practice peel-outs and ferries, maneuvers which move a boat across the current to the stream’s far side. All eyes are on us as Carolyn asks Larry and me to demo a precise ferry, starting with the boat angled upriver. Solo, I’m not yet very good at this, but as a team Larry and I make all the right moves and sweep cleanly and swiftly across the river.

“Showoff!” I can hear Barry and Irene, a vivacious retired couple from Winnipeg, teasing me. Okay, yeah, but I’ve got it made—my partner has 25 years experience paddling rivers worldwide. In fact, he’s such a pro all I have to do is sit or kneel blissfully in the bow and react to his quick, expert directions. For Barry and Irene, however, this is their first river outing. Though they’ve shared many happily married years canoeing the lakes of backwoods Manitoba, a twisting stream with a vigorous current and unexpected obstructions presents a new challenge.

Three popular modes of transportation in CR-boats, horses and gas powered beasts.

Leaving the safe haven of our eddy, the eight of us venture downstream. “Keel-billed Toucan!” Carlos cries out as the brilliantly plumed, 20-inch-long bird glides by with folded wings. The toucan’s rainbow-streaked beak makes it instantly recognizable, a banana-shaped proboscis so colossal it looks totally fake, like it’s been fastened with black tape onto the avian’s small green face. Gawking at this surreal creature, we give scarce thought to the half-submerged tree ahead on the right. Larry and I manage to skirt it, then turn to keep an eye on Irene and Barry pulling up the rear. They’re having trouble avoiding the outermost branch and catch its edge, upsetting the boat’s balance. That’s when Barry does what’s most instinctive to novices, the worst possible thing to do: He grabs an overhanging bough to try to stabilize, and over he and Irene go.