Dream Chasin’, Turtle Racin’

For as long as I can remember, I have loved turtles. They were always amongst my top candidates for the “What’s your favorite animal?” questions in elementary school (along with sea otters and snow leopards).

Beginning roughly from age five through our early high school years, my sister, myself, and our two very-close-in-age cousins spent a week camping with our grandparents at a beloved family campground. Every summer I looked forward to this week more than almost anything else because there was an abundance of turtles in the campground pond. Turtle-catching, and subsequently carving out small basins stretching from the top of the beach to the water’s edge in order to hold “turtle races,” was our favorite activity.

As I grew older, and Planet Earth became a thing, I became even more enamored with a different type of turtle––sea turtles. To this day, I could sit and watch footage of them swimming around underwater for hours. I made a vow to myself that one day I would see these beautiful, majestic creatures in real life.

We saw baby sea turtles voyaging from the beach to the ocean during one of our trips back in February and I thought I was going to die of excitement and joy. But still, my gluttony for wildlife viewing left me wanting more; I wanted to see the big mommas laying the eggs.

So when I heard about Tortuguero National Park (aka turtle central), an incredibly remote area lodged up in the northeast corner of Costa Rica, I knew I needed to go. Turtles from all over the Central America region flock to the town’s 18 kilometer stretch of beach to lay their eggs. Not to mention, the national park itself is referred to as “the Amazon of Central America,” home to thousands of unique species not found anywhere else in Costa Rica. Tortuguero is one of the only places in Costa Rica to see the rare Great Green Macaw, something I found particularly enticing considering that Scarlet macaws are my favorite bird.

Between the macaws, the turtles, and the Amazon-esque nature of the area, I already felt a strong desire to venture out there. But when I read that September is actually the best month to see turtles laying their eggs, I knew I needed to go.

The conclusion of Landyn’s first class meant we had a few extra days to travel last weekend, so we went with my pick: Tortuguero.

Getting There

The trek up to Tortuguero is an experience in itself. You can either take a private shuttle from San Jose to a small town called La Pavona, or if you’re balling on a budget (i.e. the category Landyn and I fall into), you can take a public bus from San Jose to Cariari, and then another public bus, the size of a short school bus in the States, from Cariari to La Pavona.

The thing about taking shuttles down here, as convenient and air-conditioned as they may be, is you’re typically only riding with other tourists. There’s no space to interact with locals. The best part of our travel day to Tortuguero was a woman on the bus who pulled me aside and said with abundant enthusiasm, “Me encanta las gringas,” as she gazed at my blonde locks and fair skin. These are the small encounters, quick, yet endearing, conversations I would miss if we traveled the bougie route.

No matter which route you go, all roads lead to La Pavona, from which there is only one path to Tortuguero: a 1.5-hour boat ride through the winding river canals. As someone who gets motion sickness fairly easily, the idea of a small boat winding through the channels made me a tad nervous. But it actually turned out to be a wonderful, supremely relaxing experience.

The village of Tortuguero consists of zero cars and zero streets. The sole sidewalk stretches the town’s 2-kilometer length, and small dirt paths branch off for its 600-meter width.

Our hotel was right on the beach (with such a small town, almost all of them are), and that first day Landyn and I napped in the hammocks, had a few cervezas, and made relaxation our number one priority. After a travel day that began at 5am, we needed this chill afternoon. Especially since we needed to meet our tour guide at the office, ready to roll, at 5:30am the following morning.

The National Park

We were so excited for our day of adventure, we forced ourselves to go to sleep at 8pm. We felt exhausted and wanted to wake feeling fully rested. We utilized every single outlet in the room to charge our phones, my camera, and the GoPro. We picked out our clothes the night before. We were completely prepared and ready to roll when it came time to leave the next morning.

So imagine our surprise when we couldn’t open our door.

It was stuck. We were stuck. Trapped inside our room as the minutes ticked away, our tour group meeting time creeping evermore close.

Landyn was panicked. And pissed. I called the front desk and desperately tried to explain what was happening. My knowledge of Spanish never really prepared me for “Please help us, our door won’t open and we’re stuck in our room and we have a tour leaving without us in five minutes!”

I basically just kept frantically saying “Ahora, ahora por favor!” along with our room number, hoping that if nothing else, the employee’s curiosity would send him adrift in our direction.

Thankfully, just a couple of minutes later my employee friend wandered up to our room, popped his head in our window to confirm we were the stuck folks, and promptly kicked our door in. What an efficient solution. We were saved.

With 2 minutes to spare, Landyn and I hastened off to begin our day, with a hearty adrenaline rush boosting our pace.

Although it does have a small land component, Tortuguero National Park is comprised primarily of canals which take you through its protected areas surrounded by water. Some of these canals are closer to large channels, and some are small, narrow offshoots that take you directly through the heart of Tortuguero’s pristine jungle. Because of this, the only way to truly see the best parts of the park is via boat.

So that morning we met our guide, walked to the park entrance, hopped into our canoe, and set off on our wildlife-spotting expedition.

And let me tell ya, the early morning wakeup call was so, SO worth it to see all of the wildlife we did.

Dozens and I mean dozens of various species of neotropical birds including Herons, Parrots, Blackbirds, Ibis, Ducks, Rails, Jacanas, and Toucans. Howler monkeys, Spider monkeys, lizards that can walk on water (dubbed the “Jesus Christ” lizard by the local guides), and Tortuguero’s famous Caimans also joined us on our morning boat ride.

Landyn and I were geeking out, ecstatic over all of the cool things we were seeing. We were seated directly in front of the guide, and with every exciting encounter we had, he got more hyped, too. So instead of heading back towards the park’s docks when it came time for the tour’s end, he eagerly asked us if we wanted to see some river turtles. Um, hell yeah we want to see some river turtles!

So we paddled against the grain, passing all the other boats heading the opposite way to shore, and immersed ourselves deeper and deeper into the canals.

We stopped to look at a bird, one we had already seen, off to the right of the boat, when I inexplicably looked left. Over the tops of the trees, about 200 meters ahead of us, I saw two huge, beautiful birds flying gracefully across the sky. When you’ve seen one bird of this species, their distinct shape is impossible to confuse; I immediately knew I had just seen the Great Green Macaw. The rare bird I was so, so excited to potentially see here.

“Oh my god, Landyn, I swear I just saw the Green Macaw!”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I saw it! I looked over there while you guys were looking at the Tiger Heron and I SAW them, I swear!”

Much to my annoyance, Landyn was doubtful. He turned around to the guide, “She thinks she might have just seen the Green Macaw.”

The guide laughed and said, “Well, it’s pretty rare to see them, but it if you saw two together that could have been it…”

Don’t throw me a bone to make me feel validated, sir, I know what I saw. #mansplaining

“Yeah, that was it. I saw them, I know I did.”

We paddled onward.

Not two minutes later, we heard a sound. Much like a Macaw’s shape, once you’ve heard their loud, screeching call it is also unmistakable. Our guide, shocked, said, “Well now that’s a Macaw!” We whipped our heads towards their distinct sound and gazed in wonder as three pairs of exquisite Great Green Macaws flew over our heads.

When they faded from view and the mystifying charm of their presence faded, I erupted. “I TOLD YOU. I TOLD YOU. I TOLD YOU. I KNEW I SAW THEM AND YOU DIDN’T BELIEVE ME. NONE OF YOU BELIEVED ME.”

Landyn laughed and flushed as I shoved him playfully while I yelled.  “I’m sorry, I thought maybe you just wanted to see them so bad that you thought you mistook something else for them.”

*Staring at him incredulously, expectantly*

“You’re right, you’re totally right, I fucked up, you’re an excellent birder, better than me, I’m sorry for doubting you!”

Yeah, that’s right, GROVEL.

We saw another two pairs before heading back towards the docks, over an hour after everyone else.

With each new sighting, I obnoxiously, quite sassily, asked Landyn “Hey, do you think those were Green Macaws?! I mean I think so, but I can’t be too sure…” As he laughed and said, “Alright, I got it, message received loud and clear.”

Landyn hardly ever undermines me, hardly ever doubts me at all, really, so when he does I need to take full advantage of my ability to humorously guilt-trip him over it. So that’s exactly what I did.

Back on land, we spent our entire breakfast identifying the birds we had seen, marking them off in Landyn’s book and gushing over how incredible our morning was.

We contemplated taking a nap before exploring the rest of the park, but ultimately we were way too jacked, way too hyped, to sit still now. So we headed out to explore the park’s lone hiking trail.

And it was a horrible time. There were these huge, red flies, psychotic, terrifying, kamikaze red flies, that were attacking us from the moment we entered the park until we left. I have learned to accept bugs since moving down here, and I really do feel I have tripled my insect tolerance. But these things were relentless and flying directly into my face, repeatedly. I couldn’t deal. I took off, sprinting down the trail, seeking the shelter of open air.

We had made it just over halfway through the trail, and that was enough for us. The best part of the park was the section over the water, anyways. I was D-O-N-E done. So we wandered around the town for a bit before ultimately finding our way back to the hotel hammocks, enjoying a beer and a snooze with the sound of the ocean as our background music.

Tortugas

Nighttime turtle-watching is heavily regulated in Tortuguero. It works like this: you tell a guide you’d like to go turtle-watching no later than 4pm the day of. The employees of the National Park then get a final headcount of how many people will be on the beach from all of the town’s tour companies combined. Then, they divide them up into two shifts: one half goes out to the beach from 8-10pm, the other half from 10pm-midnight. Furthermore, they divide those halves into even smaller groups, designating each one their own small “sector.” The sectors are pre-determined boundary lines drawn to ensure that there are never too many people in one area of the beach at once so the turtles have a higher chance of laying their eggs unperturbed. The National Park releases the time/sector information promptly at 6pm each evening.

We were placed in the 10pm-midnight slot.

So, between finding out this information at 6:05pm and when our tour began, we took another nap, met up with some friends for a beer, and feebly tried to contain our excitement.

Dressed entirely in black, per the request of the park so that we may blend in with the vegetation if need be, hiking shoes laced, caked in bug spray, I felt like a turtle-hunting warrior goddess. What is it about an all-black outfit that makes you feel so badass and powerful?

At 9 we met outside the tour office, had a quick debriefing about the do’s-and-don’ts of turtle-watching (don’t scare them, under no circumstances should you touch them, and absolutely NO photography, even without the flash), and walked to our designated sector––a stretch of beach on the north side of the peninsula Landyn and I had yet to explore.

We reached our spot, shut off all personal light sources, and were lead onto the sand, the guide’s small red flashlight serving as her shepherd’s crook. Certified local spotters assist guides in finding nesting turtles that may be hidden underneath vegetation on the beach’s treeline in order to speed up the process for tourists like us. We were hauling ass our entire trek because they already had a turtle in their sights.

Landyn and I were first in line, right on the guide’s heels despite the brisk pace. When she turned around to warn us we were within arm’s length, and therefore gently shush the group, my stomach dropped. I was suddenly, inexplicably, strangely nervous.

It felt like I had been waiting my whole life to see this.

The guide moved back a few branches on a small shrub, and I had to forcibly hold in a gasp while Landyn grabbed my arm, echoing my own shock and awe.

This thing was huge. 

Quick background: there are generally four steps to the egg-laying process: first, they find a suitable spot on the sand and dig their hole. The turtles are extremely paranoid during this phase, interpreting every small sound and shadow as a potential threat. They often turn back around and seek the shelter of the waves when even remotely spooked. Second, if the spot looks good and they’ve dug their hole, they begin laying eggs. It’s during this phase that they enter a trance-like state, where nothing will deter them from laying the eggs. Even if they are pounced on by a jaguar, or touched by a human, they will not stop. Third, they cover their eggs with sand so they are well-cushioned against beach traffic and predators. Fourth, they return to the ocean.

We caught this turtle just after she finished laying her eggs. They looked like perfect, white ping-pong balls––a stark contrast to their black sand surroundings. We then witnessed her covering her eggs, and painstakingly untangling herself from the shrub’s roots before finally being able to spin herself around and orient herself towards the waves.

And it was as if I was six years old again, pushing my wild blonde curls out of my face to concentrate on watching my turtle race down the beach. The same overpowering desire to see my new friend reach her destination consumed my thoughts, quickening my heart rate and making me feel like I needed to jump up and down. But I didn’t need to cheer loudly this time, I didn’t need to build a track with walls to help guide the way. This momma knew what she was doing.

After quite a few breaks (she looked SO tired…I guess childbirth is grueling for any species), she finally made it into the waves. Our entire group breathed a sigh of relief as we watched her disappear into the surf.

It was really just one epic, high-stakes turtle race.

We were incredibly lucky to have spotted a second turtle immediately after the first, and this one was absolutely enormous. It was legitimately the size of a kitchen table.

Whereas we saw the second half of the process with the first turtle, we were able to witness the first half of the process with the second. We watched in awe as this magnificent lady plopped one, two, even three slimy, glistening eggs at a time into the meter-deep hole.

It was unbelievable how large they were and how quickly they filled up the sandy crater.

We departed the beach when she began to cover the eggs, though I personally could have stayed out there until dawn. I was wholly captivated.

The final exclamation point to what felt like a damn-near perfect evening was our spotting of the iconic red-eyed tree frog which I have been dying to see since our arrival in January.

Despite it being nearly 1am when we got back to our room, I was wide awake. It was one of those times where I couldn’t even articulate how overjoyed I was. Landyn and I both kept repeating “What. A. Day.” too overloaded with stimuli to delve into it any further.

We saved our gushing for the bus ride home the following day. As we recounted the events of our weekend and tried to pick a favorite activity, favorite animal we saw, a fresh wave of giddiness washed over me, transporting me back to my childhood days once again.

Heading into the weekend, I knew I was excited, but I could never have anticipated how truly ecstatic I would feel. As I stared out the bus window, I tried to figure out why.

I think there’s something so uniquely special about staying interested in something that enraptured you in childhood. Nearly everything about a person changes from childhood to adulthood, free time interests in particular, so it’s comforting, grounding, in a way, to partake in something you loved to do as a kid and still find it mesmerizing as an adult.

As much as things change, some things remain the same.

Until next time, friends.