Upon our arrival to the bat house, we were thrilled to discover there was an old path through the barrier mangroves that led down to the beach. We wasted no time in hiring the young ranch-hand who lived in the little house through the woods to show us the way.
It was a clear, June day and we decided to bring our two rescue dogs with us. Lee wore sneakers and I opted for flip-flops since the day was hot.
That was mistake number one and mistake number two.
David (pronounced Da-veed) lead us away from the big house and down a machete-ed path through an over grown field where several horses munched on grass and avoided us and our dogs. Tiny yellow wildflowers grew among the weeds and I stopped to see if they smelled good. They didn't.
Charlie and Babygirl ran like wild pups back and forth along the path until we came to a thicker grove of wild hedges and I insisted they stay closer. We rounded a curve and came to a steep drop off with a very brown river not exactly raging, but not exactly trickling either, between us and the opposite shore. David explained there used to be a bridge crossing the river, but it was no problem. He knew another way.
So we turned away from the sound of the sea and headed upstream, staying relatively close to the bank. Soon David was using his machete to clear an old path. We meandered closer to and further away from the water until we came to a clearing along the edge of the water. David looked with some hesitation along the bank.
"Cocodrilos?" I asked (Crocodile. And in Costa Rica, they grow easily to four or five meters. That’s twelve to fifteen feet.)
"Only babies," was the not-too-convincing response I received.
Not asking where the mother might be, I tried to shove down that nagging feeling that I was getting more of an adventure than I had asked for. We marched on, away from the water again and this time through very thick brush. It took some time for David to clear us a narrow path and I began asking if we should turn back.
"No problemo."
Soon we were at the water’s edge again. This time it was just a shallow, clear pebble-strewn stream—just a little more than ankle deep.
Charlie bounded across the water after David and Lee, but Babygirl refused to get her feet wet. Under the conditions, I can’t say I blame her. Remember what I said about mistake number one? I tried to pick her up, but she escaped me and ran along the bank downstream. That left me on one side of the water and Lee on the other with me chasing a dog down a slippery, rocky bank into unknown territory.
I won’t make more out of than I should. It was very frustrating and took some time, but no real danger ensued and eventually I got her in my arms and was able to cross to the other side.
And into the mangrove muck.
The tide was out and we had officially entered the mangroves. I thought the whole point of this adventure was to find a path that avoided the tangled roots.
At first it wasn't too bad. I stayed on top of the roots and jumped from tree to tree avoiding most of the muck. But after a while, the trees became less dense and the roots further apart. I found it difficult to leap that far and found myself trying my luck with stepping onto the earth below.
Then there was mistake number two. Flip flops. They come off your feet really easy. And they stick in the molasses quicksand. After trying my luck at venturing from the relative stability of a mangrove root and finding myself knee deep in oozing, oily, black muck—after grabbing a nearby lifeless-arm looking branch and hauling myself back to safety with the help of both Lee and David, I was almost unable to retrieve my shoe. Some strong hand from the Creature of the Black Lagoon had an iron grip on the it.
So the crazy thing is, while I was trying to rescue my shoe—and myself—from the sucking blackness, two young teenagers appeared, clad only in flip-flops and bathing suits. They were fresh and clean and fairly skipped along, like two pixies come out of the woods.
I watched them flit by—wondering where on earth they had come from—until they were gone, apparently down the path to the sea, the path which I could not see for the life of me.
I think that was when I wondered if we would ever make it home again. Hours had gone by, and when and if we finally got to the beach, we still had to walk home.
I did rescue my flip-flop and figured out how to use not just the roots, but the base of the trees, to wend my way carefully along the path that only I was unaware of.
Eventually, we came out of the mangrove swamp and back to the river again. This time it was a raging chocolate milkshake. David was quick to explain that we were almost there. The crashing waves could finally be heard nearby and we only had to get in the middle of the now-much-deeper-wider river and walk in it, dowstream (with the cocodrilos hiding somewhere in its chocolaty depths) to the open ocean.
I cannot believe my stupidity. I actually got into the river. Lee carried a squirming, terrified Babygirl high over his head and David carried Charlie. We walked for only a few minutes. My stupidity meter was pegged and a creepy feeling had its clawing fingers around my neck and was threatening to drown me. I could NOT walk any further. I HAD to get out.
David agreed. In fact, even he seemed nervous, and that could not be a good thing. So when I expressed my need to get out of the water he piped up with a cheery, “No problemo,” we could just go back through a little bit more mangrove and then we would be at our destination.
I tried not to appear completely panic stricken as I climbed back on the bank and—thankfully, this time—entered the marsh. It was much firmer. Sand made up most of the ground so close to shore and I could actually walk between the now sparsely growing trees.
We came around another bend and the beautiful, shallow water where the river meets the sea met my sore eyes. It was so clear and wide and shallow. I dashed across the now harmless looking river and found myself standing on a beach that looked like something out of Gilligan’s Island. Palm trees grew almost down to the rolling waves. Mountains rose into the mist off in the distance. Pelicans swooped and played, looking for fish. And then there was the 4-wheel drive truck parked in the sand.
4-wheel drive truck?
And what about those teens that flitted along the path I could not seem to find?
And how would we get back home, no matter how remote and beautiful this beach seemed?
No probelmo.
We were standing just feet from a hard-packed sand road that ran along the beach and back out to the main road not a mile from the big house on the four-hundred acre ranch.
Apparently when you ask for the path to the beach, you should be very specific.
It only took about a half-hour to walk home—the dogs running back and forth like young pups and me with my flip-flops in my hand.