In Search of the Scarlet Macaw

Last February I went to Belize, in part to see the incredible array of birds that live there.  This post documents my efforts to see the iconic and endangered Scarlet Macaw.

---

In the fall of 2017 I came upon the book The Last Flight of the Scarlet Macaw by Bruce Barcott.  It centers on the events of the mid-2000s, during which the government of Belize wanted to build a dam that would have disturbed and destroyed habitat for the Macaw, which is endangered.  Because Belize is such a small country, it is dependent on its neighbors, especially Mexico, for energy.  The dam was a way for Belize to become more independent.

The book was fascinating and re-ignited my interest in seeing the Macaw.  On my trip to Guatemala in 2017 I’d hoped to make an excursion into Honduras to try to see the bird, but it didn’t work out.  So when a buddy suggested we check out Belize, I was all for it.

The prime place in Belize to see the bird is the village of Red Bank, in the south-central part of the country.  Fortunately for me, it was only an hour or so drive from Cockscomb Basin, where I’d been camping and birding for the previous days.

---

Leaving the Mayan Mountains behind in the clouds, it felt good to be out in the sunshine again.  The scenery was flat pine savannah, and Turkey and Black Vultures circled over the highway as I drove.

I reached the village in the early afternoon and pulled into the Scarlet Macaw B&B.  The owner, Florentino Sub, came out to welcome me to the village.  It was a quaint place, with Mennonite farmers rolling down the road in horse-drawn carts.  The B&B was also a quiet, simple place.  Six rooms were at one end of what looked like a meeting house, and the bathroom and shower were just outside.  A thick layer of palm fronds comprised the roof.

After paying for the night and arranging for a tour the next day, Florentino showed me the short nature trail that wandered through a small wooded area behind the building.    Acorn Woodpeckers squawked overhead, joined by Brown Jays.  A Collared Acarari (a kind of small toucan) darted from a treetop into the sunlight, highlighting its yellow and black beak and bright red rump.

Acorn Woodpecker.

Once I completed the loop I sat on the back stoop of the building and took in the view.  It wasn’t much to look at at first glance, but was actually great habitat.  In several hours of sitting there, I saw 24 species of birds, 3 for the first time (Ruddy Ground-Dove, Golden-Hooded Tanager, and Red-lored Parrot).

Sign at the trail behind the Scarlet Macaw B&B.

In a remarkable coincidence, a pair of Painted Buntings showed up, a year to the day after my first sighting of one in Guatemala.  At that time they were the bird I most wanted to see in North America.  Now it was the Scarlet Macaw.

Painted Bunting at the Scarlet Macaw B&B.

Just before sunset Florentino appeared from his family’s quarters, and lifted a finger to the sky.  He came over to me and said he’d heard the Macaw; since all the birds here were new to me, I didn’t notice.  We walked to the edge of his property and looked at a hill to the west, where he said they liked to gather.  But after ten minutes we didn’t hear them again.  I hoped we’d have better luck tomorrow.

Evening in Red Bank Village.  We’d just heard the macaws, but couldn’t see them.

For supper Florentino’s wife made me a pleasant dish of rice and beans.  He joined me as I ate, and we talked about his history with the bird.  He had realized in the early 2000s that preservation of the bird and its habitat would not only help the bird, but also the community.  He has worked since to keep the hills west of town undeveloped, which is no easy feat in an economy that is struggling.  Make no mistake:  Red Bank is one of the front lines in wildlife conservation.     

The next morning I was up just after 5, as the gravel trucks were also starting to run at that hour.  It was raining again, so I wondered if we’d have any chance to see the bird.

Though we were supposed to leave at 6, it wasn’t until nearly 7 that we took off in my rental car.  Instead of Florentino, who was blind in one eye, I got young Rojelio (“Ro”) as my guide.  He was in his twenties and wore a perpetual smile.  We’d talked the previous day and I’d liked him right away.

We drove through town and up the grade to the west, between the hills we could see from the B&B.  We stopped at the top, at a wide spot in the road.  It was overcast and looked to start raining again any second, but we had time to watch some Keel-billed Toucans and some Red-lored Parrots.  Bright blue flutterings from the bushes proved to be Indigo Buntings.  But no Macaws.  Then the rain came.

Ro suggested we got further west, to Florentino’s farm to check out the birds there and give the Macaws time to show up.  So we drove out the muddy road into the green hills without getting stuck in the numerous puddles, and stopped whenever something fluttered in the foliage along the road.  Somehow Ro spotted a Groove-billed Ani as I drove, and I got a glimpse–the first one I’d ever seen one.

Groove-billed Ani.

When we reached the river crossing we pulled into a small drive that accessed the farm.  The rain had ceased, so out we went.

The birds were as numerous here as at Cockscomb Basin, but fortunately I now knew some of their names.  Ro was a great spotter, and we had a good time making our way through the farm.  We reached a small shelter just in time for yet another shower, during which I saw a pair of Golden-Olive Woodpeckers for the first time.

By the time we left the farm, I’d seen 25 birds, 6 of them lifers.  Even if the weather wasn’t cooperating, the birds sure were. And now the sky was clearing, holding a promise of more bird activity.  Another guide showed up with his clients, and told us they’d seen 13 Macaws just outside of Red Bank.  Ro and I jumped in my ride and took off for town.

But the closer we got to town the more ominous the weather looked.  A dark squall line filled the eastern sky.  He had me stop on the edge of town and we got out.  It was sprinkling, so I left my camera inside.

A loud SQUAWK! punctured the air above us, and Ro spotted one of the Macaws high up on the hillside.  I got a glance before it moved out of sight.  Then two more flew from the same tree, back to the west.  They were huge and unmistakable in flight.  The green backdrop highlighted their brilliant red and blue feathers.  The word majestic came to mind.  And then they were gone.  Within a minute, the rain was on us.

It was a long wait in the car, or it seemed so.  Ro and I chatted, but the rain brought with it a heavy atmosphere.  I was glad I had gotten a glimpse of the birds, and felt that I could leave satisfied.  But Ro was determined that I have a better look.

About half an hour later the sun began to poke through the clouds and the rain stopped.  As quickly as the rain left, so the sun came out.  We got out and glassed the hillside, listening intently for a macaw call.

Once again, Ro’s eagle eye came through, and we could see the red from one of the birds way up the hill.  He turned to me, and with a smile told me “Let’s go for a hike.”  A narrow trail led straight up the hillside.  The ground was saturated, and Ro had a tough time in his galoshes.  I fared a bit better in my trail running shoes, but still slipped.

At the first fork in the trail, Ro led us to the left, towards the snag in which we earlier saw the birds.  Sure enough, as we neared an opening the bright red feathers were visible through the foliage.  We weren’t far, perhaps 50 feet away, but did not have a clear sight of the bird.  So we backed off and went up and around some more.

Higher on the hill, we once again worked our way over to the dead tree.  Where once had been a lone bird, now 3 Scarlet Macaws sat in a row.  Ro turned and smiled at me—success!   We were on the level with them, and had a decent view.  Ro pulled back some branches for me to get some photos, and after that, we stood in silence for a few minutes and admired them through our binos.

Scarlet Macaws at last!

I had hoped to see them for a while, but never thought I’d be so struck by the sight of them.  We were about 40 feet away, far enough that they didn’t notice us (or didn’t care).  They looked so big and brilliant, a bird of the gods if there ever was one.  I wanted to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.  They were gorgeous.

We hiked back down in silence, avoiding any major falls on the slick trail.  As we got to the car Ro asked if I got some good pictures.  “I think so,” I told him.  I knew the pictures wouldn’t win any awards, but they would always serve as a reminder of one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

The Scarlet Macaw is the second rarest bird on my Life List, after the California Condor.  It goes without saying which is the more charismatic.  But it’s worth noting that the arc of the Condor’s existence was also nearly brought to a halt by the hand of man, and that because of man’s efforts its numbers are growing (slowly) once again.

I can only hope the same is true for the Scarlet Macaw.  A world without it is poorer for the loss.

 

Birding in Jaguar Country

 

Day 1

As I drove up the entrance road, I began to wonder if I’d make it to the Cockscomb Basin visitor’s center in time to check in for a bed.  I pulled in right at 4:30, just as one of the park staff was locking up.  He stayed around to stamp our tickets and to let us in the dorm.  As we walked back out of the building, the birds seemed to be everywhere around us.

After dropping my pack in my room, I opted for a short hike down to the river to look for birds in the evening light.  I smeared some bug spray on my legs and arms and set off.

It didn’t take long for the mosquitoes to find me, and they came in force.  The bug spray didn’t deter them, either.  I was wearing shorts and sandals, and they seemed to especially target my feet.

Now I consider myself a tough person, but I quickly learned that I cannot handle mosquitoes biting my feet.  It was torture.  And that was a shame, as the light was gorgeous, shining on the trees in a clearing on the river bank.  I saw a toucan flying in the distance, but the whine around my face and ears prevented me from getting a good look.  I power-walked back up to the dorm and put on more layers.  And as happens in the tropics, dark came on quickly.

The staff turned on a generator at 6 p.m., to provide light for cooking and power to recharge devices.  I took my bird guide and journal into the kitchen area and heated up water for a backpacker’s meal I’d brought for this occasion.  A nice Dutch couple joined me, and told me about their hikes that day.  In short, the park held a lot of promise, and I knew the next morning would be an exciting one.

Anticipating an early start, I was in bed before 9.  Unfortunately the Dutch couple was not, and they stayed up talking well past 10.  Even though they were in a different room, the walls were thin and I could follow their conversation, if only I spoke Dutch.

---

 

Morning on the Wari Loop.

Day 2

Early the next morning the rain began to fall.  It was still ink-black dark, and I lay awake for a few minutes, listening to the drops on the tin roof.  I hoped it would clear up in time for sunrise and luckily, it did.

I decided to have a quick cup of coffee before heading out on the Wari Loop, which I was told would be fruitful.  In fact, the park employee told me it was common to see up to 50 species before the first bridge, which was only a half mile away.

Just as darkness fell fast, it went from dark to daylight quickly.  I was off on the trail as the sunlight began to filter down through the trees.  Everywhere bird songs and calls filled the air, most of them unfamiliar.

My head was on a swivel as I walked into the woods.  Birds both beautiful and drab were everywhere.  It was a buffet.  I seemed to have the best luck with hummingbirds, as they were bothered the least by my approach.

Half the time I was looking through my binos, and the other half I was flipping through my guide, trying to identify what I was seeing.  I loved the names:  Crimson-collared Tanager, Variable Seedeater, Stub-tailed Spadebill, White-collared Manakin, Stripe-throated Hermit.  All were as exotic as they sounded.

Crimson-collared Tanager, one of my favorite birds I saw in Belize.

Along with the birds, the mosquitoes were out in force.  Even though it was warm enough for shirts and a t-shirt, I wore pants and a long-sleeve windbreaker for defense, along with bug dope.  Still, I could feel them drilling through my clothing.  It was the price to pay for being in the tropics and looking for wildlife.

On the way back towards the visitor center, I saw a track in the mud:  it looked feline, but I had no idea if it was a jaguar or something smaller.  I took a photo for later examination.

Cat track, probably one of the small ones that call Cockscomb Basin home.

I completed the loop around mid-morning, my head spinning from all the IDs I’d tried to make the last few hours.  So, I took a meal and coffee break in the screened-in kitchen.  It was quite lovely, feeling like I was outside yet being protected from the mosquitoes.

Black-headed Trogon, hanging out by the cookhouse.

After noon I decided on a hike up to Ben’s Bluff, where I hoped to get a view of the Sanctuary and to see some more birds.  It was hot and humid, but shady.  Most of the birds were taking a siesta, so it was quieter than the morning.

Along the way I passed a waterfall and swimming hole, but with people there I decided to stop there on the way down.  After the waterfall, the trial started climbing in earnest, and though I looked for jaguar trucks in the muddy creek crossings, I saw none.

The trail climbed out of the forest and out into the open pines.  Clouds had moved in, but didn’t look like rain.  A couple of tourists with a guide were at the top, but left as I arrived.  The air was warm, but not as oppressive as down lower.  A gentle breeze blew from the east.

I put my camera bag down on the picnic table and let the breeze cool down my sweat-soaked shirt.  Even with the clouds, the view was lovely.  A sea of green spread out below me, with hills in the distance.  A sign said the country’s second highest peak was out there, but clouds obscured the summit.  No matter.  It was gorgeous and I had it all to myself.

Panoramic View from Ben’s Bluff.

It is difficult to describe the peace and serenity I felt up there.  Besides the wind in the pines, there was no other sound.  I felt like I could be the last person on earth.  There was no sign of human presence in sight, until some other tourists came up about 45 minutes after I’d arrived.

They were birders, too, but wanted to talk the whole time.  Though I was interested in what they’d seen, I was more interested in just sitting and being present.  But that was no longer possible with all the talk, so I thanked them and set off back down the trail.

There was still little bird activity, though a Red-capped Manakin popped up to see what was coming down the trail.  I’d seen them before on my jungle trek in Guatemala, but was delighted to see them again and up close.

The little yet lovely Red-capped Manakin.

As I passed the spur trail down to the waterfall, I saw another hiker getting out.  I figured I could at least dip my feet in and wash my sweaty face, and take some photos of the waterfall.  But as I set my stuff down, he put his sandals on and took off, so I was alone.

I tested the water with my hand, and it felt just right for a swim.  With the hiker gone and out of sight, I stripped down and plunged in the aquamarine water.  I swam towards the waterfall, which was about fifteen feet high.  Then I turned over and floated on my back downstream to where I’d put in.  No one else was in sight, so I repeated it before returning to shore and getting dressed again.  I set off feeling refreshed.

Waterfall on the Ben’s Bluff Trail.  It was a nice swimming hole, too.

It was mid-afternoon when I returned, so I opted for a late lunch and a last round of coffee while I sat outside the dorms, watching the birds.  Hummingbirds buzzed in the trees in front of me and in the bushes nearby, and a pair of Turkey Vultures soared overhead.

As evening came on, I decided on a short walk nearby.  I put on long sleeves again and set out.  The mosquitoes were back, and seemed even more aggressive than in the morning.  I could feel them biting my ankles through my socks.  Still, I saw several new birds, including a sparrow-sized bird with a hummingbird-like bill: a Rufous-tailed Jacamar!  Yet another lifer for the day.

Though I tried to be patient with the bugs, they finally drove me back inside.  When the generator came on I made another backpacker’s meal and updated my list for the day, then turned in early.  Now that I was getting used to the birds there, I felt the next day would be even more productive.

By the end of the day I’d seen 48 species of birds, 22 of them lifers.  It was a good day.

---

Day 3

After midnight the rain started and didn’t let up till after dawn.  I could hear the rain falling off the roof into large puddles around the dorm.

At first light, I got up for breakfast and prepared for the moment it cleared off.  I had to wait a while.  No matter.  I set off on a trail to the south, towards Tiger Fern Falls, a double waterfall just down the hill from an overlook.

Because of the rain, not many of the birds were stirring.  But a brief period of sunshine livened things up, and I saw my first Ivory-billed Woodcreeper (not to be confused with the Ivory-billed Woodpecker, an extinct species of the southern US swamps).  Further up the trail I met four hikers who’d spent the night at the campsite at the overlook.  They all looked tired, and said the rain had kept them up—especially the two who slept in hammocks.  They were glad to be hiking out.

Ivory-billed Woodcreeper at work.

The view from the overlook was impressive, though would have been moreso had it not been overcast.  As soon as I arrived I could hear parrots screeching on the ridge, but couldn’t get close enough in time to see them.  But I could hear the falls in the next drainage over, so I headed that way.

Leaving the grassy knob the trail dropped sharply into the creek bottom.  But, the waterfall was a pleasant reward:  a nice twenty-footer with an inviting pool at the base.  I recalled that this was supposed to be a double waterfall, but I only saw one.  As I took pictures, I noticed a faint trail that led up the right side of the falls.  I carefully waded across the outlet and followed it up to find the second, larger falls.

I smiled as I rounded the bend to see the 50-foot waterfall cascading into a large emerald pool.  It reminded me of a waterfall my wife and I had hiked to in Hawaii, though this time there was no one else around.  After a round of pictures I stripped down and jumped in.  It was heavenly.  And as a bonus, there were no mosquitoes here.

Upper Tiger Fern Falls, Cockscomb Basin Wildlife Reserve.

After feeling sufficiently refreshed, I got dressed again and sat down on a rock to enjoy the scenery.  This was the only hike I wanted to do today, so I figured I’d take my time out here.

Twenty minutes later I noticed the clouds getting darker.  They seemed to speed along just above the ridgetop, and got me moving again.  But as soon as I reached the lower falls, the sun came out again and provided some great light for more pictures.  Then I could hear it:  more rain coming.

Lower Tiger Fern Falls, just before the rain hit.

I put away my phone and camera in my bag and pulled out my rain jacket to cover it.  I didn’t mind getting wet—the air temperature was warm—but I most certainly didn’t want to lose either device.  I hiked back up to the knob, where it seemed to let up as long as I was in the open.  But once back in the trees the sky let loose again and the trail became a creek.  It didn’t take long to get soaked.

Considering my situation, I figured it made no sense to wait it out under a tree—I couldn’t get any wetter, though my gear could.  So I started jogging back.  It was fun, slogging along without regard to the mud.  I felt good, and I imagined running in just shorts and shoes in this weather would be quite pleasant.

A half hour later I jogged into camp and up to the dorm.  As I went inside and changed, the rain stopped.  I changed into dry clothes and hung my wet ones, then ate lunch.  But it wasn’t long before the next round came, so I stayed close to shelter.  It was nice to sit on the porch and watch the rain come down without mosquitoes draining me.

That afternoon I tried another foray, but was stopped again by the rain.  The sound of it coming was tremendous:  a wall of water coming my way.  Wasn’t this supposed to be the dry season?  Luckily, I was near the campground, so I stayed under a shelter and did pull-ups on a crossbeam to pass the time.

The evening was a wash, too.  My planned big day had been spoiled by the rain, though all was not lost.  I still saw 9 lifers and had hiked to a beautiful double waterfall.  I hoped for a better day the next day.

---

Day 4

My fourth day there I planned to leave in the late morning, after a morning hike and last sweep through the area for new birds.  I was up before dawn and put on my wet pants from yesterday—they hadn’t dried overnight, which wasn’t a surprise given the humid air.  I hoped that wearing them out this morning would speed the drying process, though for now they gave me a brief chill.

I sauntered along the loop that I hadn’t completed my first evening.  Now I was feeling good and familiar with what I was seeing:  White-collared Manakins, Rufous-tailed Hummingbirds, Spot-breasted Wrens, Melodious Blackbirds, Red-throated Ant-tanagers, Collared Acararis, and many more.

Red-throated Ant-Tanager

Near the end of the loop I noticed the sky darkening once again, so I made a break for it.  I made it just as a torrent of rain washed over the area, and celebrated with a large breakfast of cereal and coffee.  But I was tiring of the rain, and during the next break in the weather, I packed and left.

I was worried that the rain had made the entrance road a mess, but seeing other vehicles in the parking lot gave me hope.  Despite all the rain, the road out proved to be no issue.  The only really muddy section was down on the flats, not far from the pavement.  I stopped and had a smoothie at the lodge, where I could check my e-mail.  I was expecting some news from work, but fortunately it didn’t come.  But I did send my wife a message on Skype to let her know that I was all right, if a little wet.

She asked where I was going next and I answered without hesitation:  I was going to Red Bank, in search of the rare and endangered Scarlet Macaw.

Driving in a Foreign Country

Rolling down the highway somewhere near Maya Center, Belize.

Though island life was relaxing and simple, I was ready to leave Caye Caulker for the mainland.  Perhaps it was too laid back for me.  I needed more to do.

So, I took the mid-morning water taxi back to Belize City and got a ride to a rental car agency.  It was time to hit the road on my own, to go for the birds.

I had never driven in a foreign country, but given Belize’s use of English and American traffic laws, I wasn’t as worried as I was excited.  I’m an impatient person by nature and waiting and riding on buses always seemed to take far more time than I’d like.  One such ride in Guatemala resulted in the temporary loss of my backpack, so having my own ride seemed like the best option.

It was a Sunday and pretty mellow at the agency.  A very nice lady named Cheryl checked out a Hyundai SUV to me, and after inspecting it, I hit the road.  But first, I had to go back through Belize City to get out.

Like most other countries, traffic laws are seen as suggestions and not as hard and fast rules.  Right away I got passed on the right in a construction zone, and when I reached the first roundabout, it was chaos.  But being a defensive driver, I got on the horn and didn’t show weakness as I bulled my way through.  Sure I got cut off, but I cut off others—it was just business.

That’s the interesting thing:  no one takes all that shit personally like Americans do.  Everyone there just kept on going, no lingering to yell or flip the bird.  This was fun!  After all, I was on holiday and had no clue about anything.

On the edge of town I encountered a detour.  At first I cringed:  I had no city map, no Google Maps, just dead reckoning and my own sense of direction.  I saw a propane truck ahead and figured it would know the way back to the highway, and after a lengthy drive through the backstreets, I turned out to be correct.  Victory!  I cranked up the reggae on the radio and tested out the acceleration for the first time.

The highway was only two lanes, but in decent shape.  I got passed several times, mostly by police.  An older model Ford F150 also passed me, with a coffin in the back.  There was no tailgate—it was strapped in with some flimsy rope.  I slowed down to let it get out in front of me in case it came loose.

Everything has a cost, and now it was gasoline.  The tank was about half full when I got the car, and after several hours of driving I stopped to top it off.  12 gallons and $72 dollars later I was back on the road.  The cashier gave me two free bags of chips with my purchase, neither of which were vegan.

My destination for the night was Cockscomb Basin Wildlife Sanctuary in the south central portion of the country.  I stopped at a grocery store outside Dangriga to get some groceries, as no food is available in the park.  At the turn-off I stopped to pay the entrance fee at the Mayan Women’s Cooperative, then set out on the 6-mile dirt/clay entrance road.

I had been cagey when the lady at the rental agency asked where I was going; I told her “the South”.  Now I was driving up a slick backcountry road in a rented 2WD and praying the conditions didn’t get worse.  And once it started climbing, it did improve, or at least it had enough rock in it for traction.  The area had recently seen rain, judging by the numerous puddles along the way.

I stopped and glassed a mountainside, seeing two Bat Falcons and a King Vulture for the first time in my life.  It was a good start to my visit.

Bat Falcon.

Further up the road I picked up two hitchhikers.  I’ve been the recipient of many rides, so I figured it was my turn to be the good guy.  The guys were from Seattle, checking out the interior before they set out on a multi-day float trip down the coast.  It sounded like an incredible adventure in its own right.

We got to the visitor’s center at closing time, and luckily one of the men stayed around to stamp our tickets and to let us in the dorm.  It was 4:30 p.m. and the birds seemed to be everywhere around us.

I planned to spend several days there, hiking, birding, and otherwise exploring.  This was no tourist trap:  besides a minimalist dorm and the visitor center, there was not much out there, which was fine with me.

I was glad I’d come through my first foreign driving experience unscathed, and to have come to such a beautiful place.  I couldn’t wait to get out and take a look, so within a few minutes I was heading down one of the trails.

After a day of being on the move, it felt good to be on my feet again.

Belize: Relaxing on the Beach and Swimming with the Sharks

Sunrise from the beach.  Caye Caulker, Belize.

“When you get out, watch your head.  And if you hit your head, watch your mouth.  We have two cemeteries but no hospitals here, so be careful.”

With that introduction, I stepped off the water taxi and onto the island of Caye Caulker, Belize.  It was mid-afternoon, and the sun on the white sand was dazzling, as were the bright colors of the waterfront hotels.

A steady offshore breeze whistled through the coconut palms, making the air much more pleasant.  I was still in long pants, a button-up shirt, and shoes from my flight—far too overdressed for this climate.  But as soon as I checked into my hotel I changed into shorts, a tank top, and sandals and felt much better.

I was still in a bit of a haze, after an overnight flight, as well as recovering from a 24-hour endurance challenge two days before (that’ll be a future blog post).  I was ready to relax and recover.  And I came to the right place for that.

Belize had been suggested by a buddy, who had to cancel at the last minute.  So once again, I found myself traveling alone to a foreign country, but that’s what I’m used to.  And I think that can be an ideal way to experience a new culture:  by yourself, you’re much more open to everything around you.

For now, the culture around me was a laid-back Caribbean vibe.  The motto of the island is “Go Slow”, which is all I could do with my soreness.  After a slow saunter around the town, I returned to the hotel dock, where I laid in a hammock and gazed out at the crystalline waters of the Caribbean Sea.

I hadn’t been to a beach for a vacation since I was in high school, more than twenty years ago.  I’d been to a few on R&R days on fire assignments, but it’s not the same.  I had nowhere to be and no work to do for the next two weeks.

After four months of getting in the best shape of my life, it felt good to relax.  For the next few days, I went for easy runs in the morning and long walks in the afternoon.  A trail ran along the waterfront and down around the south end of the island, making for a pleasant loop.  It was also good for birding, and I’d brought my binos and camera to look for new birds.

I’d guess that most tourists who come to Belize end up on Caye Caulker.  It’s a popular spot, and a pleasant 45-minute boat ride away from Belize City.  The town is compact, and is easy to get around on foot, though golf carts are an option.  I preferred the former, even going barefoot some days.

The highlight of my time there was a snorkeling trip up to the Hol Chan Marine Reserve, one of many such protected areas in Belize.  To get there, I joined a group of 12 other folks on a sailboat, my first such ride.  Belize has the second longest barrier reef in the world, and the longest in the Western Hemisphere.  Thus, the water was shallow for about half a mile off the coast, making for great snorkeling opportunities.

Just out of the harbor, the captain began to hand out bait for the birds.  Magnificent Frigatebirds, Brown Pelicans, Laughing Gulls, and Royal Terns swooped down to partake of the food.  Several other tourists held the fish up, and the birds would duly take it and fly away.  Holding dead fish didn’t appeal to me, but seeing the birds up close (which I had never seen before this trip) was a thrill.

Magnificent Frigatebirds looking for a handout.

As we cruised the turquoise waters, I chatted with an Alaskan couple who was glad to leave the Frozen North behind for a few days.  Both were wildlife biologists, so they made great conversation about the local fauna.  We also took turns smearing sunscreen on each other to prevent burning in the tropical sun.

We made three stops for snorkeling.  Again, it had been years since I had done it, and I was a bit worried about my prowess in the water.  But after jumping in and getting used to the gear, my worries were for naught.  I felt right at home in the warm water.  I struck out on my own, heading towards the coral reef out in front of the boat.

 

As I swam, the beauty and variety of fish below me was astounding.  I stopped and stared at fish with all manner of iridescence:  blues and yellows were the predominant colors.  I dove down several times to get closer looks at the more exotic fish.  I wished I had a camera to take pictures of all I was seeing.

To cover the area I made a wide grid to stop at each little coral island.  A large movement to my left caught my eye, and I turned to see a four-foot Nurse Shark bolting away.  I tried to follow, but it was far faster.  It had no interest in the super white, hairy human who was in its territory.

After 45 minutes there, we moved on to Hol Chan.  There, the captain took us out in two groups to show us the reef and to point out some of the fish we were seeing.  I was first in the water, and followed right behind him as we did a large loop.

At Hol Chan Marine Reserve with several other groups.

This area was even more fruitful.  A small black fish with fluorescent blue dots was my favorite, followed by a larger fish that wore all the colors of the rainbow.  A manta ray swam by us, and a lime-green Moray Eel chased the El Salvadorian family at the back of the group.  I was having the time of my life, and when it came time to load up on the boat, I was last.

The last stop was at Shark Ray Alley.  There was no coral here, only sea grass.  And as soon as we dropped anchor, the sharks showed up.  They were used to being fed, much like pets, and a group of six or seven set up on the starboard side while we jumped in on the port side.

Nurse Sharks at Shark Ray Alley. 

Nurse sharks aren’t aggressive towards humans, at least not that I’m aware of.  The lady at the office had assured me that the cuts on my legs wouldn’t attract them, and after a few minutes in the water with them, I figured she was correct.  In fact, they ignored all of us tourists as they waited to be fed from the boat.  I’d never seen a shark up close, much less swam with any, so I kept a respectable distance.  It was thrilling to see them, and I was glad they didn’t care for us.  I did watch my back as I swam away, though.

Once again, I was the last one back on the boat.  I was having the time of my life in the water.  But it was time to set sail back to Caye Caulker to watch the sunset.  Once back on, I put on my fourth coat of sunscreen and admired the beautiful sea around us.

The sunset did not disappoint.  We drifted on the west side of island as it dropped out of sight.  Though we were close to the docks, it amazed me how quickly it got dark.  Once docked, it took me a few steps to get my land legs back, but I managed.

Sunset at sea, west of Caye Caulker.

The sea breeze dried me as I walked back to my hotel.  I marveled at how lucky I was to be here, experiencing all this.

But I also want to see more than the ocean.  Hundreds of species of birds are here in Belize, and I want to see as many as I can.

Day after tomorrow I will be going inland to do just that.

Leaving Guatemala

I had no choice. I had to get back down south so I could catch a flight back to the States in two days. So I took a night bus.

The benefit was that I could spend a last, relaxing day in Antigua before leaving the following morning. The downside was being on a bus all night instead of sleeping in a bed.

Thankfully, the bus has somewhat comfortable seats that recline a bit more than the average airplane seat. And the guy next to me isn’t especially big, but he looks like a snorer.

After leaving the bus terminal, the lights go off and the video screens come on. The movie is the new version of “The Jungle Book”, in which I have little interest. I had just gotten out of the jungle that morning, so I have plenty of experience in that subject.

I read for a while as we bump along, then try to get some sleep.  We speed and swerve our way south through the night, passing smaller cars and avoiding the plentiful potholes. The occasional bump startles and awakens me, but I stay asleep far longer than I expected.

As we make a quick series of turns, I awake to find the bus arriving at a terminal in Guatemala City. It is just after four in the morning as we unload from the bus. I’m unclear on when the shuttle bus will arrive and take us to Antigua, but some other passengers say it will be around six. So we wait.

I go outside to get out of the overcrowded sitting room. I have to dig in my pack to find a jacket, as it is much cooler here than it was up north. A young pigeon falls from its nest on the rafter overhead, hitting the ground head-first with an awful thud. The woman next to me gasps as the bird twitches, unable to right itself. A station worker walks by, picks up the wounded bird, and throws it in the trash. My fatigue has left me feeling raw, and I don’t react well to the sight.

The minutes pass with the speed of a glacier moving. Around five stand up and make my way through the throng inside the station. As I talk with a pair of Brits, a woman comes into the station and approaches us. She pulls out a piece of paper and asks our names—she’s our ride to Antigua, and she’s an hour early.

The woman leads us out of the station to the shuttle bus just outside. Once all six of us are in, we take off for Antigua. As we wind our way up and out of the valley, I can see the first light of the morning brightening the eastern sky.

We arrive in Antigua just before dawn. One of the other passengers is Miriam from the Netherlands, and we decide to get some morning coffee. This is her first time in Antigua, so I lead her to the main square, where we find a nice little place that is already open. We talk about our travels as the sun peeks over the ridge to the east and shines down on the square.

Early morning in Parque Central in Antigua.

There’s a place up the street serving breakfast, so we finish our cups and walk over there. The town is coming to life now, with locals and tourists both bustling about the streets. After lazily drinking another cup of coffee, I decide to head to a nearby hostel to see about a room for the night.

I wish Miriam the best and walk a few blocks to the place I stayed in the first days of my trip. They have a room for me, but it needs to be cleaned, so I drop off my pack and take a saunter around town. It is a bright and beautiful morning, and I find a nice park bench where I can write and watch people.

And so my day goes. I shop for souvenirs, get coffee, and enjoy myself. The vibe here in Antigua is so pleasant that I don’t want to leave it. I can see why so many ex-pats come here: the scenery around the town in beautiful, the climate is pleasant (shorts and sandals in February!), and the town itself is lovely and historic. I can see myself returning here.

But I’m ready to go home. In the summer, during wildfire season, I live on the road. I enjoy it, but I also enjoy the simple comforts of my home. Seeing the world is a wonderful thing, but so is waking up in your own bed.

I watch the sun set from the roof of my hotel, and talk with a group of guys who just arrived. They’re on a motorcycle trip through country for 10 days, and when I hear their itinerary, I know they will have a blast.  There’s so much in this country to see.

Despite my excitement about going home, I sleep well through the night. I get up before dawn and head to the Parque Central for morning coffee. For the last time on this trip I watch the sun rise over the ridge to the east and fill the park with light, then go back to my hotel.

A quiet scene early on my last morning in Antigua.

After a small breakfast, I pack up my gear and get in a van to the airport. As we drive, I think over my time here in Guatemala: the volcano hikes, the lost binoculars, the backpack recovery, the days at the lake, the avocado farm, the Mayan ruins. The enormity of what I’ve seen and done washes over me, bringing tears to my eyes.

What a wonderful country, Guatemala.

What a wonderful life.

Reflecting on my trip while at El Mirador.

Into the Jungle: Heading Back

El Mirador Trek Day 4

For the first time on this trip, the sheet I was given sufficed to keep me warm during the night. Actually, it never cooled off that much during the night—I was comfortable in a long sleeve t-shirt and shorts. And the sheet is really more of an old curtain—I swear. It’s too ugly to be a simple bedspread.

We are hiking to Nakbe today, which is a half day’s walk from here.  So, we’re not in a hurry this morning. I am awake in the twilight and moving around before everyone else but the cook, who thankfully has some hot water ready for coffee.

As the eastern sky brightens Marc walks down from his tent, looking tired but cheerful. After the others trickle in, we are served the same breakfast as the past several days: whipped beans and tortillas, and eggs for those who want them. It’s simple, but hearty fare. I would love some fruit, but ran out of bananas on the second day.

By the time we’ve eaten and packed up camp it is well after eight, and I am astonished at how quickly it has heated up. The air already feels like it is the high 70s, and the sun has only been up an hour and a half.

Nakbe is about 12 kilometers away, and was visible to the southeast from the pyramid last night. It is small outlier of El Mirador, much like Tintal or even La Muerta. To get there, we retrace our path to La Danta from the night before, once again passing the platform and pyramid there, and follow a causeway to the next site.

Despite being covered and surrounded by jungle, the two thousand year-old causeway is clearly visible as we hike, being 30 meters wide and mostly flat. According to Miguel, it will take us all the way to Nakbe.

By now, my interest in birds has spread to the others, so we stop often along the way at any fluttering in the trees. Almost every bird is one I haven’t seen before I came to Guatemala, so I am thrilled at each sighting. I could linger behind for hours, but now that we’re off the main tourist route, I don’t want to get left behind in the jungle.

Franz glasses for a bird while the rest try to help spot it.

We reach a junction with a trail that leads off into the jungle to the east. Miguel offers the option of a 45-minute round trip hike to see the ruins out there. In the heat of the day there isn’t much enthusiasm, but Franz and I want to see everything we can, so we go.

The main building there is a pyramid that has been looted in the past: a large trench has been dug vertically in the structure. I imagine this is common in the smaller, outlying ruins in this part of the country. Miguel gives us some background on it, and I’m astonished that it is over 3000 years old.

By noon we are close to Nakbe, and our guide takes us off on a side trail to get to the campsite. I am second in line, behind Miguel, and have to walk far enough back so that the branches don’t rebound into my face. I worry about the plants along the trail being poisonous, but so far I haven’t seen anything suspicious.

It is hot when we arrive at the camp at Nakbe, which is empty but for our cook and two caretakers. As I take off my pack and reach for a water bottle, I can feel itching all over my arms and legs.

Taking a close look at my left I hand I see the problem: ticks. Tiny ticks, dozens of them, crawling on my hand and up my bare arm. I pull out my bug spray and try it on them, but it doesn’t do anything but wet my skin.  I have to pick them off, one by one. It is a tedious undertaking that takes over an hour, though I’m not sure I got them all. Every little itch now feels like another one, and my legs are covered in small red welts. I look like I’m breaking out with chicken pox. It is the most uncomfortable I can be, short of being in pain.

To my amazement, none of the others have any ticks. What the hell? I suppose that hiking near the front is what started my infestation. Or was it where I sat for a snack an hour before we got here? The magic red pants I bought for this trip have a hole in the crotch from hiking the tall steps up the Mayan pyramids, which makes for easy access for the ticks and any other insects out here.

But, I am changing into my running shorts—I gotta get out of these pants. I change in my tent, then hose down my pants with more bug spray and hang them in the sun.

The heat of the day is bearing down on us. I sit in the shaded dining area and watch the monkeys. One is laying head-down on a vertical branch, supported by its tail, and is watching us. It reminds me of the look my dog gives me when he wants to go outside. Several of the other monkeys are on the move, but he holds to his perch until the others have left, then follows.

As I watch them disappear into the distant treetops, I see a large raptor on a branch, still as a stone. I raise my binoculars and glass it: Barred Forest-Falcon, a new bird. It’s the only sign of avian life at this hour, as all the other birds are resting quietly in the shade.

Around three Miguel rounds us up and takes us through the ruins. He shows us a small quarry, where stones were cut out with incredible precision.

At the quarry in Nakbe, Miguel describes the cutting process to Miriam and Christian.

We wander around more of the complex, climbing a small pyramid, then pass a large ball court is the one of the oldest ones ever found at Mayan ruins, according to Miguel.

A panoramic shot of the ancient ball court, now grown over.

From there, we walk to a large round stone on the ground, which covers the entrance to a chultun, or underground storage room. Miguel moves the stone, and then invites us to check it out. I decline, but Franz, being taller and more adventurous, volunteers to go in.

The entrance to the chultun.  It was about two feet wide and at least six feet down to the rock step.  

The passageway is long and narrow, and he lowers himself until he reaches a small shelf on which he can stand. Then he disappears with his flashlight into the darkness. After my tick experience earlier, I’m limiting my exposure to any more insects for the day.

For the fourth night in a row, we catch the sunset from the tallest pyramid on the sight, which is just over 40 meters from bottom to top. The sky has been partly cloudy all afternoon, and now close to dusk, there are even more. To the south and east we can see rain falling, but it looks to be tracking around us. The sun breaks through with mighty sunburst, which makes for the most dramatic sunset yet. We had debated leaving early, but we are all glad we stayed.

Sunset at Nakbe.

On the way back to camp, small drops of rain fall through the treetops.  The shower lasts only a few minutes while we eat.  Once my belly is full, I wander through the dark to my tent.

Supper in camp at Nakbe, with Christian and Miriam on the left, and Riccarda, Franz, and Marc on the right. The dining area was typical of the camps we stayed in–much more civilized than I expected.

The night air is warm and humid, and feels quite pleasant when I strip down naked. Wearing clothing will give the ticks somewhere to hide, so I’m choosing to sleep in the buff to deter them from taking up residence on me.

Sometime after midnight the monkeys erupt into a chorus of mad howling and yipping. I bolt upright in my tent, startled that we may be under attack. But they keep to the trees, and it takes some time before I can go back to sleep.

Just another night in the jungle.

Into the Jungle: A Day in El Mirador

El Mirador Trek Day 3

It gets so cold during the night that I have to put my feet and lower legs in my backpack for extra warmth. The upside is that I feel like getting up and moving as soon as it starts getting light.

Over in the cooking area, the cook is awake and working on breakfast. I ask for a mug of hot water for coffee, which she gives me without comment. I try to be nice to her but she seems annoyed most of the time. Perhaps my dietary preferences are a subtle insult to her.

As the light brightens the tops of the trees around us, the birds begin to awake and greet the day with songs and calls. Pairs of parrots squawk as they dart through the canopy high overhead. I finish my cup of coffee before anyone else emerges from their tent, and join Marc as he arrives for his first. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the two people who are sleeping alone are the first ones awake.

Breakfast is the same as the two previous days: refried beans, eggs, and tortillas. Not much for variety, but it is filling. After yesterday’s long walk, appetites are strong.

Today we get a break from hiking, and will explore the ruins here at El Mirador. And even though I’d grown accustomed to hiking with my pack, it is pleasant to walk with only a camera and binoculars.

A slightly blurry map of El Mirador.  Our camp was at the lower left side, and the high point, La Danta, is at the upper right.

Our first stop is close by, at an overlook of a restored section of the ruins, structure 34. Unlike the other buildings, this has a roof over it, like an outdoor concert venue. The main feature here are the jaguar claws, which I learn were a tribute to king of the day, whose name translates to “Great Flaming Jaguar Claw.” That makes my day.

At Structure 34.  This might be the king for whom the temple is dedicated.

According to the archaeologists, most of the old buildings were once covered with a lime plaster, which would often be painted. Red was a favorite color, Miguel tells us, and I can imagine how visually striking the pyramids and other structures around us must have been.

In the Central Acropolis.  This panel, discovered about ten years ago, shows the Mayan creation myth, with a man swimming through the underworld in the center left (and the post header).  

On we go to more pyramids and buildings, many of which are being worked by archaeologists. Except that there is no one actually working. Besides the tourists in camp and a few guards, there is no one else out here.

“Where are the workers?” Marc asks, in Spanish.

“They come in the rainy season, so they can use the water to clean the rocks and wash away the extra dirt,” Miguel replies.

That makes much more sense. But, it must be miserable during that time, when everything is muddy and the insects a constant presence. It would also coincide with the North American summer, when universities can send professors and students down here without missing class.

Walking by a structure under excavation with Franz, Riccarda, Marc, and Miriam.

As we go from complex to complex, the scale of the place is beginning to become clear: it’s huge. And that’s just what’s been worked. In fact, the scale and importance of El Mirador has become clear only in the last several decades. With a population that stood in the hundreds of thousands, it must have been quite a sight in at its apogee. Quite a contrast to our group of seven who are wandering through the old buildings now.

Once we’ve seen much of the complex close to camp, we head back for lunch. I make peanut butter sandwiches for myself, again, augmenting with a tomato sandwich offered by the cook.  Then it’s siesta time during the heat of the day.

---

A drawing of what the La Danta complex probably looked like in its prime.   

Around five we meet at the entrance proper to the site, and head towards La Danta, the highest point at El Mirador and the top of largest pre-Columbian structure in North America. The platform on which the pyramid is built is 300 meters by 600 meters, or 3 football fields wide by 6 football fields long. It is too big to see all of it through the trees that stand on it.

Climbing up onto the pyramid base of La Danta.  

The pyramid itself is 72 meters high, or nearly 250 feet. We follow the original stairs for much of the climb, then are diverted on to a wooden staircase for the last stretch to the top.

The pyramid of La Danta.  

From the top, we can see the pyramid of El Tigre, where we saw last night’s sunset, as well as the pyramid at Tintal, from where we watched the sun go down on the first night. And beyond those the jungle stretches to the horizon. A sea of rich green surrounds us, and we are on the highest point around from which to view it.

Panoramic view from the top of La Danta, looking south.

The other group that arrived at our camp earlier joins us at the top. This mob of fourteen people is the biggest we’ve been in in 3 days. You know you’re in a remote place when 14 seems like a crowd.

Our group on top of La Danta:  Marc, Christian, Miriam, myself (in magic jungle trekking pants), Riccarda, Franz, and Miguel, our guide.

Once again, Marc’s whiskey makes the rounds through our group, and cigars and other funny-looking cigarettes get lit up by the others. The cacophony from parrots and monkeys below rises up to us as we settle in for the show.

This is literally the high point of the trek, this is what I came for. To see all this is why I came to Guatemala. It’s worth the miles and the heat and the cold nights and bland food—worth all of it to be here.

The gradual dying of the sun makes me feel the gratitude that much more intensely.  What an incredible experience it is to watch sunsets from the tops of Mayan ruins. I am so thankful that I heard about this trek, and moreover, to have such good hiking companions with which to share it.

Sunset from La Danta

In a blaze of deep orange the sun is gone, and we wait until the others have gone to descend the stairs and walk back to camp. I wish I could spend the night up here, or on top of any of these pyramids. The view is surely spectacular, untarnished by the lights of man.

We finally head down and back to camp for supper. Afterwards I walk out into the clearing by camp and stare at the stars. Even though it is getting late and I should be tired, I feel wired with all I’ve seen today. El Mirador has it’s own kind of energy, I believe, and I am feeling it now as I try to wind down for the night.

I spend a long time gazing the constellation Orion, which I always associate with winter. In the fall, when I see it start to rise in the early morning sky, I know that fire season will be over soon. Now that it is in the western sky, I know that my time on this trek and in Guatemala will be over soon, too.

But tonight I go to bed with sense of exhilaration I’ve seldom ever felt. I hope I never forget it.

Into the Jungle: Tintal to El Mirador

Day 2

The cold wakes me up before my alarm. Yes, I’m in the jungle and it’s cold. I wish I’d brought a sleeping bag, if every night is going to be this cold.

Fortunately the cook is already awake and making a hot breakfast for us. I smile with gratitude as she pours me a mug of hot water for coffee, and savor the warm feeling on my hands.

The time is 5:50 a.m. and it is still dark. The others trickle into the dining area, and once everyone is present we are given plates of whipped black beans and eggs, with fresh tortillas in a basket. I give my eggs to Riccarda, the Austrian woman, and eat the beans with the tortillas. I’m not that hungry, but it’s good to get some grub in me for the long day of hiking ahead.

Once we finish eating, we help Miguel break down the tents and get all the rest of the gear ready for the mules. By then it is light, and several Blue Buntings flit around the campsite, brightening my morning.

During a bathroom visit, I find that my stomach troubles are over, at least for now. After 6 days of diarrhea, I am overjoyed. Still, I take a Cipro to help clear out any remaining bad gut bugs.

We are on the trail by 6:45, and pass some orange trees on the way out of camp. Miguel picks one for each of us, though they are still green. He then lights a cigarette and heads on down the trail with us behind.

Howler monkey detritus.  They have some serious teeth.

Last night he told us the hike to El Mirador is about 30 kilometers from Tintal, which means roughly 19 miles today. And as the miles and hours pass, I find myself in a good rhythm. My body is adjusting to hiking with a pack, and by lunchtime it feels normal to have 25 lbs on my back.

While the cook is making meat and cheese sandwiches, I spy a jar of pineapple jam in her food bag, and ask if I can have some. She looks at me as if I just asked to shave her head, but gives it to me anyway. The others see the peanut butter and pineapple sandwich I’m making and ask if they can have pineapple jam, too.

Stopping for lunch in the midday heat.  From left:  Marc, Christian, Riccarda, Franz, and Miriam.

We linger a long while after eating, enough for the malaise to sink in. It is quite warm, at least 80 degrees, and I am sweating. Franz, the Austrian, stands up and stirs us into action. I follow his lead and take the place behind him in our line as we march onward.

Around 3:45 we reach the edge of the El Mirador area at a small complex called La Muerta. Miguel takes us into a narrow passageway at the foot of a small pyramid and shows us the inside, in which we can stand. He points out the Scorpion Spiders, which are huge: the body is large, but the legs stick out as far as a dinner plate. Marc is horrified and leaves, but I stay and take some pictures for my niece, who loves spiders.

 

One of the pyramids at La Muerta.  We were able to crawl inside this one.

 

The largest spider I have seen, in the ruins at La Muerta.

From La Muerta we walk another fifteen minutes to our camp at El Mirador. There is a large clearing there, which I imagine is a muddy pond in the wet season, and a number of covered tent pads. The cook has Tang ready for us when we arrive, and we sit together at a table to rest and rehydrate.

Once we’re feeling better, we help Miguel with the tents, then return to the table to talk. Across the clearing from the camp I see the official entrance to the ruins, including a map. Tomorrow we will get the full tour, so I fight the urge to take a sneak peak.

As the light grows long on the trees, I wonder if we are going somewhere for the sunset. Miguel hadn’t said anything about it, but my question is answered when we all gather up around five to walk to the nearby pyramid of El Tigre. It’s about a fifteen minute walk, so I grab my camera and flashlight for the walk back.

Though hard to photograph through the trees, I can tell you it looks very much the same, even after all these years.

Even though it’s late in the day, the jungle around is full of activity. Birds call and sing, monkeys chatter and howl overhead. I am in such unfamiliar surroundings that every moment is a novel experience.

We reach the plaza below El Tigre and start to climb, the top 55 meters above us. It doesn’t sound like much, the but steep, tall stairs make it quite an effort. Behind and below us is a plaza ringed by the ruins of several buildings, and just below the top, there are three more pyramids. A sheet of visqueen covers much of the area, so we have to skirt around one side to get to the top.

Once there, we are treated to a fantastic 360 degree view of the jungle around us. We are atop the second highest structure in the complex; only La Danta stands higher. We’ll go there tomorrow.

We are the only ones present for sunset. Marc passes around a whiskey bottle to the group to celebrate our effort to get here. He also lights a cigar, and asks that no one take pictures of him smoking, lest his mother see. We laugh, and toast each other and our good fortune at being in such a remote and beautiful place.

Our group at El Tigre:  Marc, myself (in magic jungle trekking pants), Christian, Riccarda, Franz, and Miriam.

Like last night, we grow silent as the sun approaches the horizon. I feel a sense of peace, being witness to such a magnificent sight. Shutters click as the sun sinks out of sight, and once gone, we pick our way down and back to camp.

The evening show from El Tigre at the El Mirador Complex.

For supper we are served heaping plates of veggie spaghetti, which we devour. Light is provided through a generator, which makes it feel a bit more civilized.

Before bed I wander away from the lights to look at the stars, which are brilliant. The only time I’ve seen them this clearly was from Thorung La High Camp in the Nepalese Himalayas.

In the quiet of the jungle night I stand in awe at the heavens lit up above me. And even though it’s February, “O Holy Night” starts playing in my head.

The afterglow of the sight is still in my eyes when I lay down to sleep.

 

Into the Jungle: Part 1

After Tikal, there was one more thing I wanted to do while in Guatemala: visit the ruins at El Mirador. But the only way to get there was to hike two days (one-way) through the jungle.

Fortunately, there is a guide service that organizes such trips, and I am able to book a trip in Flores. The cost is $250 for 5 days, and is due to leave the following day.

The evening before the departure, Sergio from the guide service finds me at my hostel. He explains that the other hikers for the trip have been delayed a day, so the trip will be, too. This isn’t a problem for me—I don’t leave for another week, but any more delays might prevent me from going.

Because of the delay, Sergio offers to pay for a night of lodging here at the hostel, but when I tell him I have a private room (more expensive than the dorm rooms), he offers to pay for a meal instead. I am flattered by the offer, and modestly refuse. He doesn’t insist, though, and instead takes off for the door. I laugh and chide myself to try to get a veggie burger out of him next time.

With my extra day, I visit some local ruins across the lake near San Miguel.  In the evening, Sergio finds me once again. He says the trip is on for tomorrow, but the others want to do the six-day trip. Instead of an out- and back-hike, this will be a loop, passing ruins that are seldom visited except for archaeologists. The extra day will make for a tight timeline to get back south to Guatemala City and the airport, but it will also mean seeing that much more.

To sweeten the deal, Sergio offers the six-day option at no extra cost, so I take him up on it. He says to meet outside the hostel at 5 the next morning, and a shuttle will take us to the trailhead in Carmelita, which is a two-hour drive. We shake hands and he leaves.

So, I’m committed to the next six days in the jungle. I have only two small problems: I’ve had diarrhea for six days and my foot hurts so much I can barely walk.

---

The map of our journey.   The first two days we’ll be hiking to El Mirador, then the last three days we’ll hike back along the east side, through Nakbe and Wakna.

The ruins at El Mirador contain the largest the pre-Columbian structure in North America. Like Tikal, it was a major hub for the Mayans, who had strings of settlements all over northern Guatemala and southern Mexico. But because of its remote location, it hasn’t been studied or visited to the extent that Tikal has. One reference to the site estimated 3000 tourists a year visit there. So unlike Tikal, crowds wouldn’t be an issue.

My alarm goes off after four the following morning, and I get my pack ready for the trek. Fiddling with my SLR camera last night, I figured out how to take pictures again, so I’m taking it with me, along with a whole slew of snacks. When I told Sergio about my diet he shook his head, so I’m assuming it will be slim pickings for me.

Since the diarrhea I contracted nearly a week ago still shows no signs of abating, I reluctantly pull out the bottle of Ciproflaxin, an antibiotic to be used in such a situation. I stare at the horse pill and apologize to my guts before I commit seppuku to my microbiome. I wash it down with a big slug of water and hope that it works.

Never thought it’d come to this:  taking Ciproflaxin for a stomach bug.

Despite the lack of a good night’s sleep, I am wide awake when I head out to meet the shuttle. There are five others waiting, as well: two couples and another single man. We introduce ourselves in the dim glow of the street lights: Franz and Riccarda from Austria, Christian and Miriam from Germany, and Marc from France. Miriam is the only other one as awake as me, so we chatter away as the others stand in silence.

The shuttle is right on time, and we begin the drive out to Carmelita. Even when we reach the regular pavement after the cobblestone streets, the driver seems reluctant to drive over twenty miles an hour, a real oddity in this country of manic drivers. But, he switches out with another man when we stop for gas on the edge of town, and our new driver has no such reservations about speed restrictions.

After half an hour, Miriam and I have exhausted things to talk about, and so we join the others in trying to get a nap in before the hike. I awake when we pass the gate into the Maya Biosphere Reserve, a kind of National Forest for Guatemala. We’ve left most of the towns behind, and now that it’s light, I can tell the scenery has changed from suburban to pastoral.

Carmelita is the end of the road, as near as I can tell. There’s not much to it, just a small collection of houses along a dusty road, and the office for the guide service. There we meet our guide, Miguel. He is a short, skinny man with a wispy mustache, who looks to be about forty. We fill out some paperwork before heading over to a local house for breakfast.

The pain that was so acute in my foot last night has almost disappeared, as quickly as it began. I am mystified, but thankful that I can walk normally, even with the weight of my pack. This has boosted my morale, so I am chatty once again as we walk to breakfast.

A lovely old woman serves us platters of whipped black beans and eggs, with homemade tortillas on the side. She also brings us hot water with which to make instant coffee. With the food and caffeine, everyone is waking up and talking.

Several town dogs stare at us through the fence, licking their lips as we down the homemade meal. One in particular catches my eye, a light-colored mutt of indeterminate breed whose ears stick straight out. When we finish the meal, I go out and pet him, which makes him whine and rub against me. I name him “Paco” and pat his head as we walk back to the guide’s office.

Franz, Riccarda, and Marc prepare their packs in front of the guides’ office before we start our trek.  

Miguel gives us a quick overview of the route, pointing to a map in the office. Overall, there will be five days of hiking and one rest day to spend at El Mirador. Today will be a mellow day, about ten miles, but tomorrow will be much longer: eighteen miles. The path to El Mirador is highlighted in red, but after that, there is no trail on the map. Always one for adventure, that little detail excites me. Off-trail in the jungle!

Once Miguel is through, we shoulder our packs and follow him outside. On the edge of town a sign for El Mirador points into the jungle. My heart pounds with excitement as we leave town behind. This is the adventure I came to Guatemala for.

To the Heart of the Mayan World

A crack appears in the fiberglass bottom of the boat each time we hit a wave as we cross Lake Atitlan. It is a cloudy and hazy morning, and I am heading north to Peten, the largest state in Guatemala.  It is home to the most largest concentration of Mayan ruins in the country. I can’t wait to get there.

After the boat docks at Panajachel, I walk over to a travel agency to see about getting a ticket to Guatemala City, from where I can catch a bus to the town of Flores.  Within fifteen minutes I catch a shuttle and am leaving the Atitlan area.  I will miss it.

As we wait to pick up others, I see a boy kicking a small puppy in the yard of his house. The puppy is chained up, and cannot run away. I open the sliding window of the van and yell at him. He stops to look at me, a long-haired bearded gringo glaring at him. We pull away a few moments later and he continues.

I am not so mad at him as at whomever taught him that such behavior was tolerable. In a country where most of the people don’t have enough to eat, kindness to animals is low on the priority list. And I understand that—I feel deeply for those people who struggle just to find their next meal. But I don’t understand someone who allows a small child to abuse a small animal, no matter their circumstances.

For the rest of the ride I sit quietly.  We change shuttles buses in Antigua and after dropping folks off at the airport and several hotels, I finally get out and walk to my hotel—I can’t sit inside anymore.

My hotel is nearby, and after checking in I buy a bus ticket for the following day. Overnight buses do run, but I abhor them and figure I’m better off getting a good night’s sleep than having to catch up for the next few days.

By now it is mid-afternoon and I am starving.  I have a late lunch, which includes some cheese.  For the purposes of this trip, I vowed I would try as much as possible to stay vegan, but would be open to eating cheese in pressing circumstances. In no case would I consider eating meat, though. But as I walk back to my hotel my stomach feels awful, and I don’t feel like eating for the rest of the day.

The next morning I jump on the bus as soon as they open the doors and have a long, if uneventful bus ride. The bus ride ends in Santa Elena, just over a mile short of Flores, but there is an industrious shuttle bus driver there to take us through town and across a causeway to the island of Flores.

Stepping out into the night, I can feel that I have reached the muggy north. Even though the sun set nearly two hours earlier, an oppressive weight of heat and humidity hangs over the town. I am sweating before I can even heft my backpack to my shoulders. But being raised in the American South, I know I’ll adjust to this soon.

With my first two choices booked solid for the night, I get a room at an upscale hotel. For $50 a night I get my own bathroom and a remote controlled air conditioner. Because of my stomach troubles, the former will be a great luxury, and is the first time I’ve had a private bathroom during this trip.

As soon as I settle into my room I start pounding water. I’ve barely had a liter all day, so now it’s time to catch up. While brushing my teeth I can feel the heat coming off the bathroom tile. Just before turning off the lights I hit the A/C, which feels amazing.

The next morning I wake up with a headache and a sour stomach. I’d wanted to go to see the ruins at Tikal today, but feeling like this, all I want to do is lay in bed. After drinking more water, I venture out of my room to a nearby patio overlooking Lago Peten Itza. It’s only eight in the morning, but is already hot.

As I walk around the small island town, every restaurant and store is closed. I realize it is Sunday morning, so I might be out of luck. Around the next bend, though, I see a place advertising breakfast. Two tourists are sitting up front, which means I am in luck. I don’t feel like drinking coffee, but the fruit salad sounds delicious, so I order it.

Gulls and a Great Egret fly over the nearby lake. Coots bob in the water along the shoreline, which is a low stone wall several feet above the lake surface. After nine hours in a bus yesterday, this place feels like heaven.

The view from the Flores waterfront across to San Miguel.

From my perch overlooking the lake I can hear them slicing the fruit, so I am nearly drooling when the waitress brings it to me a few minutes later.  It is delicious, and after I’m finished I feel much better. I complete a loop around the island, then check a nearby hostel about a room for the night.

Not only do they have a private room available, they also have a tour leaving for Tikal at noon, just an hour and a half away. The negative energy from earlier is dissipating, replaced by a sudden surge of positive. I’m catching the breaks now and just thinking about it raises my spirits.

After I move my stuff over to the new hostel, I get ready to go to Tikal. I am incredibly excited: this excursion is one of the reasons I came to Guatemala.

---

I can’t recall when I first heard of Tikal, but it’s been on my radar since childhood. In the first Star Wars movie (Episode IV: A New Hope) it appears near then end, just before the scene wherein Han Solo and Luke Skywalker are given an award by Princess Leia.

For a few seconds, the viewer can see the tops of gray stone pyramids above a jungle.  Even though Star Wars takes place in a futuristic time, somehow the setting fits in well with the movie. Perhaps it brings more of the mystical element to George Lucas’ story.

Many years later, when I was researching a trip through Mexico and Central America, Tikal popped up again. It is the most famous attraction in the country, and once I found out it was the scene featured in Star Wars, I knew I wanted to visit there.

And now that I’m going to Tikal, I am bouncing off the walls.  As I wait in the lobby for the shuttle bus to arrive, several others arrive to wait with me.  Excited, I pace around the lobby until the shuttle bus arrives.  Then we board and make a quick lap through town to pick up any stragglers. A brightly dressed Brit sits across from me, and we chat as we leave town, headed east.

We drive along Lake Peten Itza for a ways, which looks inviting in the midday heat.  After we pass around the east end of the lake, we turn north into the Maya Biosphere Reserve, which is supposed to be protected from development. But in a poor country with a burgeoning population, the pressure to clear more and more of the reserve is mounting.

But when we reach the park boundary, it is clear that the government is intent on protecting this, it’s national gem: the guards are all armed with machine guns. We hop out to buy our day tickets, then get back on the bus to drive to the visitor center.

I’ve brought my binoculars, and the sight of birds flitting and flying across the road ahead of us is nearly as exciting as visiting the ruins.  Over 400 species of birds have been recorded at Tikal, and there’s even a bird identification book just for the park. It birding parlance, it might very well be a bird buffet.

At the visitor center, we stop and gather up beside a model of the site. Our guide provides a quick overview of the grounds and where we’ll be walking. Then we’re off into the site proper.  My heart is pounding.

We go through a station where a hole is punched in our tickets, then pass through a gate where one man stamps each ticket, then passes it to another man who records the number. No shortage of bureaucracy here.

Ahead the path leads into the forest, and I walk to the front of the group (about twenty strong) to catch a glimpse of some of the birds I can hear in the trees.  Our first stop is at a Ceiba Tree that towers over the rest of the nearby forest. The diameter of the base must be four and a half to five feet thick. Bromellids grow plentifully in the branches far overhead.

The Ceiba Tree, the National Tree of Guatemala.

After the tree we continue on, stopping at an intersection to watch some Howler Monkeys groom each other on a branch fifty feet up in a tree. Nearby a medium-sized raptor sits on a branch. Our guide, also carrying binos, glasses it and announces that it is a Roadside Hawk, a new bird to me. It stays still for only a couple more seconds before the camera flashes scare it off.

Continuing on, I see a pair birders from another group and slide in quietly behind them to see what they’re looking at. A Wood Thrush hops on the ground, while a woodpecker and a woodcreeper alight on nearby trees. I take some pictures and then spot a new bird: a Lesson’s Motmot, perched motionless on branch. Even in shadow, the turquoise head really stands out. I’m greatly enjoying this outing so far and we haven’t even gotten to the ruins yet.

Lesson’s Motmot.  Blurry, but it was the only photo I got of it.  

After just a few more minutes of walking we reach the first plaza. Because of the scale of the site, many of the buildings aren’t restored and likely never will be. Looking at the unrestored buildings, I can only imagine the intensive work that must go into the restoration.  The restored buildings, many of them pyramids, are incredible. We climb the first one we come to, then the guide tells us all about it.

Complex Q, the first stop on the tour of Tikal.

At the foot of the pyramid are seven stelae, stone blocks that look like headstones, only taller. In front of each one is a small round boulder, to hold offerings on special occasions. I marvel at the amount of work it must have taken to move each block and boulder into place here, without the benefit of modern technology, or even the wheel.

Between the plazas we walk through thick forest, so I fall behind to look for more birds. Most of the time I just catch glimpses, but not enough to identify what I’m seeing. I’m not discouraged, though. I’m just happy to be here.

We visit several different plazas before we reach Temple IV, which is the tallest building on the site. We approach from the east side and can see it looming over the forest. At the foot of it is a large sheet of visqueen, covering the work of archaeologists studying the site. We walk around to the west side where there is a wooden stairway that leads to the top. The stairway is there both to protect the pyramid from too much human damage, as well as help those less athletically-inclined get to the top (the original stairs are quite steep and surprisingly tall).

Stuck at the rear of the group, I wait impatiently for those ahead to move on up the stairs. But as soon as I round the corner and catch a glimpse of the view, that impatience and annoyance falls away.

Before me are three towers rising above the jungle that extends to the horizon. Though this temple is usually climbed for sunrise, as it faces east, the light this afternoon makes the view that much more striking. As I stand and gaze across all that I can see, I find that I’m smiling. This is exactly where I want to be.

The view from Temple IV.

I’ve dreamed about standing here not only for the past few weeks of traveling around this country, but also through months of a cold, dreary Idaho winter. And perhaps longer than that, too.

The view is not so beautiful as it is sublime. These monuments of man that were so laboriously constructed here imbue the place with a feeling of power, as if the towers themselves have conquered the wild jungle around us.

After taking pictures, I find a place to sit off to the side and simply stare. Looking at the smiles of some of other folks on the tour, I know they’re feeling the same as me.

We stay for quite a while. Despite our guide’s subtle pleas to get moving to catch the sunset from another location, we linger there at the top of Temple IV, entranced. A trio of Brown Jays joins us, perhaps to watch the shadows lengthen over the temple tops and trees.

With reluctance, we all seem to get up at the same time and follow our guide down. In a courtyard near the foot of the stairs, a man is selling cold drinks from a cooler. The air isn’t quite so hot as when we started, but I am still sweating. Several of the group by beers to take to the next stop: El Mundo Perdido.

El Mundo Perdido, or The Lost World, is the site of the astronomical observatory for the complex, which consists of several older pyramids. One of them has been added to four times over the course of the Mayan years. Scientists eager to figure out more about their civilization have drilled holes all through the pyramids, only to find them all solid, except for one. Inside one of them was a scale model of the complex, along with a picture or sculpture (I couldn’t hear which) of two men engaged in a rather intimate act. The shocked people who found it thus named the complex the Lost World.

As the guide gives his two cents on the morality of that, most of us climb the pyramid. Though the view from the top isn’t as spectacular as from Temple IV, I see two Collared Acararis: my first toucans.

A blurry Collared Acarari.  I could only take pictures with my camera on Manual Focus, and hadn’t gotten it down yet.

After we descend we see more toucans, this time the Keel-billed Toucans, the mascot of Fruit Loops. They look ridiculous with their long, mostly yellow beaks and red bums. But, they are also captivating and bigger than I thought. I pass around my binoculars while I take photographs, eager to share beauty of the birds with the others. Our guide calls them “Flying Bananas”, and once they take off, I see why. I am thrilled.

After most everyone gets to see the Keel-billeds, we move on to the North Acropolis for sunset. Most of the temples here have been excavated, and thus, are clear from other overgrowth. At the west and east end of the courtyard are the Temples of the Sun and Moon. The former faces east (and is scalable), while the latter faces west (and is off-limits).

Panorama of the plaza with the Temple of the Sun on the left, and the Temple of the Moon on the right.

It’s not every day that I get to climb a Mayan temple, several others and I head to the Temple of the Sun for a quick look. From there I can see back to Temple IV, as well as the whole acropolis around me. But the shadows are growing long, so I head to the rest of the group, who are sitting on the steps of building at the north end of the acropolis.

As the sunlight wanes, swallows emerge to feed on the plentiful bugs around us. I eat a snack and talk with my new friend Liz from Holland as we watch the sun slowly sink into the trees to the west. Not only do we have a view of the sunset, but also the two temples on either side of the courtyard. It is a magical place to be this time of day.

The Temple of the Moon catches the last light of the day.

A few minutes after the light is gone, our guide beckons us to start gathering up and heading out, lest we be slapped with a hefty extra fee for staying late. As we wait in the courtyard, I admire the Ocellated Turkeys that are feeding in the short grass. They look like peacocks with the large tails, and even in the twilight their colors are iridescent.
I venture off to get a closer look at another new bird, a Montezuma Oropendola. My bird guide says its song is “liquid, electric,” which describes it well, in addition to “loud”. I’ve never heard any bird like it.

Ocellated Turkey.

Getting frustrated with the slow-movers, the guide says we are going and points us down a dark path into the trees. I have no idea where we are, nor a map, but I do see some folks in white ahead, so I follow them. Luckily, the knew where they were going, as we emerge at the gate about twenty minutes later.

Even though we were told that anyone leaving the park after 6 would be charged extra, no one is there to enforce it. As we load up in the shuttle bus, I hear another Oropendola sing from a nearby tree. It’s magical call sums up the day, in a way.

For the hour ride back to Flores I put on my headphones and listen to Pearl Jam. The windows on the bus are open, allowing the warm air to blow through and cool us down.

This has been one of the best days of my trip so far. I wish I could describe Tikal better, but it is one of those places that defies mere words.

Simply put, it is a place of power.  I might go back tomorrow.