AS MARCH PASSED into April, a restless urge to fly north swept over me. Millions of migratory birds in the Neotropics—hawks, sandpipers, warblers, grosbeaks, tanagers, orioles—were now on the move, beginning their grand annual migration across the hemispheres, and I could sense their haste to chase the spring.
Ornithologists have a special word for the migratory instinct of birds: “Zugunruhe.” It comes from the German words Zug (move, migration) and Unruhe (restlessness, anxiety), and it is mostly an academic term—used in somewhat-obscure scholarly works such as “Zugunruhe Activity in Castrated Bramblings,” published in the journal IBIS in 1961. Researchers have shown, under controlled conditions, that caged songbirds try to hop, flap, and jump in the same compass direction as they would naturally migrate. Birds become visibly restless during migration season, changing their patterns of sleep and physical activity. In other words, birds are programmed to move.
Poetically, spring is the season of renewal—a cleansing of winter with the promise of a brighter life ahead. Birds hustle north in the spring, covering ground twice as quickly as when they make the return trip in the fall, as if they can’t wait to reach summer. Migrants of any species go for the same reasons—territory, mating, and food—and so, evolutionarily speaking, long-distance travel is the ticket for better living.
Migration is one of the great wonders of the bird world, having been remarked upon since the days of Homer, who wrote that cranes disappeared to battle Pygmies at the far end of the Earth, and Aristotle, who believed, among other things, that redstarts turn into robins during winter. The reality, that more than half of North American bird species fly long distances twice each year, is even stranger than these fictions, and birds continue to surprise us. Researchers still haven’t resolved how migration evolved: Did temperate birds fly south, or was it tropical species that went north? And modern tracking technology has revolutionized our notion of how birds connect far-flung parts of the globe. Scientists recently discovered that Bar-tailed Godwits nesting in Alaska fly directly to their wintering grounds in New Zealand, taking a mere nine days to complete the 7,500-mile one-way trip without ever stopping to rest.
With spring arriving in the Northern Hemisphere, it was time for me to migrate, too. During the first part of the year, I had stayed within South America, from Argentina to Colombia. Now I felt the magnetic pull of Zugunruhe. On April 13, after 103 days and 1,977 species of birds in South America, I left the continent in a contrail and headed north. Central America sits at the midsection of a geographic hourglass, funneling birds on the wing, and I was swept into this flow like a leaf in a stream.
This was no time to rest. I spent three weeks tracking down the birds of Colombia with a sharp group of local birders, then put in a solid five days with an awesome guide named Guido Berguido in Panama, where I hit the number 2,000 milestone with a male Shining Honeycreeper. After a strategic one-day foray into Jamaica with some research friends to see their endemic birds, I landed in Costa Rica, where I met local birders Roy Orozco and Johan Fernández in the capital city of San José. Here would be my main chance to pick up a wide variety of Central American species, and I was stoked to explore the country with these new friends.
I’d connected with Roy through BirdingPal. When I asked if he might like to spend a week with me in Costa Rica, he responded with thoughtful enthusiasm.
“I will be happy to help you,” he said. “This could be an opportunity for a new big experience, and the chance to make a new friend who shares the same passion as I do.”
In the same message, he sketched out a rough itinerary and suggested that his bird-obsessed friend Johan might join us for the week.
“We can be flexible,” Roy wrote, “and stay wherever we end up each evening. Instead of reserving rooms in lodges, we’ll look for little places in towns where the three of us can sleep for about $30 per night. Each day we can plan the next move over dinner, following a general route.”
The plan couldn’t have suited me better. Costa Rica, bordering both Atlantic and Pacific Oceans and squeezed between North and South America, sits at a crossroads of bird distributions; in one day you can visit dry forests, cool mountains, and tropical jungles. Long-distance migrants flood through each spring and fall, boosting local bird populations, and many spend their winters here. About nine hundred avian species have been recorded within Costa Rica’s borders, an impressive diversity for a country less than half the size of Tennessee.
Costa Rica is also an extraordinarily nice place to visit, especially if you’re keen on the natural world. I fell for this country years ago, during four invigorating months of banding birds at different sites operated by the Costa Rica Bird Observatories. The locals, calling themselves ticos, are friendly and laid back; their standard greeting, pura vida, means “pure life,” and it is as much a philosophy as a way of saying hello.
No other Latin American nation, and perhaps no country anywhere, has done more to promote an environmentally friendly image. In 1949, following a civil war that left few people happy, Costa Rica constitutionally abolished its army—an unprecedented move at that time for any nation—and redirected all military spending toward health care, education, and environmental protection. This bold move marked the beginning of a strong economic rise, and today the country leads Latin America in health and education indicators. Life expectancy is now longer than in the United States. For years, Costa Rica’s citizens have ranked number one in both the Happy Planet Index and the World Database of Happiness. Nearly 25 percent of the land is protected in reserves and national parks (by percentage, the world’s highest conservation rate), and Costa Rica has more trees per capita, and per square mile, than any other nation. In the past thirty years, the amount of forested land here has, unbelievably, increased—in fact, it has more than doubled since the 1980s—thanks to tree planting and other anti-deforestation measures, partly financed by a tax on gasoline. The national government has pledged to become the world’s first carbon-neutral country, and, as of 2015, Costa Rica was 81 percent of the way there.
Taken with a plate of gallo pinto (stir-fried beans and rice) and a dash of the ubiquitous Lizano sauce, all of these things combine for a unique and delightful cultural experience. No wonder tourism is Costa Rica’s largest international trade, earning more than coffee, banana, and pineapple exports combined. Two and a half million foreigners entered the country in 2015, about one tourist for every two residents, and more than half of those visits were eco-based. Costa Rica’s modern economy would wither without the national parks; it’s a win-win for business and for conservation.
Roy, Johan, and I headed straight out of town. Roy had his sights set on a mountain called Cerro de la Muerte to search for highland birds in the isolated Talamanca Range. Despite its name (which translates as the “Summit of Death,” for the perilous crossing before the Inter-American Highway was built), this area teems with life: dozens of endemic birds occupy the Talamanca highlands, from the Fiery-throated Hummingbird to the Volcano Junco, and Cerro de la Muerte offers the most convenient access to them.
As we left the city, I got acquainted with my new companions. Roy, thirty-five years old, originally from the town of Quesada in north-central Costa Rica, had graduated as a natural history tour guide. Johan, thirty-one years old, studied natural resource management and discovered his passion for birds while guiding tours. Both of them lived with their young families near Manuel Antonio National Park on the Pacific Coast and took great pleasure in showing the local birdlife to visitors.
“Do you think we’ll see a quetzal?” I asked.
Johan laughed.
“Everybody wants a quetzal,” he said. “Yes, we have a good chance at Cerro de la Muerte.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Because you can’t go to Costa Rica without seeing a Resplendent Quetzal!”
The scenery became greener and steeper as the highway rose into lush forest, and the air cooled noticeably. For every 1,000-foot gain in elevation, the temperature
drops by more than three degrees Fahrenheit; climb 5,000 feet and suddenly it’s fifteen or twenty degrees colder. By the time we’d reached the turnoff for Cerro de la Muerte, at nearly 11,000 feet, we were cloaked in a chilly drizzle.
It had taken just an hour and a half to reach this spot from downtown San José, and I marveled at how quickly we had ascended into a completely different world. How many urbanites ever ventured up here? On my travels, I am consistently amazed at how easy it is to access splendid natural places from most large cities, and yet how few people take advantage. Drive an hour or two in any direction from almost any city center, in any country, and you can reach real, remote nature with hardly a soul around.
Roy directed us onto a side road where he thought we’d have a shot at a Timberline Wren—an obscure, diminutive member of the wren family at home in the mountaintops of eastern Costa Rica and western Panama. We stopped at a wide spot and the three of us climbed out into fresh, misty air.
Birds twittered unseen from the cloud forest. It proved to be quite a challenge spotting anything in that heavy vegetation, but gradually we teased out sightings. A curious Yellow-thighed Finch (number 2,180), jet black, flashed patches of neon-yellow feathers from its upper legs as if wearing miniature, fluffy shorts, then ducked for cover. A pair of Black-and-yellow Silky-Flycatchers (number 2,182), patterned in the same colors as the finch, flitted through the canopy. Nearby, a teensy Volcano Hummingbird (number 2,189) perched like a gemstone on a flowering bromeliad, catching the light with its purple gorget. A jeweler might say the hummer weighed twelve carats—a costly gem fit for royalty—but here it entertained us for free.
Johan bounded confidently ahead, calling out names and moving quickly. His face was round and friendly, with short stubble on the chin and thin sideburns. He wore khaki pants and a long-sleeved field shirt, and his binoculars hung from a loose shoulder harness, dangling almost to his waist. When he smiled, his eyes squinted into tiny smiles of their own, and his whole being radiated with cheerfulness.
Roy was quieter, more methodical and more thoughtful. He often stopped to inspect some tiny detail, perhaps on a frog or a leaf, and he observed birds with kindness and patience. He seemed to know every species of creature in the forest and was interested in all of their interactions—not just their names, but how each one fit into the bigger picture. I noticed that Roy walked slowly, paused frequently, and breathed with more difficulty than the altitude might warrant, but he didn’t mention it. His body was thin and angular, bundled in warm clothes that hung loosely.
Johan found the Timberline Wren within a few minutes, directing our gaze to a perky brown bird clambering in the undergrowth. A close look revealed its stubby tail, cinnamon brown back, and characteristic white eyebrow, which separated this wren from the similar, more widespread Ochraceous Wren at lower elevations. It was impossibly cute, and I watched it quietly with Roy for a few minutes until a peripheral flash of green distracted my attention.
“Hey, I’m just going to check something out,” I said, and jogged off in the direction of the movement.
I could have sworn I’d glimpsed another bird—a bright green one. Around the next curve in the road, a noisy flock of Sooty-capped Chlorospingus worked through the midcanopy, but I ignored these commoners. I got that feeling, almost by instinct, of picking up something unusual in my field of vision, and now I scanned the forest with a sense of anticipation. The chlorospingus flock disappeared after a couple of minutes and I stood alone, wondering what else lurked nearby. With Johan and Roy out of sight around the bend, I didn’t want to stay too long and risk missing some goodies.
A few slow heartbeats passed. Then, like a mirage in slow motion, a glistening-green creature detached itself from its green surroundings and fluttered to an open branch in front of me. It banked as it landed, giving a perfect view: this bird had a red belly, white under the tail, black wings, and a small yellow beak. The rest of its body was emerald and jade, subtly iridescent in the cloudy light, with a metallic golden sheen. A fluffy crest covered its head, and long green feathers drooped over the wings like frilly shirtsleeves. But the most striking feature was the tail (technically, the uppertail coverts), which stretched almost three feet, dangling like a soft, bright green train below the bird’s body.
“I’ve got a quetzal!” I shouted, and Roy and Johan appeared around the corner, relief evident on their faces. We would have had a tough time missing this bird in Costa Rica, and they were glad to nail it down so soon.
The Resplendent Quetzal is Central America’s most famous bird, found from western Panama to southern Mexico. It’s not particularly rare, but to see one you must spend time in the mountains between 5,000 and 10,000 feet, where the quetzal inhabits mature cloud forests with plenty of fruiting trees. The male is spectacular—“the most beautiful, all things considered, that I have ever seen,” once wrote the legendary ornithologist Alexander Skutch—and was traditionally worshiped by the Aztecs and Maya, who associated the bird with the snake god Quetzalcoatl. Today, it is the national bird of Guatemala and namesake of Guatemalan currency, the “quetzal,” and you can find quetzals in many places throughout Central America. Because so many tourists visit Costa Rica, with its easy access to national parks, the Resplendent Quetzal has become particularly representative of Costa Rica’s highland forests.
As I watched, the quetzal flew a short distance and retreated into a tree cavity. A second later, its head emerged to spy on us, with the tip of its tail still sticking out of the hole.
“It’s on a nest!” I said.
“Wow,” Johan said. “Wow, wow, wow!”
Roy watched in silence, soaking in the details. He knew this bird very well from long study. His attention didn’t waver as he observed the quetzal’s behavior, and his manner conveyed contentment.
“The female must be around here somewhere,” he said. “They both incubate the eggs, usually one or two in the nest. She might be foraging on wild avocado fruits nearby.”
A few minutes later, the quetzal pulled his head inside the cavity, leaving only the end of his tail visible.
“The tail is so long that they have to wrap it around themselves and dangle it out the entrance,” Roy said, “or else they risk damaging the feathers.”
I tried to imagine what it would be like to carry around something like that—an extra, inescapable part of the body that must constantly get in the way, but that also makes life more interesting and beautiful. Did the quetzal sometimes wish he could cut his tail loose, and just be a normal bird?
Standing next to me, Roy looked as if he could read my thoughts. All of us carry our own burdens, of course, even if they’re not always as obvious as the tail of a quetzal.
✧-✧-✧
That evening at our hostel, I opened my laptop, found an anemic Wi-Fi network connection, and settled down to catch up on email. Top priority was to confirm arrangements with my local contact in Guatemala, where I would land in a few days.
By now I was used to staying connected on the road. Maintaining my online Birding Without Borders blog was the toughest part. Every day, I wrote a new entry and, using some of the wimpiest Internet signals on the planet, contrived to send the text and a selection of photographs to my editors. The National Audubon Society hosted these updates on their website and posted each entry as quickly as possible, with an updated species list, map of my travels, and accompanying photos, so that people could follow my progress. Despite the rigors of blogging after long and exhausting days of birding, I never tired of having this amazing connection with the world, and I usually managed to find adequate Wi-Fi somewhere—at hotels, airports, restaurants, and even gas stations.
Using a combination of email, text messages, WhatsApp, Facebook, and Skype—mostly from my phone (with an international voice and data plan) and often while on the road in a car, taxi, or bus—I kept in touch with upcoming birding partners as well as family and friends. Though I spent a lot of time in remote places, I passed through civilization to
get from one birding spot to the next, so I wasn’t exactly lost in the wilderness.
Even so, as the year unfolded, I was increasingly glad to have made most arrangements before starting out, as it would have been nearly impossible to plan and coordinate everything along the way. When I hit the road at the beginning of January, I carried a spreadsheet with dates, itineraries, and local contacts for every country I planned to visit during the entire year—as well as a detailed flight itinerary and a wad of plane tickets, which I had purchased with the expert help of an agency, AirTreks, that specializes in round-the-world travel. Some details would change en route, and I could be flexible, but planning ahead meant that I was able to stay focused on birding without stressing over the logistics.
At regular intervals, I tried to check in ahead of time with the birders at the next destination so that all would be ready when I arrived, but that wasn’t always possible. Some of my contacts spent as much time on the road as I did. Others barely had Internet access and replied to my messages weeks or months after I sent them. My system of birding with locals required a certain leap of faith: once I’d made plans with people, I just had to trust that they’d show up at the appointed time and place. A couple of birders had to cancel for personal reasons, but I expected that; what I couldn’t get over was just how smoothly things were going so far.
Now I had a funny feeling that something was wrong with my guy in Guatemala. I hadn’t heard from him in a while, which seemed a little odd because I’d be landing there the following week. I wasn’t seriously worried because I knew he was one of the best birders in the country and often led tours for visitors. Months ago we’d hashed out an itinerary including Tikal and the highlands, and I looked forward to our five days together.
His name was Hugo Enríquez. I was particularly excited to meet Hugo because I’d interviewed him in 2011 for a regular feature in Birding magazine, where I work as associate editor. He was suggested as an interviewee by the magazine’s editor, Ted Floyd, who had run into him on a trip in Guatemala.
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