Pura Vida Costa Rica

Misadventures with a Tico boater

By Mark Rainsley (first published in 'Paddles' magazine)

Devon, November 2003. A crowd of boaters is crammed into the hall at the River Dart Country Park. The occasion is Simon Westgarths Adventure Paddling Weekend, and Steve Whetman is giving a talk. With only a smattering of slides and some exuberant miming for visual aids, Steve has the crowd in awed silence. He is describing an obscure river in an obscure country, the Rio Patria in Costa Rica. As he outlines the outlandish challenges and risks presented by the Patria, his audience are mentally transported to this extreme and exotic river. After his talk finishes, the audience sit in stunned silence, struggling to absorb all he has described. The silence becomes deafening and at last, the room erupts with applause and cheers. Nine months later, several members of the audience are paddling the Patria for real.

Ah, Costa Rica. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was. We landed at Heathrow a few hours back and on this drab UK day Im already missing sweaty morning heat, cooling afternoon rains, verdant backdrops and everywhere, smiling friendly Ticos Costa Rican locals. On a map, Costa Rica is a joke country, a strip of land barely bigger than Devon and Cornwall, serving only to keep the Pacific Ocean and Caribbean Sea from colliding. Experienced first hand though, you rapidly grasp that this tiny Republic is much more than the sum of its partsand there are quite a few parts. From mangrove swamps to lush coffee plantations to rainforests to active volcanoes, Costa Rica has incredible diversity. Ecologists count twelve different tropical life zones, there are 850 species of bird, 1300 different orchids, 11% of the country is conserved by 26 National Parks, and the country has the worlds highest proportion of tall dusky brunettes. All of which is rather nice to look at. The national ethos is expressed in the greeting Pura Vida which means pure/ cool/ chilled living, depending on who you ask. I was able to while away a whole summer soaking up the Pura Vida. Bouncing my Kingpin into the third dimension on yet another pristine beach break, I offered a mental prayer of thanks to my Careers Officer once more for directing me towards becoming a teachersix weeks summer holiday, every year. Idyllic as this was, these halcyon days couldnt last. A group of friends were jetting in to join me for a frantic fortnight from the UK and they didnt care a hoot for Central America culture - all they wanted was to boat every last ditch in the country. We met up at San Jose airport, the creek boats were strapped onto the nearest roof rack and the mission was on

My paddling pals dont take prisoners; in the first week we stormed our way through over half of the (rather thick) guidebook. This feat was accomplished by requisitioning an entire lorry and driver (at exorbitant cost) to speed us direct from put-in to takeout to the next put-in. Our reward for this extravagance was to tick off a long succession of A1 quality boulder creeks. We gained a sober respect for the rivers, discovering all sorts of new things to be scared of. Most disconcertingly of all, Costa Rican rapids have a volatile habit of moving around whilst youre trying to paddle them. A flash flood on the Rio Sucio transformed our afternoons pleasant bouldery bimble into superfast, hairy big water, with a deafening backing track of huge rocks rolling below us. When my turn at leading the group came up (*gulp*) I silently mouthed the famous words of astronaut Alan Shephard,
Dear Lord, please dont let me ##### up.

Now, after epics aplenty, we were holed up in the community of La Virgen on the north Caribbean slopes. Time to take stock. Our gear was dirty, musty and battered. Our bodies felt like they had been tenderised with lead pipes, and our unfocused gazes implied mass shellshock. I raised my hand with a totally radical suggestion,
Um, how about...a rest day tomorrow?
Great idea, Mark! Well paddle just one river.
Not quite what Id meant, but as we floated the friendly Rio Sarapiqui in the morning I luxuriated in the knowledge that I could look forward to an afternoon off - for about the first time ever. We were surprised at the takeout eddy to see a creek boat ferrying across to us. Our surprise was because this was the first boater wed seen away from a raft group. Our new companion turned out to be Ferdinand Steinworth, a splendid chap and paddler who is Costa Ricas best (and um, only) creek boater. Hed heard tales of our feckless recklessness, and had driven all the way from San Jose to see if we were as stupid as rumour suggested. We were.
Hey, you guys should paddle the Rio Poza Azul with me this afternoon. Its really unpleasant.
Sounds great Ferdinand, count us in!
So much then, for my relaxing afternoon.

Some while after the sun went down, we staggered ashore at the takeout. Simon had sat this one out with his girlfriend, so he was regaled with atrocity stories about the eternity wed spent lost in the jungle trying to find the river, and the endless gnarly waterfalls and slots which the Poza Azul kept flinging at us. The Poza Azul is Costa Ricas only waterfall run and Ferdinand had first-descented it only weeks before. Chris whined about how Id tried to kill him by running a ten metre waterfall whilst he was still stuck behind it (how was I to know, it was dark!), whilst I chugged down fifty gallons of liquid, having taken no refreshment with me on this SAS selection. Only Andy Mc was grinningbeing Scottish, hes a masochistic waterfall-loving freak. We were unanimous about one thing.
Whatever this Ferdinand fellow suggests next, say NO.
Hey you guys, how about the Rio Patria next? Its the hardest river in Costa Rica.

Packing time at the Hotel Interamericano

That evening we drew up plans over our billionth Costa Rican meal of beans and rice. Due to it being the rainy season and due to the Patria being in a rainforest, everyone wed consulted previously thought that attempting the river in August would be the worst idea since Pop Idol. Ferdinand however, had paddled the river more times than anyone and explained that the river banks were relatively open and un-gorged; in other words, we at least had somewhere to run to crying, when the river flooded. Amazingly - given our amateurish performance on the Poza Azul - Ferdinand was keen to team up with us for the mission. I guess that as the only creek boater in your country, you take whatever you get.

Dawn start

Somehow we persuaded our driver Martin to meet us at two in the morning with his lorry. Somehow we roused ourselves to meet him, and we were on the road. I had requisitioned a pillow from our hostel and stretched out asleep in the back. At five am (WHY???), I awoke again to find that we had reached our put-in, and had somehow collected Ferdinand from San Jose en route. I stepped out onto the roadside, blinking. In the misty dawn half-light I could see mountains rising all around, covered by dense forest. We were atop a high ridge in the heart of the Braulio Carillo National Park and it was really rather impressive. Not so impressive though, that Id normally get up in the middle of the night just to see it. We werent beside any river that I could see. I smelled a rat.
Okay guys; load your boats up for the hike.
Hike???? This wasnt in the brochure
Hurry up guys, if the Park Rangers catch us well be fined and sent away.
Unbelievable, to top it all there was an Access problem. Why oh why didnt I just stay in Devon? The five of us shouldered our kayaks and yomped into the forest. To my relief, the path was wide and clear. For the first fifty metres. Henceforth, the word path could only be used in the vaguest sense. We dragged, swung, pushed, kicked our boats along a narrow dirt rut clinging to a mountainside, engulfed by dense vegetation. To add to the jollity, every few steps our kayaks would swing off the edge of this assault course into the bushes below.
Guys, be careful, the path is really overgrown this year. Make sure you look before you put your hands or feet down anywhere.
This was darned fine advice. The rainforest was totally intimidating. All my previous knowledge came from cartoons, where friendly furry animals swing from trees singing songs. Walt Disney (bless his cryogenically frozen soul) obviously never saw a real jungle. He never got swarmed by biting ants, lacerated by thorns, boiled alive by choking humidity or stung repeatedly by rampant horseflies and (Im certain of this) he absolutely never walked face-first into a spider the size of my hand.
Dont worry about snakes, guys. They only go for the third person along the trail.
Small comfort to Si, back in third place! Our only light moment came when a stick insect attempted to mate with Sis paddle shaft. One thing was frightening clearthe forest was as committing as any vertically walled canyon; the only way out of the Patria was going to be downstream.

Jungle bashing.

Three hours later we reached the river (Im going to say that louderTHREE HOURS). The trees fell back, and we staggered onto the flood plain of the Patria; which proved to be a pathetically shallow stream. At least it was deep enough to wash the mud and blood off, but not enough to float a kayak. Wondering if this was all some elaborate wind-up (were we being filmed secretly?) we grated and pinballed down several miles of this stuff, trying to recall the small print on our boat warranties.

The morning wore on and without warning, the river squeezed straight into a dark narrow cleft in a cliff. This we recognised from Steve Whetmans talksomewhere in there was the huge waterfall that had only been run once. We rapidly concurred that the gorge looked about as inviting as a vegetarian restaurant, and began the big climb. Yep, we had to bodge a way up the cliff and all the way down the bigger cliff on the opposite side. Ferdinand whipped out a huge machete from under his spraydeck. This was rather alarming (you dont see them on the Dart), but it proved to be a Godsend. He hacked a path and we stumbled in his wake, faffing about with tangled ropes and dropping boats onto each other. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but halfway through this gruelling portage we were all agreed that running the Grade 6 gorge would have been a breeze by comparison

Andy, Ferdinand, Si...all apparently enjoying the portage.

It was a skin-shredding hour before we regrouped on the far side. The Patria spills out of the gorge over a picture-perfect waterfall, filling a circular pool surrounded by green-clad cliffs. Soaking this all in, it occurred to me that not many people have been privileged to view this amazing spot. For a brief moment I let myself consider that this Patria thing might actually have something going for it. Then we re-launched, and it was back to the tedium of bump and grind and graze. Why oh why did I forget my elbow pads?

A special place...

In late afternoon, we called time and set up camp. Ferdinand wasnt deterred by the huge footprints on our beach (Its just a Tapir, they weigh 400 pounds). The river had improved a tad through the day, but Ferdinand had bust a paddle and Chris split his boat badly. Repairs were a non-starter, given that torrential rain was now adding to our general misanthropy. To travel ultra-light, we hadnt brought any food worth eating, or dry clothes to change into. Dinner was depressing beyond belief, as we prodded damp processed cheese and tasteless tuna. Im ashamed to admit it, but there was mutiny in the ranks whilst Ferdinands back was turned.
Id give todays boating a Grade D at best.
Yeah...why did we come here, exactly?
Well, at least it cant get any worse
The only grinning face was Andy Mc, whose $1 plastic raincover inspired jealous loathing from the rest of us.

Chris tries to mend his boat in the rain...hopeless...

I laid out my Gore-Tex bivvy bag on the beach and climbed inside, extra-careful not to get my sleeping bag damp. Perfect! Once zipped inside I was warm, dry and happy for the first time in hours. I relished this moment and began to nod off. Sis voice woke me after only five minutes.
Mark, you wont believe this, but the river is lapping at your feet.
I peered out. To our horror, the river had risen several metres and was spreading across our camping area with daunting pace. The Patria had flash-flooded just in time for total darkness. Pandemonium ensued as we dashed about panicking by the light of our head torches. We relocated ourselves and our gear to Camp #B, and then shortly after Camp #C (up in the forest) when #B flooded too. I finally lay down to doze again, this time in a sopping wet sleeping bag. The last thing I heard before crashing out was Chris, mindful of the fact that Id be writing a magazine article about the trip.
Thats enough now God, I think Mark has got his word count.

Moving camp whilst the waters rose.

In the morning, I rolled over and listened carefully. No rain and I couldnt hear the river; it had dropped back to sensible levels, thankfully. I drew back the hood of my bivvy bag and peered through the mesh. A luridly coloured hummingbird hovered inches from my nose, and then sped offto be replaced by a huge bright blue Morpha butterfly. All rather Disney, in fact. Today was going to be very different.

The morning after...

Theres nothing more tedious than a happy ending...so Im wont dwell blow by blow on the second days boating. Suffice to say, the river went from Grade D to Grade A+ in the first hundred metres. It kept on improving (A+++?). The rapids merged into improbably endless mega-rapids, with more moves than you could memorise in a month of bank inspection. The volume cranked up along with the gradient, to offer some of the finest and most challenging paddling weve ever done. Creekorama! Boating just doesnt get better than this, but it didnt lack teeth; Andy Mc carelessly left his boat behind in one stopper and a certain should-have-portaged rock jumble taught me a valuable life lesson by repeatedly kicking me in the head. Chris was lumbered with a sinking U-Boat, flailing downstream at full steam before hopping out to bail at every eddy. All part of the fun, the Patria blew our minds. Long staircases of chewy waterfalls, heavenly boofs, boulder gardens without end and pit-of-doom slots
Thats totally evil. Nothing on earth is getting me and my kayak down there.
Have you seen the portage?
Okay, Im paddling it.
Just how good is it? Well, youll have to take our word for it. I lugged my camera gear all the way in, only for the batteries to fizzle outwhatever photos youre seeing around this article, they almost certainly arent the Patria! (actually they are here on this site, Andy McMahon and Chris Wheeler kindly allowed their photos to be used)

I have no idea who this is.

Andy Mc takes a swim!

Eventually and anticlimactically, the valley sides dropped back and the Patria merged with the orange-coloured Rio Sucio (dirty river). In 4000 feet of descent, our masochistic Patria mission had inflicted more misery upon us than a lifetime of Saturday night television. As we crawled up the riverbank to Martins lorry, the blood and the sweat and the lousy first day were barely hours back but they were utterly erased from our memory.
I hate that Ferdinand bloke...
Why? Hes just shown us the best creeking ever.
because he can come back and run it any time he likes.
Yeah, fair point. I hate him too.

Central American perfection.

Mark Rainsley survived the Patria with Andy McMahon, Ferdinand Steinworth, Chris Wheeler and Simon Wiles. Cheers Ferdinand from all of us, it was an honour to boat with you! Thanks also to Nookie and Perception for continued support and for supplying gear which could survive the Patrias abuse.

Mark's Costa Rica photos.

Chris Wheeler and Andy McMahon's photos.