So Many Reasons to Hire a Local Guide...(Pura Vida, Part II)

Go Local, Grow Local                                9 July 2013

I have never worked so hard through the lens and in the creative process of photography as I did in Costa Rica.  In Wisconsin, the challenge is in getting close, capturing the defining moments as they occur in our spectacular migrations or in the interactions between two animals.  The light is often abundant, and the conditions are very forgiving.   By contrast, Costa Rica is very humid, often with very dense cloud cover, dense forest canopy and very little light.  Animals are very well hidden, and an opportunity with an animal, even when surprisingly tame, gives very little opportunity for good light and strong composition.  In Wisconsin, the battle is in getting close to the subject.  In Costa Rica, the battles are in finding the subjects and then battling through the lens to capture them.   To boost my odds in Costa Rica, I traveled with my good friends Bruce and Tamy Leventhal (www.bruceleventhal.com), an outstanding and award-winning nature photography duo who were heading to Costa Rica for their eighth time.  Bettering our odds for great imagery, Bruce had made prior arrangements with some excellent local guides, and that was the ingredient that made our experience so genuinely rich!

Basilisk lizard, pepper bush and mosquito near Rio Quatro

Michael Sevilla is a brilliant man living in the northern lowlands region of Costa Rica, a place rich in true rainforest and crystal clear rivers.  In his mid-twenties, he has a wealth of working knowledge about ecosystem dynamics in the tropical rainforests.   Indeed, he has been very involved in Costa Rican conservation projects, and he is currently involved in wildlife research in Costa Rica’s Northern Lowlands.   Every bird song and call has meaning to Michael, and he knows where to look for the animals that are so foreign to me.  He knows the frogs, the plants, the insects, the mammals, the reptiles, the birds, the fish… In such a biologically diverse place, Michael is familiar with a staggering number of wild beings.    His search images are well honed and are as powerful as his generosity. With each step through the forest, he reveals to me a world that was right in front of me but somehow still invisible. 

Helmeted basilisk lizard, Sarapiqui River

At home in Wisconsin, where I am an observant wildlife biologist, birder, and photographer, my own knowledge of our local forest ecosystems keeps me engaged and always observing the dance of biological diversity.  But this specific knowledge of the temperate zone has only minimal transferred meaning in Costa Rica.  This place is wondrously different.   We do not have nearly so many interdependent interactions, so many stratified layers of forest, and we do not have frogs that lay eggs under leaves above ponds, frogs that carry tadpoles on their backs and feed them eggs, or frogs that can give you a headache and make your hands burn with a touch.   We do not have tarantulas waiting in burrows or hoards of birds that follow larger hoards of army ants.

 Montezuma Oropendola

Birds are strangely absent at times and then, sending me  into a frenzied panic, incredibly diverse and abundant as mixed flocks descend upon opportunity of ripened fruit, ant mobs, or other sources of nutrients. The bird voices in Costa Rica are deeper, richer, easily “thrown” as master ventriloquists hide in the dense foliage.  Other birds enlist shrill sounds at the limit of human hearing, sounds that are omnipresent and non-directional.  My own trained ear, adept at deciphering most North American bird songs and calls, seems clumsy.   Michael asks me to identify a bird, a deep, rich, repeating sound.  I strike out quickly, and he then shares the answer.  “Red-throated Ant Tanger, a song so different than the calls you heard earlier!”     

Grosbeaks, tanagers, wrens, and antbirds all sound so similar in song here.  Few of my “rules” seem to work.  I cannot seem to pull the sounds apart and dissect their taxonomic clues.  A myriad of smaller tanagers, honeycreepers, and even hummingbirds own a higher register that has fallen meaningless to my ears.  Rufous-tailed Hummingbirds, ubiquitous and aggressive, end up the sole solution to so many bird sound mysteries.  I am critically incapacitated here, and birds do not even respond to my “bird whispering” that works so well at home.   A local birder in Costa Rica jokes with me, “Oh yes, we call our birds too.  But you have to learn to call them in Spanish. You’re doing it in English.”

Soon, I am making progress.  We are walking along a muddy clay trail deep in a rainforest.  A bird calls out from the subcanopy somewhere.  Michael turns to me, points upward and says, “What do you think that is?”  I hesitate but then move along confidently.  I say to him, “My taxonomy brain says that sound comes from a cuckoo.  No.  Not a cuckoo, but something that would be closely related to a cuckoo. That would put it somewhere around…TROGON! It is a trogon.”  Michael smiles and nods at me.  “Correct!  Black-throated Trogon.”

Black-throated Trogon, male

Black-throated Trogon, female

On our down time, I find Michael to be sincere with a hilarious wit and a true joy for teaching.  He is an inspiration to my children, and his caring demeanor quickly wins over my family.  In the evenings, he shows us great places to eat where the food is local and the people are at home and relaxed.  He begins to teach us Spanish, and, soon, he is also teaching us how Costa Rican culture transforms the Spanish language.   In our second day together in the forest, he is now beginning to expect us to know some Spanish.  This is only fair, as he had to teach himself English, a language he now knows fluently.

Up at 5 AM and into the forest, we explore a world of misty rain, deep green foliage, thin layers of leaf decay over firm clay, bellowing mantled howler monkeys, and raucous flocks of parrots.  Crystal clear rivers rush from the hills, and we eagerly converse about discoveries, life of the rainforest, and our own lives and journeys.  It isn’t long before I find out that Michael is an excellent bat biologist.  He is not only great at finding bats, but he can also catch them, handle them, and release them unharmed.  We are amazed to find ourselves petting the fur and feeling the soft wings of a rainforest bat, firmly secured by Michael.  As the bat flies back into the forest, Michael begins to list the fruits that would not be possible without the bats, as they are pollinators and also interact with a variety of other animals in ways that allow the life cycles of fruits and seeds to continue in the rainforest.

 

Later in the day, he guides us to unique locales near his home where opportunities to make nature images are just too good to be true, places where the people are as welcoming as the fearless wildlife.  We drink fruit juices from fruit I didn’t know existed and are introduced to friendly people that weren’t originally part of the day's plan. So friendly, so genuine, so deep and rich, this is great living! Pura Vida!

Great Green Macaw

Scarlet Macaw

Common Tody Flycatcher

Michael is a very good photographer, but he has left his own camera at home.  He has dedicated himself fully to our own success.   After two amazing days, we say farewell to Michael.  He has quickly become a part of our family.  We have come to find great comfort and joy in his presence, and now, with this part of the adventure behind us, we already miss him.     In just 48 hours, he has changed our lives.

When you travel to a distant and unfamiliar place, be sure to hire a local guide!  All images were taken with a refurbished Canon 7D, a Canon 40 D, Canon 300mm f4L IS lens, and Canon 28-135 mm lens, and a Canon Powershot SX230HS.  Many images were made using a Gitzo basalt tripod and Gitzo head and a Canon electronic cable release.  Working in the rainforest as a photographer is very, very difficult.  These images are very much the result of having a very excellent and patient guide with an eye for what makes good photography.

Costa Rica, Pura Vida! Part I

A Walk on the Pacific Coast               13 July 2013

Damsel fly along a mangrove stream, Hacienda Baru

The sun rises just after 5:40 AM at Hacienda Baru.  Animals are quick to respond to the cool morning light, and the world is a symphony of songbird songs, hummingbird scolds, raucous parakeet flight calls, and insect sounds.  Gray-necked Wood Rails explode in a comically musical chorus that recalls the whimsical xylophone instrumentation of an old Laurel and Hardy sound film.  The distant crashing of Pacific surf soothes the acoustic landscape.   My feet find a well-worn trail, and I am quickly in pursuit of new things to see.  Almost every species here is new to me, and the ecological interactions, though somewhat familiar, are laced with extraordinary features that I have never had the good fortune to explore.

Black-hooded Antshrike, forested edge, Hacienda Baru

Sunbittern foraging in a mangrove stream, Hacienda Baru

The Cherrie's Tanager is ubiquitous, ever calling, filling the world with thin, tropical tanager sounds.  The males flash brilliant, scarlet rump patches as they flutter along branches in search of insects and berries.  The females form small crowds, sometimes chasing one another around in squawking groups.

Cherrie's Tanager, forested edge, Hacienda Baru

Cherrie's Tanager, male and female, forested edge, Hacienda Baru

By 7:30 AM, the sun has crested the mountains.  Almost instantly, I feel the heat on my neck.  The air grows humid, and sweat runs freely.  I head home to the cabina, home to find out what my family is doing.  They are up and eating breakfast, so I join them and cool off.

White-faced Capuchin monkey, mid-morning rest...

...and the contemplation of being...

Red-naped Woodpecker, possibly a hybrid with Hoffman's Woodpecker, enjoying over-ripe bananas.

As humidity is now part of the day, we plan a gentle hike for the day and resign to any sense of control about photographic light, weather, or anything else.  I have learned, reluctantly, that the tropics are less predictable than my own temperate home.   But I have also learned that photographic light here changes often, for better or worse, all day long.  The only way to chase the light here is to chase all day long.  This slow and silent "chasing", by the chances of intersection, will always result in something fascinating and new, an encounter with a spectacular animal.  So we slowly, merrily chase on.  Bruce reminds me to be open to what is there, to find art in serendipity. He is a good teacher.

Anole lizard, termite nest, and bamboo...

...unknown to me, a lizard with silvery eyes...

Colorful, yet cryptic, a group of skipper butterflies...How many do you see?

My friends, Bruce and Tamy Leventhal, have reminded me that food is abundant and everywhere.  Animals keep on the move.  Silent areas in the forest suddenly spring to life as a flock of birds follows a swarm of army ants or as a group of white-faced capuchin monkeys moves through the area in their omnivorous pursuits.   Finding wildlife in Hacienda Baru is as much about chance as it is about the rich and growing abundance of life in this successful experiment in ecological restoration.

White-necked Puffbird, forest interior, Hacienda Baru

White-faced capuchin...

...determined, yet dainty...

Hacienda Baru was once a cattle ranch.  Nestled between the Pacific Ocean and mountainous highlands, it was a fragmented mosaic of agricultural clearings and young forest.  Loving stewardship of the land and time, coupled with good science, are allowing Hacienda Baru to blossom into excellent wildlife habitat.  Large mammals are returning, and it is hoped that it will one day be a viable part of the corridor project to support Central America's tapirs.  If the tapirs will thrive, jaguars may thrive.  Tapirs, small relatives of elephants, and jaguars, the largest cats of the Americas, are umbrella species, animals that prove by their very presence that an ecosystem is strong, vital, and intact.  This year, Bruce has noticed that the coati population has been greatly checked into balance.  The coati is neither over-abundant nor tame anymore, proof that pumas are lurking.   The Hacienda Baru experiment is working!

Great Curassow, male and female in a forest clearing, are proof that this ecosystem is rapidly improving!

All images were photographed with a refurbished Canon 7D and a Canon 300mm f4L IS lens.  The tropics have transformed my technique, and most images were made using a Gitzo basalt tripod and Gitzo head and a Canon DSLR cable release.   Pura Vida!  (Pure Life! This is spoken often and so true of the Costa Rican people I have met! Gracias amigos! )  For an excellent ecological education, be sure to purchase and read Jack Ewing's "Monkeys are Made of Chocolate."  

Biological Diversity--Threads in the Ecosystem Fabric

Where Raspberries Come From                                21 June 2013

A small bee, perhaps a native species, resting among the leaves of a raspberry...

There is wondrous complexity in the world, and it is helpful to think of nature’s processes as woven fabrics.  Sometimes, the fabric is tightly woven. Sometimes the fabric is loosely woven.  The strands have different sizes and different levels of importance, and there is little uniformity in the weave.  Sometimes, the strands cause bunching and lumping in the fabric, giving it unusual dimensions.   Biological diversity, the threads of nature’s fabric, builds a fabric that is difficult to grasp for those seeking uniformity and tidy neatness.  Nature’s order is beautiful in its chaos, but the forms and functions we see in this fabric have to do with the interactions of the threads, the unique variety of threads in the fabric we study. 

Henslow's Sparrow, a thread in the prairie fabric...

The Henslow’s Sparrow is a rare thread in the Great Lakes states.  The fabric in question is prairie, and the assortment of threads that makes the bird possible includes a few important connecting threads considered here… The first is that the prairie needs to have a taller grass component.  Secondly, it is very important that time and succession have allowed a dead thatch to build up beneath the rapidly growing live grasses.  Another is that the prairie needs to be quite large, quite expansive, largely free of trees and shrubs.  It even seems as though some rolling topography helps to weave in the Henslow’s Sparrow thread more strongly.   A large and complex prairie fabric will have spots in which different sorts of grasses, different sorts of heights, different sorts of microcosms are woven together, resulting in a rich assortment of avian threads.  These are woven in song as much as in function, and the chorus may include exuberant, nasal Bobolinks, musical Eastern Meadowlarks, lazily buzzing Grasshopper Sparrows, and bouncing Field Sparrow Songs.

A small, green, metallic bee and a raspberry flower...

We have a tendency to dutifully oversimplify ecological functions.  Recently we have all become students of bees, and most of us know that honey bees are experiencing precipitous population declines, that honey bees are the heroes that give us “one in every three mouthfuls of food”, and that honey bees’ colony collapse disorder is a real and serious problem.   But the truth is not so simple.  Before European honeybees were brought to this North American landscape, how on Earth did anything get pollinated?  It turns out there are many, many native species of bees as well, and they all continue to do the work of pollination.  In fact, it is likely that the native bee and wasp species are more abundant, more efficient, and more effective at pollinating a wider variety of plants.  After all, they are the threads of an older fabric here. They all deserve recognition in the news.

Strangely, we know very little about our native bees. Scientists are still working to find out which threads have broken, which threads have weakened, and if there are new threads in the fabric that could cause problems.  Could our use of many new pesticides and industrial chemicals be taxing the immune systems of our bees?   Pollinators are vastly important, lending to the pollination of agricultural crops and, more importantly, a rich and vast diversity of natural flowering plants growing wild in every functioning terrestrial ecosystems.  There are threads in the forest fabric such as American Basswood trees and Spotted-touch-me-not flowers, threads of wild food including blackberries, raspberries, black-caps, serviceberries and blueberries, that are pollinated by bees.  

We need bees.  Our ecosystem fabrics have been successfully bunching up around bee threads for 100 million years, and the bunching fabric has grown strong and tight amid the threads of bees.  I stood by a small patch of raspberry plants for about an hour with my camera ready. The rich diversity I witnessed in that hour was inspirational.  All of these bees were photographed in just an hour, in an area of about five by five feet.  Enjoy the threads of biological diversity, this gallery of “Where Raspberries Come From.”

All images were made with a refurbished Canon 7D and Canon 300mm f4L IS lens.