I like jungles. Not rainforests. Jungles. I like them hot, dark, humid, with towering walls of greenery and Tarzan-style lianas and, ideally, dinosaurs. It must be some archetypal memory left over from an ancestor wallowing in the primordial ooze.
While rainforests are valuable ecological habitats that provide foods and medicines and a brake on climate change, they appeal to the intellect. Jungles, on the other hand, feed the imagination. Steamy, moist, mysterious, they're home to spiders the size of an outstretched hand who devour their mates, of vines that can strangle a tree, of flowers that look like boxing gloves or lobster claws or something alien from another planet.
But what really intrigues me about jungles are its poison dart frogs. The most toxic venom known comes from a jewel-tone frog the size of your thumbnail, a good-natured little frog who carries his children for piggy-back rides.
If I could see a poison dart frog, I fantasize as we parallel the waterfalls cascading down volcanic slopes toward our destination, I would count the journey a success.
Descending to the Caribbean lowlands, the landscape turns to horizons of pineapple plantations insterspersed with sawmills. While Costa Rica -- a small country the size of West Virginia -- is a world leader in setting aside land for preservation, it's also a leader in logging. Here, highway traffic mixes oxcarts with logging trucks, and it seems the land of the little frog is disappearing before our eyes.
But when we pull off the road, the landscape turns to jungle: we've arrived at Selva Verde. The land -- 500 acres of primary and secondary tropical forest along the banks of the Sarapiqui River -- was acquired in the mid-1980s to protect it from the proverbial woodsman's ax, and a lodge was built without chopping down any additional trees.
We set up our base in a grown-up's version of a jungle tree house. Selva Verde Lodge is in fact a constellation of bungalows built on stilts and connected by thatch-covered walkways. (All the structures are made of non-endangered tropical hardwoods.) Well-oiled, hand-planed plank stairs lead to the elevated bungalows, which are separated from the jungle greenery only by a roofed balcony. Bunches of bananas hang under the rooms, perfuming the air and attracting birds and butterflies.
We change into hiking boots and begin our trek down a riverside path -- a green tunnel through the secondary forest -- as a resident green macaw squawks a farewell. Palm fronds curtain a dangling zipper of red and yellow heliconia, while spikes of red torch ginger jut through the dense foliage. A Jesus Christ lizard walking toward us on the bridge over Turtle Creek sports a frilled crest of spines down his back that gives him the formidable appearance of a monster in a low-budget horror film, but he's only intent on crossing the bridge to reach the female on the other side.
Raul points out a moving trail of bits of leaves and blossoms marching across the path. On closer inspection, each bit of foliage is being lugged by an industrious leafcutter ant. Once they reach their huge subterranean hive, the ants will chew the vegetation into a mulch to nourish the fungus that provides their food source.
The jungle path, which seems so benign to us, is a jumble of obstructions to the ants: stones, twigs, curled dead leaves, a hundred mossy roots. Imagine climbing over boulders and downed trees with a door balanced over your head, and you have an idea of the obstacles these diminutive ants must surmount. We look up at the trees towering above us as much as we tower over the ants, and step more carefully as we continue our march.
"Now, I not promise, but the last time I was here? I saw a poison dart frog," says Raul. "Watch closely the ground."
As he continues his narrative -- something about a plant whose leaves smell strongly of licorice and remain uneaten, suggesting that the odor is a natural insect repellent -- I scan the forest floor. The river, 15 feet away, rushes on, and a chorus of cicadas forms a wall of sound. Trees merge overhead in a leafy archway.
And then I spot him.
Sitting quietly in the leaf litter is a tiny red and blue frog, a gaudy, glossy frog the size of a nickel. Not wanting to speak and frighten him, I wave my arm behind me, trying to catch Raul's attention.
Raul keeps lecturing. I keep waving madly.
Finally Raul notices, just as the frog jumps about six inches into a pile of leaves at the base of a tree.
"Ah, yes. This is Dendrobates pumilio, the strawberry poison dart frog."
Raul goes after him. After maybe four unsuccessful grabs, Raul catches the frog -- gently -- and releases him on the path where we can see him more clearly.
He's so tiny! His big blue-black eyes give him a wide-eyed, curious, intelligent air. Sitting patiently, he allows us to study his markings. His head, upper arms, and upper body are red; his lower body is red with blue polka dots that merge into solid blue legs. With his blue "hands," he looks like a red frog dressed in blue gloves and pants.
Then, with a staccato hop so fast it's a blur, he's back in the leaves. Not wanting to traumatize him, we let him go.
"Only the male has these colors," explains Raul. "This bright coloration is called 'aposematic' because it warns predators he is poisonous and must not be eaten." It's true, the frog rests quite boldly on his leaf; his demeanor does not suggest worry. Apparently he moved away not from fear but merely the need to return to whatever he was doing.
"In this species, it is the male who cares for the babies. After the female lays the eggs, the male waits two weeks, four weeks, until they hatch. He puts the tadpoles on his back, climbs a tree, and leaves the tadpoles in a small pool of water, usually in the center of a bromeliad, where they grow up."
As we walk on, Raul explains that the frog's English name refers to a practice of the Choco Indians of Colombia. They roast the frogs to extract the poison from their skin glands, and use it to tip their blowgun darts. As far as I can tell, anyone who would hurt this frog has to be an ogre.
"If he's poisonous," we ask, "how can you touch him?"
"Ah, yes. He is poisonous, very poisonous. But if you do not have a cut, the poison cannot enter your body. However, I will wash my hands in the river, so I do not rub the poison into my eye."
With that, Raul marches over to the river and washes up. And I find another frog.
This one, as tiny as the last, is turquoise with abstract patches of enamel black. Like the other, he isn't particularly shy, allowing me to approach to within three feet before starting to ease away.
"Ah, you have found Dendrobates auratus, the green poison dart frog," Raul announces, shaking out his wet hands. "In this species, both the male and female wear the bright colors."
We ask who takes care of the kids, and Raul replies that, as with the strawberry frog, it's the male who tends the eggs and carries the tadpoles to water. We are liking these frogs more and more by the moment.
Raul and the group move down the path, while I hang back to look for more frogs. I find two more that afternoon.