On Our Own Path

Written by Kyle on Saturday, August 30, 2008 in Costa Rica
Feelin' thoughtful

On Thursday, during a break in my Spanish lessons at the Monteverde Institute, I opened up my computer to check my email.  That day, I had received an email from my uncle Dan, who had traveled through Central America almost 40 years ago:


I wrote him back a quick response telling him that, in essence, Monteverde has changed a lot and probably doesn't look too much like his memory.  I have gotten several emails like this from Dan that give bits of antecdotes and a brief glimpse into Central America 38 years before.  They're all really interesting, and quite often mention how some local was either feeding him, sheltering him, or watching over his busted motorcycle.  I've always wanted to talk with one of the people that he met so many years ago, talk about all the changes, what it was like back when there wasn't such a thing as tourists, etc.  But typically wondering about town asking for "the woman who made fish soup" or "the guy who guarded a wrecked motorcycle" won't get you far.  In this case, however, I had a name.

I still didn't give it a good chance to succeed, though.  What are the odds that I am going to find someone who knows a guy named "Wolf" that was here 40 years ago.  Even if I did find someone, what are the odds that he still lives here and that he his still alive?

As I was thinking about this, my Spanish teacher walked into the room, back from break, eager to burn my brain with some odd construction of the past tense subjunctive.

"Una pregunta."  A question.  I said this a lot.  Mostly it was about some odd sentence construction that I saw somewhere, or some odd Latin American cultural feature that I still didn't understand.  "Digame", she responded.  Tell me.

I explained that I had an uncle that was in Monteverde in 1970 and that he went on this adventurous hike over the Continental Divide, where this guy he was with shot a large snake.  Anyway, this guy's name was...something like..."Wolf".  Do you know someone named "Wolf"?

Her eyes lit up immediately, as if I had told her that I had chosen her to win a mail-in sweepstakes.  Of course she knows Wolf, everyone knows Wolf!  She told me that Wolf is practically a legend in Monteverde.  She even pointed to a picture on the wall that was painted by Wolf's wife.

She goes on to tells me that Wolf was one of the first Quaker settlers and that he is basically responsible for making Monteverde a reserve.  He bought it, maintained it, made the trails and still, to this day, is actively involved in protecting the forest reserve.  In essence, because of Wolf, the Monteverde Reserve exists, the cloud forest is in good shape, and there are tourists.  Put bluntly, because of this man's work, everyone else in town has a job.

Bouyed by the confidence of knowing that the first person I asked knew him, I asked if I could somehow meet him:  "¿Es posible que yo pueda encontrar el?".

She told me that he hangs out at the Monteverde Reserve a lot, but if I wanted to be sure to meet him, I should talk with Carlos, the father of my host family.  He's a guide at the reserve, so he should know when Wolf is around.

So, later that night, I put off asking about Wolf.  My host family was packing up to go to the beach this weekend and we were saying our last goodbyes and talking about the future.  When there was a pause, I told them I had one more question for them.  "¿Conoce un hombre se llama 'Wolf?"

Carlos's eyes lit up just as my teacher's had as soon as he heard the name Wolf.  Of course he knew Wolf.  Wolf was sort of an inspirational figure for him.  "¿Quiere llamar el?  Tango su numero de telefono.", Carlos told me.  Ummm...sure, if you have his telephone number, I guess it wouldn't hurt talking to him.

Under a minute later, Carlos hands me the phone and tells me that Wolf is on the other end.  I talk with him briefly, explain the story with my uncle and ask him if I can meet him.  We decide at noon at his house on Saturday and he gives me a typical Costa Rican address, short and vague:  his house is about 1 km after the road splits to San Louis and there's a red gate outside.

So, on Saturday, with my one sentence worth of directions, I set out to find Wolf.  I look outside and it is raining, just like it has been raining for the past 5 days.  This is not a good sign, especially considering it will probably be around a 6 km walk.  Just as I put on my shoes to head outside, however, the rain stops.  Not slows down.  Stops.  It's been raining 5 days strait and, now, without anything happening, it just stops.

Walking out in the humid, foggy, air I still feel a bit apprehensive about meeting a guy I just met over the phone for less than 5 minutes.  For some reason, I keep going, though, walking faster than usual in order to beat the rain if it decides to come back.

I walk and walk.  I walk past my normal stopping point of the Monteverde Instutute and keep going over a river.


At the split in the road, I walk towards San Luis.  I am now out of the normal tourist route and there are no taxis or buses passing by me.  I feel as if somehow the world around me has changed from the tourist highway that Costa Rica has become and into the broad, beautiful, green fields of Costa Rica's past.


I keep walking even though it seems like the only living things around me are cows.  I start to get worried after 15 minutes of not really seeing anything, but finally, I see it:  a red gate wide open as if it were begging me to come in.


Wolf immediately brings out pictures of his last walk to Arenal from Monteverde, a 3-day trip he took 4 years ago, before his knee surgery, with his son.  He tells me it is a trail that he made years ago but hasn't been used much, mostly because it traverses many different properties that are privately owned and because the end of it spits out the hikers at a very famous hot spring and hotel.  Apparently, the ritzy hotel doesn't like too many sweaty hikers showing up on their back porch.

We talk about what Monteverde was like back when my uncle Dan was there in 1970, all of the development that has happened since then, his milk-producing cows, the weather, etc.  He talks in a hushed, slow drawl that is almost Southern, but obviously removed from the South.  At times it is hard to understand him because he puntcuates a lot of his sentences with hardy laughs.  In the middle of talking, I am offered home-made brownies, the kind where everything is made from scratch.  I, a closet sugar addict, cannot refuse.

After an hour they ask me if I would like to stay for lunch.  They are cooking ham and cheese sandwiches and can make an extra one for me.

"I have to get back to my family.  They made lunch and are expecting me."  I lie.  I don't know why I lie, but I do.  Maybe because I feel guilty for taking all of this hospitality from people that I just met.  Maybe because I feel out of my element, in a Quaker house in Costa Rica.  I don't know the reason, but I can't take it back.

Fifteen minutes later, they have cooked sandwiches for themselves and we are still talking, this time about the lack of water affecting the town (all the water lines have been tapped to capacity).  I stick to my lie and tell them I have to go.  I feel bad for doing so, for leaving such a warm, kind couple.

On the way out the door, while I am putting on my shoes, I thank them again for their time.  I stand up, put on my rain jacket, shake the Wolf's hand for one last time, and head for the door.  As I leave, Wolf's wife tells me: "If you ever want to come back, you know where we live."  Now, I really wish I hadn't lied, but I say goodbye one more time and head outside.

The walk back to my host family's house is uneventful.  Quite normal really, except for one thing. 

As soon as I open the door and both of my feet are planted squarely inside, the rain starts again, as if someone turned on a faucet.  I wonder if, maybe somehow, this old mountain man who has lived in and against nature for more than 50 years has figured out how to start and stop the rain.  I feel as though it could be true and muble to myself, "Thanks, Wolf".

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