Originally published in The Plain Talker, December 2005

    In late May of 2005, with the possibility of not being able to replace our cabin a distinct reality, it was time to get away for a while, to go somewhere where I wouldn't be constantly reminded that I was losing my favorite place in the world. Fortunately, such a getaway had been in the works for months. Destination: Costa Rica.

       Words cannot describe Costa Rica, and pictures don't do it justice, either. Especially not the pictures we took, though our photos did improve as the trip went on; if only we had practiced with our new digital camera more before departing…

        The Costa Rican mindset is wonderful. Years ago, someone important realized that, although the rainforests could be cut down and the wood sold for a fortune, the landscape would actually be worth more if left in its natural state. Not just "worth more" in the sense that unspoiled land is a rare and rapidly vanishing thing, but worth more money, more dollars. They realized that razing the forests would bring a gargantuan one-time payout, but that people would pay to visit the rainforests and cloud forests for as long as they stand, and that over time those dollars would add up to far more than what the lumber would have sold for.

         And so Costa Rica made eco-tourism its number one product. Of course, you can't do that unless you've got something that people want, and do they ever! In ten days we saw just a sliver of the country, but what a sliver it was; better even than a sliver of pumpkin pie. (Of course, with pumpkin pie I can never stop with just one sliver; I have to have another slice and then another. Costa Rica is the same way; I will go back, and probably more than once. And depending on the results of certain future elections, I just might move there.)

         To list all of the incredible sites we saw and wonderful experiences we had would take more pages than this magazine has. We saw Howler Monkeys and Spider Monkeys, crocodiles and caimans, and two species of iguana. We saw slow-moving sloths and Basilisk lizards so fast that can run on water. We saw colorful Poison Dart Frogs that aren't all that poisonous, and bright yellow Eyelash Vipers that are, and one night we found four different species of treefrog in one small shrub.

          We saw enough exotic birds to make us the envy of people who have been bird-watching for a lifetime, including at least 13 different varieties of Hummingbird. We saw a volcano shoot boulders hundreds of feet into the air, and that night swam in a hot spring near the base of the same volcano.

          But the most amazing thing we might have seen was a lake on the way to the volcano. More than 20 miles long, with deep blue water and several sloughs, it reminded me of a lake close to my heart. There was one major difference: in the two days we spent driving around the lake, we saw just one boat. Just one boat, and that's one of the reasons that I'm hesitant to give the name of the lake; they have a great thing going, so I shouldn't spoil it any more than I already have.

           For ten days, we were constantly seeing something that was even more outstanding, more beautiful, than the unbelievable things we had seen the day before. There were no highlights in the trip, because every moment of the trip was a highlight. But if I had to pick one moment that will stay with me forever, I wouldn't pick seeing the erupting volcano, hearing the Howler Monkeys howl, walking in the rainforest canopy, or catching the Bird-Eating Snake. No, I would pick a moment that wasn't even on our itinerary, a stop we made even though it wasn't planned.

         It happened on day four, as we drove the bumpy road towards the Sarapiqui region, home to the La Selva Biological Station. Our guide recommended a small detour, and since we were making good time, we took it. We drove up some impressive hills until we came to a neighborhood. The driver pulled to the side of the road and parked, and we walked into someone's living room.

         It wasn't a big house to begin with, but the owners had converted the living room into a scenic overlook. For a dollar, you could enjoy the view… and what a view it was. We looked across a deep, wide ravine; halfway down the far side of the ravine, a spectacular waterfall emerged from the trees, and crashed into a pristine, rocky pond. The force of the falling water created a mist that tried to shroud the pond and even the waterfall itself, but that only added to the beauty.

         We stayed for about half an hour, gazing in awe at this waterfall. I wanted to hike down to the pool; it would have taken hours to get to it (and days to climb my way back out) but it would have been worth it, and from the looks of the rugged, unspoiled terrain I would have been one of the first-- maybe the very first-- person to get doused by that mist.

         Later I thought about that waterfall, and realized that I had been touched by more than its beauty. I realized that the house with the view was tiny, that some people would have called it a hovel, and would have considered it beneath themselves to set foot in it. But how many of those same people have a million-dollar mansion, but without the view that people would pay even one measly dollar to see for just a few minutes? More importantly, how many of those people, if put in the same situation, would do the exact opposite of what these people had done? Instead of creating a place for everyone to enjoy the waterfall, most people I've run across would have built a fence so that no one else could enjoy the view. Or, when the thought of making money outweighed the desire to keep things for themselves, they would have divided their back yard into lots, and sold the lots for big bucks. Eventually, the view of the waterfall would be ruined by all of the houses; not that it would matter, since only a select few would be allowed to look at the view anyway.

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