02-02-2019, 04:11 PM
1/1/2019: Part 2 -- Transect C
NOTE 1: LC tells me that Sarad (the Indian member of our group) is actually Saurabh. Such is my hearing. I'll use that name going forward.
NOTE 2: The ecolodge is officially called Las Piedras Biodiversity Station. Located deep in the lowland tropical rainforests at the base of the Andean range, it is surrounded by one of the most bio-diverse areas on Earth.
After lunch, Mohsin leads our intrepid band on a jungle trail he calls Transect C. This is a magnificent trail, Mohsin's favorite, because it passes through some of the densest, wildest jungle. Sadly, I cannot recall what specific wildlife we saw, nor can LC, due to sensory overload. We've been on so many trails by now, seen so many things, that it all starts to blur together. But it's a fair guess to say we see various monkeys (spider, squirrel, howler, capuchin, tamarin) and birds (parrots, woodpeckers, macaws, etc.), as well as lizards, frogs, toads, skinks, grasshoppers, katydids, mantids, exotic beetles, and lots and lots of spiders (though no tarantulas)... We also see plenty of animal prints. Some we can't identify, but Mohsin does point out peccary prints in one spot, overlaid by the larger print of something hunting them: "That's a jaguar," he tells us.
What I remember best on this trail are the little human dramas, so that will have to suffice.
As we progress, we encounter several gorges with challenging downslopes, plank bridges and upslopes. After my fall from that one plank bridge, I've grown leery of them. I had waist-deep water to cushion my fall on that one, but since then they've been mostly dry beds. A fall off one of these, considering my age and problematic hips, could have dire consequences. Further, I've lost a lot of lateral stability (hard to walk a straight line). Still, if I look straight ahead and walk at a steady pace and don't overthink it, I seem to do okay.
Coming to a large gorge, we pause before a massive Kapok tree. Next to it is a dilapidated wooden framework with a large wooden crank. Mohsin points upward. Just visible through foliage is a wooden platform maybe forty feet up. He tells us there used to be a rope (and presumably a body harness) by which people could be cranked up to the platform for a wonderful view. Mohsin laments that the crank mechanism has fallen into disrepair and we can't take advantage of it. We descend into the gorge, cross a plank bridge, ascend, and move onward.
We come unexpectedly on a camera trap. We've seen some before on other trails, and Mohsin even set up a camera trap as part of an outing, showing us how it's done (most people set them up wrong, he told us, and only catch the backend of the animal). But this camera trap surprises Mohsin, and he inspects it closely, as well as the attached note, which reads, "Do not touch." He smiles. "This is one of Paul's traps" [Referring to Paul Rosolie, normally on these expeditions, currently in India]. "I recognize his handwriting." Mohsin tells us how he must make allowances in his email communications with Paul, who is dyslexic. If he asks Paul a number of questions in one paragraph, Paul only answers the first one. But if he makes each question a separate paragraph, Paul will answer them all.
Mohsin has spent a lot of time with Paul and his Indian wife Gowri. He tells of a jungle owl in the region that always freaks him out because it sounds exactly like Gowri calling, "Paul! Paul! Paul!"
We pass through ever thicker jungle, requiring Mohsin to hack ever more at encroaching brush. At one point we have to back up to give Mohsin more room to hack away at brush. As I step back and aside to make room for LC, I edge into a log. Clipped, I fall backwards over it into underbrush. I'm fine, but it's embarrassing.
Of course, some branches and logs are simply too big to hack away, and we have to slip over or under them.
Mohsin pauses to inspect a thick branch crossing the trail at waist height. Tapping his machete on it, he warns, "Bullet ants," then ducks under and onward. Being next, I see that his tapping has riled the bullet ants up. They turn in all directions, antennae gyrating, looking all about. Because of my hip problem, I can't easily duck low under things. As I clumsily hunch down and strain not to bump the branch while slipping under, I wonder if bullet ants are known to leap onto perceived threats. But I'm fine, as is everyone else as they slip under and onward.
As we proceed, I start to notice a swelling in my hands. I can't easily close them into fists. I haven't noticed this on previous treks and wonder if it signals a developing problem. Though this trail is challenging, it's not that much worse than previous ones. Still, I've been pushing myself hard for several days now, and maybe my body is finally starting to rebel.
Mohsin lets LC try the machete at one point, but urges caution. He tells of the time he was showing off to a group, using his machete to cut a watermelon. Placing his palms on the dull side, he'd pushed downward to cut the watermelon in two. Only when he saw blood welling out from below did he realize he'd wrapped his fingertips underneath and had cut off the tip of one finger. He'd spent a long time afterwards holding the fingertip back in place, hoping it would reattach, which it eventually did, though he no longer has feeling in the tip. Taking the machete, LC chops through some branches, clearing our way. Then Mohsin takes the machete back and leads us onward.
At one point we come to large piece of bark on the ground next to the trail. Ian is ahead of me at the time, and as he passes it he gives it the slightest backward glance. "I know what you're thinking," I tell him. "You want to see what's under that bark." Not needing further encouragement, he comes back to it and, with nary a pause, kicks it over. I'm a bit surprised, because he doesn't use a stick, and several of us are close by, and wouldn't it have been funny if a fer de lance shot out and nailed one of us -- but there's only a couple millipedes.
Our order keeps changing as someone pauses to inspect something, fuss with their pack, or drink some water, and I happen to be leading as we enter a soggy area and come to a log lying across the trail. It's low enough that I can easily step over it, which I do -- or start to. The ground suddenly gives under me, and my back foot sinks deep while my front foot settles on the far side and sinks deep as well. I'm left straddling the log, sunk to my knees in what resembles modeling clay. This would be a terrible predicament to be accosted by bees, wasps, or especially bullet ants. Mohsin warns the others, who skirt the worst of it, getting past. Mohsin then tells me to angle my back heel upward to work my foot out. I tell him I can't, which he acknowledges when he sees that my knee is jammed against the log. Still, I can slip my foot out of my shoe and out of the mud, but am reluctant to abandon my shoe a couple feet down. Mohsin says to do it. After I free my foot, he and LC reach down and, with considerable effort, wrestle the shoe from the clay with a big sucking sound. I'm able to work my front foot up without losing that shoe, and after I've put the other one back on, I carefully skirt the worst of the soft clay and we move onward.
Sometime later, Mohsin calls for a halt. We're in the thick of things, surrounded by deep lush, diverse jungle. He tells us to close eyes and be very quiet, and to listen for a minute and count the number of different sounds we hear. We do so. There are birds, frogs, other cries. Afterwards, he asks how many we got. Most people count between 5 and 8 sounds. Mohsin gets 11. I get 10, but it's suspect because of my hearing. We move on.
Mohsin checks with Ian, asking if he still wants to put his drone up, because this would be a beautiful area. Ian is very interested. The problem is, he needs an opening through the canopy, and there just isn’t any. We move onward, and after a couple hundred yards we come upon the tiniest break in the canopy. Mohsin asks if this will do. It's very small, but Ian is willing to risk it. Mohsin hacks down a towering frond leaf for a bit more space near the ground while Ian unpacks his drone. But then Ian stops, realizing he forgot his smart phone that's needed to control it. For a moment there seems hope if Mohsin can get exact coordinates with his own phone, but Ian decides it's unfeasible and sadly packs up the drone.
We head back, and the return trip is largely uneventful. When we come again to where I got stuck in soft clay, Paula announces she'll try a running technique designed for such conditions. Whereupon she takes off, high-stepping it, shoes slapping the mud hard and briefly, and just like that she's through the mud and over the log and to safety. We're still marveling at what she did when Mohsin tears off, high-stepping it as well in impressive imitation, and gets through as well. The rest of us take a more subdued circuitous route to join them.
NOTE 1: LC tells me that Sarad (the Indian member of our group) is actually Saurabh. Such is my hearing. I'll use that name going forward.
NOTE 2: The ecolodge is officially called Las Piedras Biodiversity Station. Located deep in the lowland tropical rainforests at the base of the Andean range, it is surrounded by one of the most bio-diverse areas on Earth.
After lunch, Mohsin leads our intrepid band on a jungle trail he calls Transect C. This is a magnificent trail, Mohsin's favorite, because it passes through some of the densest, wildest jungle. Sadly, I cannot recall what specific wildlife we saw, nor can LC, due to sensory overload. We've been on so many trails by now, seen so many things, that it all starts to blur together. But it's a fair guess to say we see various monkeys (spider, squirrel, howler, capuchin, tamarin) and birds (parrots, woodpeckers, macaws, etc.), as well as lizards, frogs, toads, skinks, grasshoppers, katydids, mantids, exotic beetles, and lots and lots of spiders (though no tarantulas)... We also see plenty of animal prints. Some we can't identify, but Mohsin does point out peccary prints in one spot, overlaid by the larger print of something hunting them: "That's a jaguar," he tells us.
What I remember best on this trail are the little human dramas, so that will have to suffice.
As we progress, we encounter several gorges with challenging downslopes, plank bridges and upslopes. After my fall from that one plank bridge, I've grown leery of them. I had waist-deep water to cushion my fall on that one, but since then they've been mostly dry beds. A fall off one of these, considering my age and problematic hips, could have dire consequences. Further, I've lost a lot of lateral stability (hard to walk a straight line). Still, if I look straight ahead and walk at a steady pace and don't overthink it, I seem to do okay.
Coming to a large gorge, we pause before a massive Kapok tree. Next to it is a dilapidated wooden framework with a large wooden crank. Mohsin points upward. Just visible through foliage is a wooden platform maybe forty feet up. He tells us there used to be a rope (and presumably a body harness) by which people could be cranked up to the platform for a wonderful view. Mohsin laments that the crank mechanism has fallen into disrepair and we can't take advantage of it. We descend into the gorge, cross a plank bridge, ascend, and move onward.
We come unexpectedly on a camera trap. We've seen some before on other trails, and Mohsin even set up a camera trap as part of an outing, showing us how it's done (most people set them up wrong, he told us, and only catch the backend of the animal). But this camera trap surprises Mohsin, and he inspects it closely, as well as the attached note, which reads, "Do not touch." He smiles. "This is one of Paul's traps" [Referring to Paul Rosolie, normally on these expeditions, currently in India]. "I recognize his handwriting." Mohsin tells us how he must make allowances in his email communications with Paul, who is dyslexic. If he asks Paul a number of questions in one paragraph, Paul only answers the first one. But if he makes each question a separate paragraph, Paul will answer them all.
Mohsin has spent a lot of time with Paul and his Indian wife Gowri. He tells of a jungle owl in the region that always freaks him out because it sounds exactly like Gowri calling, "Paul! Paul! Paul!"
We pass through ever thicker jungle, requiring Mohsin to hack ever more at encroaching brush. At one point we have to back up to give Mohsin more room to hack away at brush. As I step back and aside to make room for LC, I edge into a log. Clipped, I fall backwards over it into underbrush. I'm fine, but it's embarrassing.
Of course, some branches and logs are simply too big to hack away, and we have to slip over or under them.
Mohsin pauses to inspect a thick branch crossing the trail at waist height. Tapping his machete on it, he warns, "Bullet ants," then ducks under and onward. Being next, I see that his tapping has riled the bullet ants up. They turn in all directions, antennae gyrating, looking all about. Because of my hip problem, I can't easily duck low under things. As I clumsily hunch down and strain not to bump the branch while slipping under, I wonder if bullet ants are known to leap onto perceived threats. But I'm fine, as is everyone else as they slip under and onward.
As we proceed, I start to notice a swelling in my hands. I can't easily close them into fists. I haven't noticed this on previous treks and wonder if it signals a developing problem. Though this trail is challenging, it's not that much worse than previous ones. Still, I've been pushing myself hard for several days now, and maybe my body is finally starting to rebel.
Mohsin lets LC try the machete at one point, but urges caution. He tells of the time he was showing off to a group, using his machete to cut a watermelon. Placing his palms on the dull side, he'd pushed downward to cut the watermelon in two. Only when he saw blood welling out from below did he realize he'd wrapped his fingertips underneath and had cut off the tip of one finger. He'd spent a long time afterwards holding the fingertip back in place, hoping it would reattach, which it eventually did, though he no longer has feeling in the tip. Taking the machete, LC chops through some branches, clearing our way. Then Mohsin takes the machete back and leads us onward.
At one point we come to large piece of bark on the ground next to the trail. Ian is ahead of me at the time, and as he passes it he gives it the slightest backward glance. "I know what you're thinking," I tell him. "You want to see what's under that bark." Not needing further encouragement, he comes back to it and, with nary a pause, kicks it over. I'm a bit surprised, because he doesn't use a stick, and several of us are close by, and wouldn't it have been funny if a fer de lance shot out and nailed one of us -- but there's only a couple millipedes.
Our order keeps changing as someone pauses to inspect something, fuss with their pack, or drink some water, and I happen to be leading as we enter a soggy area and come to a log lying across the trail. It's low enough that I can easily step over it, which I do -- or start to. The ground suddenly gives under me, and my back foot sinks deep while my front foot settles on the far side and sinks deep as well. I'm left straddling the log, sunk to my knees in what resembles modeling clay. This would be a terrible predicament to be accosted by bees, wasps, or especially bullet ants. Mohsin warns the others, who skirt the worst of it, getting past. Mohsin then tells me to angle my back heel upward to work my foot out. I tell him I can't, which he acknowledges when he sees that my knee is jammed against the log. Still, I can slip my foot out of my shoe and out of the mud, but am reluctant to abandon my shoe a couple feet down. Mohsin says to do it. After I free my foot, he and LC reach down and, with considerable effort, wrestle the shoe from the clay with a big sucking sound. I'm able to work my front foot up without losing that shoe, and after I've put the other one back on, I carefully skirt the worst of the soft clay and we move onward.
Sometime later, Mohsin calls for a halt. We're in the thick of things, surrounded by deep lush, diverse jungle. He tells us to close eyes and be very quiet, and to listen for a minute and count the number of different sounds we hear. We do so. There are birds, frogs, other cries. Afterwards, he asks how many we got. Most people count between 5 and 8 sounds. Mohsin gets 11. I get 10, but it's suspect because of my hearing. We move on.
Mohsin checks with Ian, asking if he still wants to put his drone up, because this would be a beautiful area. Ian is very interested. The problem is, he needs an opening through the canopy, and there just isn’t any. We move onward, and after a couple hundred yards we come upon the tiniest break in the canopy. Mohsin asks if this will do. It's very small, but Ian is willing to risk it. Mohsin hacks down a towering frond leaf for a bit more space near the ground while Ian unpacks his drone. But then Ian stops, realizing he forgot his smart phone that's needed to control it. For a moment there seems hope if Mohsin can get exact coordinates with his own phone, but Ian decides it's unfeasible and sadly packs up the drone.
We head back, and the return trip is largely uneventful. When we come again to where I got stuck in soft clay, Paula announces she'll try a running technique designed for such conditions. Whereupon she takes off, high-stepping it, shoes slapping the mud hard and briefly, and just like that she's through the mud and over the log and to safety. We're still marveling at what she did when Mohsin tears off, high-stepping it as well in impressive imitation, and gets through as well. The rest of us take a more subdued circuitous route to join them.
I'm nobody's pony.