Rafting: 17 miles

After a full day of rest, we were chomping at the bit to go play in some white water. As before, our group was divided among two rafts: an American one and an International one. In order to balance out the numbers, we found ourselves in Team USA, unable to contribute much to the patriotic singing other than a bit of Star Spangled Banner.

Once again, we got a good splashing and soaking. Every now and again, one of us would get a face full of water, drenched by the brunt of a wave seemingly intended only for them. “Sorreee” yelled our captain from his perch at the back of the boat, with a cheeky grin that really said “sorry, not sorry”, belying his skill at controlling the raft.

Today was a full day of class 2s, 3s and … wait for it… 4s! It was on one such class 4 that things started to get hairy. I’m not sure if we took a non-optimal route, or if we weren’t paddling hard enough or fast enough, but somehow we ended up wedged precariously on a rock, water pouring in the raft faster than you could say Titanic. We were thrown from our perches on the sides of the raft into the “down” position, crouched over on our knees in the middle of the boat. This at least served to minimize the amount of water pouring in, as the boat was already full of us.

We could barely hear our captain’s commands over the rushing water, but there was a yell that sounded like “Move Forward”. While there were many commands we’d practiced as part of the safety briefing, this was not one of them. Like participants in a fast-paced game of Twister, we sprawled forward, placing a hand, a foot or a knee on any spare space of raft real estate, while our captain bounced up and down like a jack in a box at the back, desperately trying to loose us from our perch. The whole thing probably took less than a minute, yet took a year off my life!

And just like that, we were released from the rock, kerplunking our way down the rest of the rapid. How we didn’t flip is nothing short of a miracle, but having survived that, any remaining nerves I had were eradicated.

All that bouncing around is enough to work up an appetite. An offshoot of the river led us to a small beach, and as the group eagerly exchanged salty dog stories, the guides rustled up a tasty lunch. It was served up on one of the rafts upturned to form a makeshift table. Genius.

After lunch, you know the score. More rafting, more white water, more fun. We pulled in to the river bank once more to hike up to a waterfall. And if you go all that way, you might as well get in it. Forming a human chain, we hauled each other up and into the waterfall, the fast rushing water fighting to send us hurtling back down the way we came.

While my diving boots had served me well on this trip, right now it was like walking on banana skins. Trying to scramble over the rocks on the way back down, slick and green with slimy moss, became a five points of contact affair. Not a problem other than the grit and sand that accumulated on my bum, making the next round of rafting like sitting on sandpaper. Ouch!

As we left the hardcore rapids behind us and the river flattened out, I was coerced into doing a stint at the front of the raft. Definitely more exposed up there but great views! All in all, I’d have to admit I really enjoyed white water rafting 🙂 Might even try it again some time!

After a hard day’s paddling, we arrived at another comfortable river camp.

After hanging up our wet gear, we had the challenge of getting through the missing red wine from last night that had now turned up. But tonight’s main entertainment was frog hunting. Unfortunately, the iconic Costa Rica red eyed tree frog was nowhere to be found. But we saw countless poison dart frogs, their intense red color a sharp contrast in the green of the rainforest undergrowth. Along with camouflage style green and black poison dart frogs. Super cool.

Bike: 26 miles, elevation gain 1,850ft. White water rafting: 6 miles, grade 2

The demons of yesterday were banished as the mist in the valley lifted to reveal a glorious day. “Wake up, it’s a beautiful morning… feel the sun shining for your eyes…”. Back on form, I was a happy bunny as we cycled leisurely through picturesque villages and fields of sugarcane. The terrain was gently rolling, the roads were smooth and the traffic was sparse. With blue skies above and the sun on my back, my absolute favorite bit of riding so far.

And then we hit the busy main roads with the trucks. To be fair, Costa Rica drivers are the most tolerant to cyclists I’ve ever come across. If they beep at you, it’s a friendly toot to let you know they’re there, rather than an angry ‘get out of my way’ honk. After football (soccer), biking is the most popular sport in the country, so the drivers are very used to cyclists and tend to give you a wide berth. Good job the way I was weaving around in ‘Heather gear’ up the long drawn-out brutal hills, so cruelly placed when we thought we were in for an easy ride.

Costa Rica is world-renowned for its white water rafting and with a day and a half planned on the river to continue our coast to coast traverse, it was very much a key part of our trip. I was approaching said rafting with more than a modicum of trepidation. ‘Apprehensive’ and ‘wary’ don’t really cut it, terrified is a better word. I had visions of re-living my recent jet ski nightmare.

But it’s the funny the way the mind works… With all the rain we’d had the water levels were running dangerously high, and all rafting trips for the last few days had been canceled. Which meant it was highly likely that our rafting would also be canceled. There is nothing like the threat of not doing something to make you want to do it more! So just like that, the psychology of desire worked its magic and my terror was downgraded to apprehension, even hopeful anticipation. Maybe it was also the realization that the alternative would be more biking, my poor tender buttocks cringing at the thought. I was as delighted as the others to find that today’s break in the weather meant the rafting was ON.

I was pleasantly surprised to see that the ‘rafts’ were indeed rigid inflatable boats, with a front and a back and more importantly, sides. In my head, the word raft conjures up a flat wooden platform made of strung together logs, Castaway style.

We each donned a life jacket and hard hat, grabbed a paddle, and gathered by the boats for the safety briefing. We learned all about the Pacuare River, the different paddle strokes to use, and the commands the guides would yell out. Then came the bit about what to do if you fall out of the raft. Huh, but I wasn’t planning on falling out? And then came the bit about what to do if the raft flips and everyone falls out. OK, that sounds kind of extreme, really not very sure about this now. And finally, the bit about if you’ve been thrown from the raft and then somehow end up underneath the raft, unable to surface as the boat is on top of you. Aaaargh, I’m outta here, where’s my bike???

Luckily once we got out on the river, the focus was all on the team work required to coordinate our paddling and control the raft, rather than the what ifs. I don’t have a lot of core strength, or balance truth be told, but I kept my center of gravity low and wedged my foot into the boat as tightly as a cork in a bottle. The only way I was leaving that raft was if we ended up upside down!

I had strategically taken a position at the back of the raft, hoping to minimize the splashing. No chance, there was not a dry spot to be had anywhere. But if there’s one thing I’m used to on this trip, it’s getting wet! And once you resign yourself to a drenching, then the thrill of a steep drop, a churning eddy or a breaking wave becomes exhilarating. We careered down the rapids, mostly level two’s (I think one was a 2.6 but that’s about as much as they want to throw at you on the first day), doing high fives with the paddles and yelling “Pura Vida” triumphantly as we completed each one.

The afternoon flew by and before we knew it, we arrived at our campsite. Or should I say glampsite. It was like a little rainforest oasis, with spacious permanent tents erected on wooden platforms, decked out with thick comfy mattresses and pillows. Best of all, tomorrow is a rest day with no biking and no hiking and no rafting. And I, for one, don’t mind a bit. Bring. It. On.

Mountain Bike: Longest 27 miles ever; Elevation gain 4,300ft

It might not be that unusual for families with kids to be up before 5am on Christmas morning. For us, let’s just call it a rite of passage. There was a nice array of fresh fruit laid out, but I struggled to ingest anything other than half a banana, and by 5:30am we were on the road on the bikes. The dawn light was wonderful as we left the small town of Santa Maria and commenced our climb up towards the Continental Divide.

At least this tough mountain climb section was on road, although the first switchbacks were a killer. No respite between corners, the angle of the slope was relentless. As my closest ally in front yelled jubilantly that she finally made it into third gear (no mean feat), I yelled back a Nice Job, and suffered a while longer in first. When you’re in the lowest gear at both front and back, 1:1, it’s nicknamed ‘Granny gear’. I renamed it ‘Heather gear’.

We had a staggered start so the slowest of the slow (including me) wouldn’t be quite so much behind the fast people in topping out on the Continental Divide. Worked quite well except they didn’t factor in my energy levels. With little to no breakfast, I got half way up and faded spectacularly. I was like the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street “Me want cookie”. Luckily our support vehicle appeared before me with perfect timing. Like an oasis in the desert, there were snacks in the van. All was well with the world. 🙂

I forged ahead, fueled up and togged up with an extra layer. The temperature was dropping as I slogged slowly upwards, embracing the fine mist as I cycled into the clouds. One of the group who’d already finished walked down a little way to holler words of encouragement to those of us on the final stretch, and there was much support from the others as we reached the highest point of the trip, back slapping and hugging. What a fantastic feeling to arrive at the summit of the Continental Divide by pedal power, on Christmas Day. The whole group was ecstatic, such a triumphant feeling.

Our Christmas Day breakfasts over the last few years have included smoked salmon and champagne, which of course is amazing. But this Continental Divide breakfast of baked plantain stuffed with local squeaky cheese, especially with that post-bike appetite, will go down in history! Best Christmas breakfast EV-ER.

It felt like we’d done a full day already. Far from it! Our next challenge was a downhill off-road bike section, not technical but an initiation enough for me and somehow I managed to stay on the bike, and still have a smile on my face for the group picture.

Having survived that, challenge #2 was announced as the next short steep uphill (which was indeed super steep; anything but short). “Less than 10% of people make it up this hill without getting off their bike, so don’t feel too bad if you don’t make it.” Taking the advice to heart, I admitted an early defeat and sidestepped off my bike, approaching the steep gradient with resignation. Darren unfortunately dropped his chain. Most others lasted only a little longer, but two of our team knocked it out of the park with a bike summit. Respect!

What goes up must come down, that’s the way it works. Doesn’t mean to say it gets any easier. In fact, this whole next section was distinctly outside my comfort zone, and as the descents got steeper and slippier, there was no way I was riding down that. But instead of being left way behind, the guides pulled together to help me hike my bike down the worst bits and Darren even got to do some sections twice, as he came back to help me. Of course, he was in his element!

At no point was I made to feel like a loser, and even if I completed this hairy section on my own two feet (rather than two wheels), it still counted!!! As the course went from super-technical to technically impossible, more and more of the group were playing hike-a-bike. Think muddy puddles, deep ruts gouged into the trail, and adverse cambers. Think cavernous holes, loose boulder-sized rocks and clay-bound wheels with no grip. And you’re not even close. Even the pictures don’t do it justice.

Yet again, we were mighty glad to see our support truck for a snack stop and rest.

And then along came Challenge #3. There was a river crossing coming up and the challenge was to do it staying on your bike. Wait, what… a river crossing? But I didn’t have my wetsuit boots with me? Gulp. Time to start getting over my river crossing phobia. One by one, each rider gained momentum as they approached the water, bumped over the rocky river bed, and then either recovered enough to make it up the bank on the other side… Or fell over into the water. Some more spectacularly than others. Luckily no one was hurt too bad (at least no broken bones).

I wasn’t alone in opting for the getting my feet wet option over the fall-in and get everywhere wet option. All that remained was to wash the worst of the mud off of the bikes.

Ironically, we were staying at probably the flashest place on this whole trip. We must have looked a picture as we rocked up to the lobby, spattered nay covered in mud, sweaty and stinky, wet and exhausted. I think it may have been at this point that the name for our group was born: the Filthy Riders. And never has a name been more fitting!

After a refreshing shower (how can this place have hot springs yet cold showers?), we wandered the grounds and took a dip in the hot spring pool. Immersed in the rainforest, what a perfect way to reflect on the most unique Christmas Day and soothe those aching muscles.

Naranjillo to Santa Maria. Hike: 8 miles, elevation gain 4,250ft; Bike: 7.5 miles, elevation gain 1,000ft

After a restless night spent listening to the interminable pouring rain, what a pleasant surprise to find it was actually the roar of a nearby river I had heard. Not a raindrop in sight, it was a glorious morning!

Our sopping clothes from yesterday were hanging over every spare inch of our makeshift campsite in a vague attempt to dry. The heavy humid air had other ideas. We would soon learn that wet gear just doesn’t dry here! Still, my lightweight trail shoes fared better than some, and it’s amazing what a difference a clean dry pair of socks makes. For a few minutes at least.

Fueled with coffee and rice & beans (get used to rice and beans), we continued our traverse of this beautiful country on foot. Nothing says Christmas Eve like Cemetery Hill. The clue’s in the name, it was a steep sweaty slog. Hard going but oh so rewarding views. With the sun shining brightly, I was back on solar power, a jaunty spring in my step. And hiking brings a good opportunity to get to know some of the other people in the group.

You may not know this, but in addition to my recently documented phobia of falling I’m also allergic to river crossings. Or maybe I just don’t like them.

I’d seen photos of people walking through rivers on the tour company website, so forewarned is forearmed. Given that I cannot possibly walk across a river barefoot and I only had one pair of trail shoes for both hiking and biking, my solution was to bring along my wetsuit diving boots for this very situation. My rucksack was kinda heavy but it was a price I was prepared to pay. Despite a bit of faffing, there was no drama or hysterics, and once booted up, I sauntered across the river like Bear Grylls.

Despite gaining in elevation, the day was becoming hotter and more humid, and more than once I went to swat a fly crawling on my skin, only to find it was just another rivulet of perspiration. In a place I never even knew I could sweat.

With the promise of water to cool off in, we were happy to swashbuckle our way through the undergrowth to emerge at a remote waterfall. Once again, my diving boots came into their own in order to negotiate the rocks and water. This trip was all about pushing boundaries, and for me to voluntarily immerse myself in cold water, to stand in a waterfall, there’s a boundary right there. But. Just. So. Exhilarating!

We continued through vast coffee plantations, as far as the eye could see, our knowledgeable guide passing on his local insight. There’s a lot of process goes into this coffee making lark, begging the question as to how on earth someone figured it all out in the first place (a bit like how someone worked out you could eat an egg that comes out of a chicken‘s bum, that one’s always fascinated me!). Word has it that an Ethiopian farmer noticed how lively his goats were after eating coffee berries, and thought there might be something in it. He tried eating them and making a tea with them, but they were bitter and nasty so he threw the dregs on the fire. At which point, the heady caffeinated aroma drew him in, and he knew there must be more to it. Roasting the beans was the name of the game and Ta Da… the rest is history. Until then along came Starbucks 🙁

Before our sweaty hike was over for the day, our guide Fez had a challenge for us. Rather than take the conventional trail ahead to our destination winding gently upwards, there was an option to just go up. Straight up. On a trail that would require a bit more oxygen than I had available. A third of our group took the challenging option, including Darren. They equaled the 18 minute record, and many minutes later, taking the road more traveled, the rest of our group popped up over the ridge like meerkats one by one, with me bringing up the rear.

The remainder of the day by bike was relatively easy, on-road with rolling terrain. And even after only one night proper camping, we were delighted to see we were staying in very comfortable cabins tonight. Of course, no day in CR is complete without rain, so just as we were trying to dry out our rain-soaked gear from yesterday and our sweat-soaked gear from today, out came the rain showers.

We were treated to yet another amazing meal (absolutely no chance of us losing weight on this trip, despite how much exercise we’re doing during the day!). And then, what a pleasure to be reminded that it’s Christmas Eve (very easy to forget on this trip). One couple had brought along a little present for everyone in the group, a mini candy cane (a sugary hit for just when you need it) and a candy cane peppermint lip balm. Christmas indeed, and everyone was so touched. When you’re away from home and missing loved ones, it’s super important to make the most of the people you have around you. This is how friendships are forged. Happy Christmas Eve!

“Why cant we just do a normal holiday like normal people?” I questioned when Darren showed me the itinerary. We’d just booked a 10 day Costa Rica trip. Cool, Costa Rica has been on the bucket list for a long time! I’m thinking adorable snub-nosed slow-motion sloths and iridescent green tree frogs, along with a spot of winter sun. Darren’s thinking activity, challenge and adventure. What we’d actually signed up for was a 10 day multi-activity trip traveling across Costa Rica from the Pacific coast to the Caribbean by human power alone. So…. hiking, biking, rafting and kayaking our way across the country, indeed the continent. So much for a vacation!

Do you know the way to San Jose?

According to Google, there are 29 San Jose’s in the world. And the song was written about the one in California. Still, it didn’t stop me singing it in my head the whole time, as we spent a day and night acclimatizing in San Jose, Costa Rica.

The first day over on the west coast started well in terms of wildlife spotting, as we had the afternoon in Manuel Antonio National Park before the expedition kicked off proper. Technically we had a sloth siting, although I’m not sure a fuzzy grey ball so high up in a tree counts, certainly too far away to tell if it was two-toed or three-toed, and more comatose than slow motion. And no frogs. But we did get some winter sun. Not to mention cheeky capuchin monkeys forming a mafia to terrorize the clueless tourists; bird-sized butterflies playing tag, their wings the most wonderful Night King ice blue; lobster red land crabs playing in the mud; and beefy iguanas stalking the beach like they owned it.

Day 1: the Adventure begins

Quepos to Naranjillo, Bike: 12 miles, 1,000ft elevation gain; Hike 8.5 miles, 4,000ft elevation gain

The real trip started the next morning as we were introduced to our mountain bikes. Post-box red with streaks of grey and black, it took me right back to my childhood Grifter bike, very much put me in a Go Get ‘Em mood. (You remember the kids rescuing ET on their bikes, flying high with a full moon backdrop, bursting with hope and excitement… that was me as we set off, just a touch more wobbly). The bike had generous 29” wheels and felt nice and bouncy. Probably not the right technical term but that’s how it felt.

With just a dozen of us in the group including the guide, we took off along side roads, easy does it as we got used to the bikes. As we turned off the nice smooth paved road onto dirt peppered with gravel, I was sharply reminded of why we had mountain bikes. That bone shattering feeling of wheels on gravel left my arms more worn out than my legs, like riding a pneumatic drill. I wasn’t complaining when we switched to foot power to hike up to our first camp.

This was no triathlon-style quick change transition. Out came an array of delicious local fresh fruit, mouthwatering watermelon, pineapple and papaya, interspersed with salty snacks (yay, pringles!!!) and biscuits. Leisurely and relaxed, we changed from bike gear to hike gear, and with a quick nod of thanks to the bikes for getting us this far, we headed for the cool mountains and sparsely populated valleys of pacific Costa Rica.

What I wasn’t expecting on the hike was the rain. Of biblical proportions. Think Noah. Think drowned rats. And to be fair, it’s a long time since we walked anywhere in the rain, I mean why would you in SoCal? Not just a one and done quick shower either. Everything was soaked through, down to my pants (yes, British pants!). When my shoes started squelching, I realized I couldn’t possibly be any wetter if I was thrown in a swimming pool fully clothed.

Bedraggled specimens, we eventually rolled into camp. We were not only greeted with freshly brewed coffee, but our tents were being hastily erected for us. Result!

We’d been warned that the first camp was kind of rustic. Looking how close together our tents were, it reminded me of a British music festival camp, where space is of a premium, guy ropes are overlapping, and you can hear every move anyone makes in the night. The big difference here though was that we were inside a village community center, kind of random but importantly, it meant a roof over our heads. Quite honestly, for me, they could have stacked those tents on top of each other if it meant staying dry. Just one brave soldier opted for the space option over the shelter option, and plonked his tent on the soggy soccer field in the vast outdoors. He was happy enough, but rather him than me.

With no drip dripping on the tent to contend with overnight, a good group of new international friends to spend the evening with, and a hearty meal, maybe this trip would be ok after all.