Friday, February 24

There wasn't much need to rush in the morning, so I woke up around 7 to pack my bag and get my things ready for the trip down to San Gerardo de Dota. Breakfast was served in a beautiful dining area, though it seemed like I was the only person staying at the hotel. After paying, I asked for directions to the bus for San Gerardo. Thus began a ridiculous tour of the city.

It would be too easy for every city to have one central bus station. Instead, bus stops are spread seemingly randomly, which seems to be more common the larger the city. I walked from corner to corner, following a new set of directions each time. This was partly my fault as my pronunciation of "Gerardo" is sufficiently poor that locals only focused on "de Dota." As a result, I was being directed to various stops for Santa Maria de Dota, which is close, but not really. Eventually, with the help of two older gentleman frantically waving their arms from a bus shelter,  I found a ticket counter. The lady informed me that the bus to San Isidro only runs once a day from Cartago and it already ran. I would have to take a bus back to San Jose.

Enough. I walked back outside and flagged down a taxi. I negotiated a price of $50 for the ride (I was actually willing to pay $60, the cost of a rental car for the day). It was a beautiful ride out of the valley and into the Talamanca Cordillera. The driver became increasingly concerned as the meter ran higher with no destination in sight. Now, I don't know why the meter was running. I just ignored it, confident in my ability to claim we negotiated a price of $50, which strikes me as a good day's pay for 75 minutes of work.in Costa Rica, even accounting for the gas. He kept wanting to stop to ask for directions and I kept repeating, "Sigue, sigue. Yo se." This was in fact true, as the turn off for San Gerardo is well marked at 80km of the Pan-American. I started counting down the kilometers for him, so he would relax.

When we arrived around 11:00am, the meter read 32,000 colones, or about $64. I figured if I asked him to actually drop me off at the hotel, I would have to pay the metered amount so I just got out there. He took out his calculator, so I removed my bag and all my stuff ASAP, lest he drive away unsatisfied (IMPORTANT TRAVEL RULE: never take out your money until all your stuff is out of a cab). I handed him $40 and 5000 colones, which would cover the $50 fare. I think the mixture of currencies confused him, so he thanked me and left. Now, I face the inevitable battle of being reimbursed for this expense without a receipt.

I started the hike down to Savegre Lodge and it is quite the downhill trek. The claim is that it is 9km, but it felt like a lot more than that. But, what a beautiful walk. Also, by dropping several hundred meters, the walk down actually provides some excellent birding. For the next 4 hours, I was treated with lifer after lifer. It started with Large-footed Finch and Yellow-thighed Finch.

The road runs along a steep hillside, so corners allowed an opportunity to look into the canopy and down onto the forest floor. At one corner, I found a Sooty Robin and Long-tailed Silky Flycatcher. Another corner yielded Black-billed Nightingale-Thrush and Black-thighed Grosbeak. At 5km, I reached Dantica Lodge, which offered an opportunity to rest and browse the collection of Latin American crafts. Sulpher-winged Parakeet flew overhead.

Black-thighed Grosbeak

Further on, I crossed the river and found a very birdy area of reeds that included Flame-throated Warbler and Collared Red-start. The road followed the river and eventually flattened out. The woods along this stretch provided Spot-crowned Woodcreeper, Tufted Flycatcher, Volcano Hummingbird, American Dipper and Collared Redstart.

The goal of coming to San Gerardo was to explore an area whose economic activity is largely centered around one resource, an abundant supply of Resplendant Quetzal. This superlative bird is a major draw for people like me and largely supports the extensive ecotourism that exists in the area. The topography of the area is remarkable and the geological history explains the high degree of endemism. Large portions of the Central American isthmus used to be covered by water. This separated the highland areas, creating sky islands, where variation in altitude(moisture) and long distances allowed for unique speciation. Interestingly, the quetzal is not endemic, just beautiful. And the area has capitalized on this fact. I think there are lessons to be learned from this model that apply broadly.

Arriving at the lodge, I was immediately greeted by a host of birds at the feeders. These included Slaty Flowerpiercer, Grey-breasted Woodwren, Flame-backed Tanager, Magnificent Hummingbird, Green Violet-ear and Grey-tailed Mountain Gem. After getting settled in my cabin at neighboring Suenos del Bosque, I returned to Savegre for a quick hike, yielding a Chestnut-capped Brushfinch and a bathing Black-faced Solitaire.

Magnificent Hummingbird

Green Violetear

The lodge at Savegre is beautiful and the bar included a reasonable happy hour and a fire place. It was the perfect spot to recover before heading back to Suenos del Bosque for a shower and dinner. And what a dinner. The main course was trucha (lake trout) with capers. There was also broccoli and carrots in an amazing butter garlic sauce. And dessert. And fresh guava juice. It was really something. The cabin is also amazing. It is large, with high ceilings and outstanding woodwork. I was puzzled by the 4 blankets on the bed until I woke up at 3 in the morning freezing.

Thursday, February 23

I could have woken up early again to bird, but I really needed the sleep. After breakfast, we began our trek to Cartago to meet with the Director of the Department of Social Sciences. Along the way, we drove through Zarcero, a quaint town with a notable main square that is famous for its topiary and home to a successful organic cooperative. The area is dominated by dairy farms, which matches the topographical similarity to the Swiss country-side. Step hillsides make farming difficult, but the plentiful rainfall guarantees high quality forage for livestock.

Moving east from Zarcero, we descended into the Central Valley, which cradles the main cities of Costa Rica: San Jose (the capital), Heredia, Alajuela and Cartago (the former capital). As the temperatures rise, the agriculture switches to coffee and sugar cane. Cartago is a sleepy college town 25km east of San Jose famous for its two churches, Nuestra Senora de Los Angeles and Santiago Apostal. The former is a major pilgrimage site, while the latter are ruins of church destroyed in 1910 by a major earthquake. Both have impressively complex back-stories.

Arriving at 1pm, I got settled in my hotel, Casa Mora, just a block from Nuestra Senora. The building has a lovely interior emphasizing wood craftsmanship. We then headed around the corner for lunch, before driving to ITCR for our meeting.

Again, this was conducted in Spanish. Thank god for Eugenio, though I was significantly better than with Don Juan. The meeting was very productive and I left very encouraged. Among many things we discussed, was the possibility of a capstone project where each team had students from both universities. What an amazing learning experience to work on a project in a foreign country collaborating with locals! I am very excited to see if we can actually pull this off.

After the meeting, Eugenio drove me back to the hotel and we parted ways. He is such an amazing asset for the Soltis Center and Texas A&M. My inchoate ideas would have withered without his assistance, but I think we are on the verge of creating a unique learning experience for the students in my department.

Despite sleeping in, I didn't actually sleep well, so I threw myself into bed for a long nap. I woke up after the sun had set and contemplated just staying under the covers, but thought I should walk around Cartago at night to get a feel for the place. My feel was decided boring. I ate a pizza at Ostero's, a neat joint a few blocks down from Nueva Senora with TV's playing Hollywood movies. Otherwise, the place was quiet. It might not be where I would want to spend a lot of time, but it looked like a town that would minimize the trouble our students could find.

Wednesday, February 22

I again started the day early to get some quick birding in before breakfast. There was a lot of movement in certain spots along the trail, but mostly very secretive Furnariids that are difficult to differentiate even in good light. After many frustrating misses, I did finally get a picture of a Dusky-mantled Antbird. On the way out, I noticed a dove perched on branch near eye-level. Based on location, a hint of rufous on the nape, a yellow eye, red orbital skin and a dark grayish breast, this was a Grey-chested Dove. Many of the same characteristics describe the closely related Grey-headed Dove, also a Leptotila dove, but Grey-headed is only found on the Pacific slope.

After breakfast, we headed to Finca Luna Nueva, just down the heavily rutted dirt road from the Soltis Center. We met with Steve Farrell, a self-described back-to-the-land hippie farmer. His deep knowledge of the scientific research on agricultural practices was truly impressive and his participation in our program would be a tremendous addition. After chatting for nearly an hour, we took a tour of the operation. It seemed possible for our students to visit the finca in the morning, harvest cacao and produce their own chocolate. That struck me as both an incredible learning opportunity, to participate fully in the process of getting food from the field to the plate, and an experience that students would always remember.

We returned to the Center for lunch, and Eugenio had left my last afternoon open to see some of the sites in the area. Partly it was for me to enjoy myself, but there was also a practical aspect: idle hands do the devil’s work. A program that provides too little down-time for students would surely lead to burnout, but a program that contained too much unstructured time would invite students to create their own fun. I needed some ideas for recreational activities that students could do (and the university would approve) as part of the program. One option was visiting Volcan Arenal, but I opted for a hike of the Hanging Bridges. First, it offered an unparalleled view of the volcano. Second, it would provide an opportunity for excellent birding. It did not disappoint on either account.

It did not take long to find a Violet-headed and Rufous-tailed Hummingbirds and a Wood Thrush. Believe it or not, while I have seen and heard Wood Thrush on numerous occasions, this was the first time I was able to get a photograph. This was followed by a Yellow-olive Flycatcher with its diagnostic pale iris. Soon, the real fun began. With Alberth’s help, we identified Orange-billed Sparrow. As we came to one of the first bridges over a small stream, a Rufous Motmot was perched beautiful on an exposed branch. We remained still and he eventually moved too close to focus.

Around the next corner, a pair of Buff-throated Foliage-gleaners were foraging among dead leaves along with a White-breasted Wood-wren. While I snapped away, Alberth and Eugenio called me over to see a Broad-billed Motmot, the smaller relative of the Rufous. The next big find was a Tawny-capped Euphonia, though only the pictures of the female were decent. After exiting a tunnel, we entered a very birdy area that included both Dull-mantled Antbird, Wood Thrush and Green Hermit. I also caught a glimpse of a Spider Monkey with a baby clinging to its back.

Rufous Motmot

Broad-billed Motmot

Next, we crossed over a canyon via a bridge suspended by wire cables. At the end of the bridge, I could see a Dusky-rumped Warbler on the trail. I followed it down to the waterfall before it eventually flushed to the other side of the river. Crossing another suspended bridge, I flushed a dove, which thankfully Alberth noticed. Once moving, the dove was happy to walk along the forest floor just below the trail. We heard the song of a Black-headed Nightingale-Thrush, causing us to temporarily abandon the hunt. This striking bird hopped onto a tree stump allowing for a tremendous view. Returning to the mystery dove, we patiently waited for a good look through the underbrush, eventually identifying the bird as Olive-backed Quail Dove with its diagnostic white face. I should note, that none of the three provided good photographs given the light and dense underbrush.

Our next discovery was a Rufous-tailed Jacamar. As the trail ended, a group of Crested Guan were roosting in a tree along with a male Great Currasow. Overall, a tremendous couple of hours of birding. Even the ride back to the Center offered a Common Paraque roosting on the driveway.

Tuesday, February 21

I had a long day ahead of me, starting with breakfast at 6:30am. I was out of bed by 5:30 so that I could walk some of the trails at the Center before taking a shower. Only a few hundred meters down the first trail, as I was coming around a corner, a large crested black bird was crossing the path: a male Great Currasow. Soon after, his partner followed. In less than 24 hours, I had seen both a guan and a currasow, two groups of birds (both in family Cracidae) that had alluded me in Latin America.

Our first stop of the day was at the ITCR branch campus to discuss my ideas for the program with an agronomy professor. This was the first time I was able to meet Alberth, Eugenio's assistant and a crack birder. While Eugenio spoke with an acquaintance, Alberth was describing some of the aspects of campus, including a crocodile farm where Boat-billed Heron were nesting just across the road. This has been an annoying blank on my life list, but the tress were full of them in easy view.

Boat-billed Heron

Our meeting lasted almost two hours, conducted nearly entirely in Spanish. It must have been the excitement of the curassow, but I think I performed quite well and understood nearly everything that was said. While many things were discussed, I think the most important idea we developed was a capstone project as part of the program. After students learn some economic theory from me and learn about successful operations while in the field, we thought it would be great for them to then meet a group of producers looking to solve a business problem. Based on what they have learned over the program, they then work in teams to propose a solution. Basically, a practicum to finish off the project. I really think this idea has great potential.

After lunch, Eugenio and I headed to Finca Educativa Don Juan. I clearly broke my brain during the last meeting because suddenly I could not finish a sentence in Spanish. Somehow, I could suddenly understand the German being spoken at another table. Go figure. Although I failed miserably in communicating, the stop was well worth it. On two acres, they organically grow enough food to feed nearly 40 people per day! Even the cow manure that is produced during milking is placed in a digester to generate methane that is then used to heat the serving trays.

The economics are surprisingly simple. Don Juan produces basic crops (cassava, tomatoes, cucumbers, etc) that do not generate particularly high premia for being organic. Instead, he makes his operation profitable through market power. Instead of bringing his goods to the consumer, the consumers come to his goods. And no one sees a deformed organic tomato on the shelf. Instead, they taste delicious fresh tomatoes that have been chopped and added to a salad.

Visitors have the option of showing up in the morning, working on the farm, harvesting fruits and vegetables, milking cows and then at lunch, the staff prepares food using the ingredients they have collected. A significant contemporary problem is that too many people think that food magically appears in the supermarket. The experience of actually working to produce a meal from it basic starting point I think would be a tremendous educational experience and something like this should definitely be included in the program.

We returned to the Center around 3:30, leaving about an hour to rest and an hour to bird before dinner.  I was having a terrible time locating birds and really thought my time on the trails was a giant waste. This was only exacerbated by the horrible light that exists in a dense forest setting. Only afterwards did I discover that I had actually done pretty well. The woodcreeper I spotted was actually a new find: Wedge-billed Woodcreeper. A hummingbird I was unable to identify in the field was also new: Violet-crowned Woodnympth. Finally, a pair of large woodpeckers turned out not to be Lineated. Instead, I had finally gotten Pale-billed Woodpecker.  Of course, none of the pictures of these birds are particularly good. Indeed, they are quite bad. But, any picture counts.

And as I had hoped, with an amazingly productive day in terms of developing the program, I was also able to add 5 lifers in less than 2 hours of actual birding time squeezed in around meals.

Tuesday, February 21

I had a long day planned, starting with breakfast at 6:30am. I was out of bed by 5:30 so that I could walk some of the trails before taking a shower. Just a few hundred meters up the trail, as I came around one corner, a large crested black bird with a white vent and yellow bill was crossing the path: a male Great Curassow. Soon after, his partner followed. In terms of birding, the day was already a huge success. In less than

Monday, February 20

I woke up at 5am to go birding with Kevin Martinez, Alex’s son, who received a degree in ecotourism from ITCR. This would give me an opportunity to chat about my ideas for the study abroad program and ask him about ecotourism/agritourism in the Sarapiqui area. It had rained intermittently during the night, but it was dry when we started. It did not stay dry for long.

At the entrance to the trail, a pair of Black-striped Sparrows were foraging. Without Kevin, I would have assumed they were Olive Sparrows and just moved on. Although they look very similar (genus Arremonops), the Black-striped has a grayish head (rather than beige) and a yellow patch on the wing. We did not get much farther when it started to drizzle. Then rain. And then torrent. It rained so hard, it turned a noun into a verb.

As we huddled under leaf cover, I was the first of five Crested Guans fly from their perch in one tree, across a wide open field and into another tree. Their black, crested silhouette against the fog and rain was eerie, but beautiful.

After only 30 minutes or so, Kevin headed back, but since water was already soaking through to my drawers, I pressed on. Nothing good came of this until the rain finally stopped. But when it did, anything relying on insects for sustenance had a field day. Tropical Pewee and Southern Rough-winged Swallow were numerous. I finally took the time to sort through the collection of flycatchers and noticed a Grey-capped Flycatcher perched next to a Social Flycatcher (both genus Myiozetetes, the former has a grey head, narrow white superciliary and pale eye, while the latter has a dark brown head, wide superciliary and dark eye). I also noticed several odd looking Yellowthroats. One had only black lores, instead of a black mask. Another had a black mask, but no white border. Although both birds are related to the Common Yellowthroat found in the United States (genus Geothlypis), the former was a Grey-crowned Yellowthroat and the latter was an Olive-crowned Yellowthroat.  

Grey-headed Yellowthroat

On the walk out, Kevin pointed out a Red-billed Pigeon in the distance, which did not interest me as I had already seen one and already had a bad picture taken from too far way. Coming back, I also noticed a large, plump bird on a distance branch across the field. Although it had a red bill, its chest was much more intricately patterned than what I remember from the Red-bill. Indeed, upon checking my guide, it was a Scaled Pigeon.

I was back to Andrea Cristina by 8 soaked to the bone. After a warmish shower and several cups of coffee, it was time to pack for the trip via bus to…well, I didn’t really know where. I kinda, sorta knew the general area and thought that would be enough. While I prepared for the next leg of the trip, I started chatting with Alex’s brother. I described my reason for visiting and he was quite interested. He owns a coffee roasting operation in British Columbia, and is preparing a proposal for environmental conservation projects funded by the Japanese government. Just by chance, I actually learned quite a lot about the conservation process in the country. It appears that most of the good work that actually gets done in the country is through the dedication and passion of individuals working with private donors and foreign governments. The result is patchwork progress that occurs often in spite of the Costa Rican government. Before leaving, I quickly emailed my contact at the Soltis Center, Eugenio Gonzalez, that I was coming by bus and would make my way to Finca Luna Nueva.

                           

I walked to Puerto Viejo and ate lunch at Pollo Rico before catching a bus to San Carlos (aka Quesada). A highlight of the trip was driving past the church in Venecia where Rich Woodward was married (he met his wife while working in Peace Corps). In San Carlos, the wheels started to come off. I was exhausted. My Spanish was starting to fail me (it seems to get progressively worse over the course of the day as I get tired and my brain rebels). I went from bus to bus asking for Chachagua. I didn’t know if I was actually supposed to go to Chachagua, but it at least seemed in the general direction of what I wanted. A driver told me he did not go all the way to Chachagua, turning away at San Isidro. This name rung a bell, so I asked if Finca Luna Nueva was in San Isidro. He respond, “Yo creo, yo creo.” This is all I needed to hear. I paid my 500colones ($1) and happily exclaimed “San Isidro!”

Of course, there were no seats available, so I stood. On my Google maps app, San Isidro did not correspond to the junction I saw in my guidebook. This worried me. As we drove out of town, it did not take long for us to disappear onto a part of the map with no roads. It was just me and a lonely blue arrow moving through emptiness. I did not know where I was going or how I was getting there or really where in the hell I was at the moment. Fun.

People started to get off the bus. Then more people. And I kept waiting for us to get onto a Googleable road. And I kept hoping to see a sign for the Finca. None of this happened. Instead, I moved to another part of the bus for a better view. The driver quickly pulled over and came to the back of the bus, “San Isidro, si?” When I responded, “Si,” he replied with something that obviously meant, we passed that long ago. We actually were only 3km outside of town and I quickly found a cab that knew precisely where I needed to be. Saving only cost me 4000colones ($8), but it took nearly 5 hours to cover the distance between Puerto Viejo and the Soltis Center, 126 miles.

The finca called Eugenio, who came and picked me up. The Soltis Center is impressive, both in design and location. I was quickly settled in and walked around the grounds. Rufous-tailed Hummingbirds were active in nearly every flowering plant, but a smaller hummingbird stood out and I eventually captured a Violet-headed Hummingbird. 

Violet-headed Hummingbird

Sunday, February 19

It's Sunday. Nothing happens on Sunday in a Catholic country except church. So, I had the morning to bird.

Striped Cuckoo

Black-cowled Oriole

More details to come, but the day included Striped Cuckoo, Olive-backed Euphonia, Passerini's Tanager, Black Hawk-Eagle, Long-tailed Tyrant, Black-cowled Oriole, Gold-faced Grosbeak, Amazonian Kingfisher, Mealy Parrot, Keel-billed Toucan, Chestnut Mandibled Toucan, and Montezuma's Oropendola.

Saturday, February 18

I could have gotten up at 5 am. I actually set my alarm for that. An alarm going off at 5am on only 3 hours of sleep only causes one thing: an overwhelming sense of self-loathing followed by turning your phone off.

I got out of the hotel at 8am (still only 5+ of bad hours of sleep on a body that needs 8-9 to function properly) and headed back to the car rental place. Things had changed dramatically from last night. Last night, I was alone. This morning, I was in a long line of people angry and frustrated at the absence of cars. The other rental companies were no help because they didn't have extra cars to rent out.

Instead of waiting (and waiting=pissed to me), I decided to focus on the amazingly beautiful weather, forego any thoughts of driving while in Costa Rica, grab a cab to San Jose and take a bus to Puerto Viejo a Sarapiqui. After walking in the wrong direction or too far in the right direction several times, I eventually found my bed of the night at Posada Andrea Cristina. I picked this place because the gentleman who runs it is a Costa Rican and important local conservationist, Alex Martinez. In addition, his son has a degree in ecotourism from ITCR, the university with which I am hoping to partner. This area also includes many important conservation, ecotourism and agritourism operations, including Rara-Avis and La Selva Biological Station.  This seemed like a good introduction to Costa Rica for the purposes of my travel.

After finding a Pollo Rico for lunch and getting lost several times, I showed up sweaty and tired around 3pm. Since there was not much time for anything else and I was already a mess, Alex dropped me off at the nesting site of a Great Green Macaw, who was dutifully watching his nest.

Friday, February 17

Complete and utter disaster.

3 flights. 3 broken planes.

In Austin, it was a warning light that said a door was not shut. Not like that is important in a pressurized environment.

In Dallas, it was a tube leaking fluid. Then it was the confusion on whether the oil on the engine was residual from the leak or a new leak.

In Miami, who knows. Miami sucks. Always has. Always will. Flying through MIA is like having your soul ripped from your body through your urethra with hot hedge clippers covered in glass shards and tabasco sauce. Have I mentioned I don't like Miami?

OK, I finally arrive in San Jose and guess what? No cars for rent. This can happen. But not if you actually have a reservation for a car. After lots of back and forth, I finally end up in a hotel (not the one I originally booked) in Alajuela at 2 am.

Costa Rica 2012

I am in Costa Rica to explore options for developing a study abroad program. Costa Rica is a birding hot spot that I have been avoiding because it is too developed. Yeah, just because I like tropical diseases and bouts of diarrhea. That's how I roll.

Travelling through Latin America, I have been struck by small agricultural operations that produce a high value crop in an environmentally sustainable manner; respect the traditions of rural farming communities; and encourage tourists to experience a unique aspect of the country. In general, these operations exist because of individuals from the developed world who have been inspired during their own travels off the beaten path. Given its long-standing dedication to rural economic development, I decided that this is precisely something that Texas A&M and my department should base a study-abroad opportunity upon. And I am here to start that process.

Of course, there is only so much time available for meetings, so in the mornings and late afternoons, I will do as much birding as I can manage.

Maine and New Brunswick wrap-up

New Brunswick was a wonderful surprise. Grand Manan easily makes my list of favorite discoveries. The camping possibilities are remarkable and the birding was certainly a success. Seven new species (Black Guillemot, Sharp-tailed Sparrow, Common Murre, Leach’s Storm Petrel, Great Shearwater, Northern Gannett and Boreal Chickadee), including several pelagics and a Chickadee that was becoming a nemesis. In addition, I improved my photo collection with better shots of Black-throated Blue Warbler, Dark-eyed Junco and Common Yellowthroat.   I guess I will have to visit Nova Scotia another time.

Monday, August 1

I packed up camp at sun-up and we drove to the trailhead to get the earliest possible start. This was intended to maximize birding luck and also the chances of winning a t-shirt. I was the first car in the lot, allowing me to let Delta off leash for most of the hike to the summit. The ascent up the eastern trail was relatively straight-forward and we were greeted by many Magnolia Warbler and White-crowned Sparrow. Since I was preoccupied with birding, we were only overtaken by the ranger who was to hand out t-shirt tickets at the summit, a couple, and then a father-son combo.

Toward the summit, the broadleaf forest of maples and oaks gave way to increasingly shorter conifers. And finally, one of those pines contained a Boreal Chickadee. Soon, the pines gave way to boulders and low bushes. And then, just boulders at the summer where an inquisitive Junco hopped about. We made a brief stop to document Delta’s summiting of the highest point in Maritime Canada, and then headed back via the western trail. This was infinitely more difficult a descent, as we were on an exposed ridge, largely hopping from boulder to boulder for 2 miles. At several places, I needed to carry Delta to a lower point and quickly became aware that I was getting sunburn.

Reaching tree cover, we were again treated to an outstanding view of a Boreal Chickadee. In addition, it was impossible to miss the metallic red of a male Pine Grosbeak. Previously, I had only seen a brief glimpse of a female while hiking in Colorado. Soon after, a mixed flock of Warblers were actively flitting through the trees. This offered an amazing view of a pair of Blue-throated Black Warblers, surely the best sighting I have had since to Porcupine Mountains in Michigan.

Although I was only able to add one life-lister on the day (I was also hoping for Canada Warbler and Crossbill), high quality shots of a Boreal Chickadee and a Blue-Warbler were well worth the work. And, I got a t-shirt.

After completing the descent and picking up my t-shirt, we started the drive back to New York. Thoughts of stopping for another day of birding in Northern Maine were scupperred by a severe thunderstorm. We made it as far as Augusta that night. The next morning, we strolled through downtown, a quintessential example of a formerly prosperous New England manufacturing town blighted by steadily decline manufacturing in the United States. Like many such cities, the architectural ambition of an earlier time belies the sad reality of obsolescence. 

Sunday, July 31

In the morning, we drove east along the coast to Bathurst, leaving Acadia and entering the port towns settled by Scottish and Irish immigrants. A restaurant with a patio on the dock was willing to let me bring Delta around and I enjoyed eggs Benedict—with lobster. Although I paid for two nights of camping in Caraquet, I decided that instead of heading back, we should continue the loop around New Brunswick. Eventually, this brings you to the St. Lawrence River, which separates the Gaspe Peninsula of Quebec from New Brunswick.

I should note here that I often lament my 9 years studying French in school, which has become a huge source of frustration and regret, becoming ever more apparent every time I travel in Latin America. Worse yet, I’ve discovered I cannot for the life of me understand the French that they speak in Quebec/Canada. The accent is so terribly nasally that every sound just sort of runs together. Also, they have a totally different lexicon. I swear one waitress used the word “beverage” in lieu of “boisson.” Also, it just sounds incredibly unpleasant.

Along the way, we were delayed in Charlo by what I think was a New Brunswick Day parade. This seemed a good opportunity to take Delta for a walk and watch the accoutrements of small town North America (floats with local bands, fire trucks, convertibles with open tops and waving beauty queens still emergin from their awkward phase).

Cutting south at Cambellton, we made our way toward Mt. Carleton Provincial Park. This was going to be the last stop on our trip. It was also the last realistic shot at finding a Boreal Chickadee. At the ranger station, we were told that with tomorrow being New Brunswick Day, the first 50 people up Mt. Carleton, the highest point in New Brunswick (and the entire Maritimes) would receive a t-shirt. Of course, this settled our plans for the following day, because men are innately programmed to do anything if winning a t-shirt is involved. We again lucked-out with a water-side camping spot.

Saturday, July 30

The rain came and came, so we spent a large part of the morning parked in the lot for tourist information outside Miramichi catching up on sleep. Eventually heading farther north Miramichi . we continued through Acadia and around to Caraquet, which was surprisingly dead for a Saturday night. Our camping spot was on a beach along Chaleur Bay, which is apparently the mosquito capital of the Maritimes.

Friday, July 29

Given the beautiful setting, I was tempted to spend another day on the island, but decided to get moving. This was for the best as the rains were moving steadily up the coast. The ferry ride back to the mainland was mostly through a dense fog and no new birds appeared. We made it to St. John, where the weather was still sunny, if cool. A historic port town, the architecture is quite pretty, recalling Boston in some ways. After lunch and a good stroll, we pushed west along the coast.

The original plan was to cross over to Nova Scotia, but I was so impressed with Grand Manan, I decided that instead of heading further east, we would swing up the northern coast of New Brunswick toward Miramichi and historic Acadia. There was supposedly a fiddle festival taking place over the weekend, and this seemed to be close to what I wanted to see(hear) in Nova Scotia.

I switched the radio station from CBC to an Acadeian music station. To my ear, Acadian is a mix of bluegrass, Western swing and traditional Gaelic music. With windows down and the volume up, we cruised past house after house donning some form of the Acadian flag—the tricolor with a yellow star.

We barely stayed ahead of the rain, but made it to Miramichi in time for a stroll and dinner. The pub/restaurant was willing to open up a gate so Delta could reach the patio. This let me eat dinner without keeping her in the car.

I had expected something more hopping, but apparently this is New Brunswick Day Weekend. New Brunswick Day is on Monday. Who knew? Apparently, this is a long weekend where everyone hops on boats, goes up river and then gets shit-canned: the Ozarks for Canadians. 

Thursday, July 28

We started the day looking for a place that served a hearty breakfast. A lacy Victorian bed and breakfast advertised eggs and bacon and they were willing to carry it out to some lawn chairs that faced to the Bay. It was sunny and warm, even for Canadian standards, and allowed me to fuel up with Delta in tow.

We slowly moved down the island, catching the ferry over to White Head, a smaller island 20 minutes away. I intended to drive to a lighthouse. There was pavement. Then there were large rocks. Then smaller rocks. Then even smaller rocks that did nothing to separate my tires from the sand below. Stuck.

After some jacking, finding large rock to put under the tires for traction, and the concerted effort of much pushing by several Samaritans, the car was back on solid ground. This victory was short lived as a managed to back the car into a ditch. No amount of jacking was going to save me and I was suddenly facing an expensive tow from a truck that had to come from the mainland. And I think that meant the actual mainland of Canada.

I walked back to a house, where luckily someone was home. Unluckily, it was a woman with two kids who was not going to be able to pull my car out of a ditch with a Tonka truck and a tricycle. Thankfully, she was able to call a family member with an actual pick-up truck who came and help me extricate my poor Vibe. This must be the 3^rd or 4^th time that little piece of plastic has been wrenched out a predicament of my own causing. Thus far, with a little patience, someone has always come forward to assist, which is some indication of how genuinely helpful most people are. We forget that, or worse, cynically believe it isn’t true. But, if you travel, you will discover that the mistakes you are capable of making are limitless. And because you are alone, far from your usual resources, the potential consequences are more costly to bear. Nevertheless, I have found that the world is full of people who will treat you as well, if not oftentimes better, than your own family. Of course, this has only happened to me in the far north of our country or in Canada.

I escaped and caught the next ferry back to Grand Manan proper. My goal was to cook dinner--lobster, but I faced two issues. My camping pots were likely too small and I did not bring fuel for the camp stove. While the former could be overcome at the hardware store, the latter could not. Of course, one of the associates offered his camping/cooking gear if I wanted to go to his place to pick it up. Again, good people are everywhere. Instead, I opted for two pre-cooked lobster tails from the supermarket, lots of lemon, some sharp chedder and a huge bottle of white wine. While I could finish two lobster tails (one was really good, the other grainy), I could not finish the wine. Given this bounty of booze, I invited my neighbors, the couple from New Brunswick, to help me finish the bottle. They stopped over with their own bounty of beer and we chatted as the sun set. They had also been over to XXXXX that day. They also explored the lighthouse. On their walk out, they ran into some people who recalled their adventure helping an idiot Texan out of the sand. 

Wednesday, July 27

An early start brought us to Moosehorn NWF, an area dedicated to preserving breeding grounds for American Woodcock. This is yet another bird I have never seen. If American Woodcock was a mosquito, I could have checked it off. Not only did I not find a Woodcock, Delta was tormented by mosquitoes.

After an hour, we hopped back in the car and drove over to Canada. It took about 90 minutes to get to the ferry for Grand Manan, an island that sits in the Bay of Fundy. They were boarding just as we showed up, so there was no need to wait. Crossing fish-rich open water, this is a great chance to view seabirds and it did not disappoint. Northern Gannet plunged into the water from 30 feet in the air. Great Shearwater were numerous in groups of 4 to 20. A Leach’s Storm-petrel flew low across the sea. A handful of Guillemot and Common Murre were also scattered around. Undeniably a great experience.

Based on my Maine birding guide, I resolved to camp at Hole in the Wall. As we approached the ferry terminal, the skies began to clear and I immediately realized this was a great plan. Hole in the Wall is high on the cliffs overlooking the bay and I was given a site with a perfect view of the lighthouse. I arrived just before a couple from mainland New Brunswick and they ended up just a few sites down from mine.

I set up camp and hurried back down the island to find a place to eat—more lobster. The sunset was a beautiful and coaxed seals into the harbor. We slept well, only interrupted by the period flash of the beacon from the light house and the sounds of whales coming to the surface for air. 

Tuesday, July 26

The goal for today was to make it to the eastern-most point in the United States: Quoddy Head. In addition to a lighthouse, this is a great spot to look for seabirds. Admittedly, there was little interesting in that department, mainly Common Eider. But, the trail along the cliffs was excellent for American Redstart, Yellow-rump and Magnolia Warbler.  Still, no Boreal Chickadee. Despite the lack of new finds, the trails are incredibly beautiful and made a wonderful day with Delta.

eBird had reports of Sharp-tailed Sparrows in the area, and this has been a long standing blank on my life list. It took some time to find the parking lot, but we parked, walked along the beach and found the state land which contains a field of wild flowers. It took almost no time to stumble on a Song Sparrow actively singing. This was a handy reference, as another bird was also in the area singing an entirely different song. Perched on a flower, eating a large insect, was a sparrow with an orange face and long bill. My first Sharp-tailed Sparrow. And this young fellow (it was a juvenile) was plenty happy to keep singing as I moved in closer to capture some amazing shots.

That night, we drove up to Cobscock State Park. They gave us a great spot right on the coast. This was Delta’s first foray into a tent, so she was fairly reticent about climbing in. OK, I had to drag her inside. But she enjoyed looking out the screen up top and eventually settled down at the bottom of my feet.

Monday, July 25

We got an early start for Bar Harbor so that I could stroll in town before Acadia opened to the public. Unfortunately, none of the whale watches allowed dogs, so one shot at seeing pelagic specialties was scuttled early. This was more than compensated by the hot cup of coffee and freshly baked blueberry muffin I scored near the ship terminal. Bar Harbor was all I expected and quintessentially New England mixed with adequate kitsch.

The first stop in Acadia was at the Nature Center. We walked along the boardwalk through a wet forest, which was excellent for Common Yellowthroat and Yellow-rumped Warbler.

Next, we drove toward the coast, stopping at Otter Point. I spotted a Black Guillemot and scrambled down the rocks to get a better look. This was  a partial life-lister since I had only seen a dead bird that had washed ashore in Iceland. Just as interesting were the tidal pools that formed amongst the boulders. Sea urchins and starfish made home with seaweeds in various shades of green and red and orange.

Delta and I continued along a footpath, coming across a juvenile Guillemot below the cliffs. It seemed like I could find a way down, but I did not want to chance, particular if Delta was going to try and follow me. Instead, I shot from a comfortable perch. Delta, however, continued to explore, ending up perched on top of a boulder that fell off sharply on all sides. Unable to continue forward, she also had no space to turn around to come back towards me. She needed rescuing and I reluctantly stopped shooting to climb down and carry her back up.

All was fine until I reached into my pocket to look at the time on my phone. As I pulled my phone out, my credit card also came with, flew up on the winds of the Atlantic and landed on some rocks below. Now, I was in the worst position possible. If it had fallen in the Atlantic, then it was lost. But, instead, it landed at the base of a rock climbing route. Now, I had no choice but to find a way down to rescue my card. In fits and starts, I eventually found a climb down that I thought I could replicate on the way up. In the end, the only cost was a pretty wicked sunburn.

We left the main section of the park and stopped for lunch in Northeast Harbor—a lobster roll. Continuing along the coast of Mount Desert Island, we stopped to bird some trails with scrub pine that eventually opened onto the shore. A small opening in the woods was the perfect spot to get within a few feet of a precocious Dark-eyed Junco. A male Common Yellowthroat also came out to play. A second stop along the coast yielded American Black Duck.

We made a quick stop back at Bar Harbor to see it with the tourist crowds. Although there were lots of interesting cafes, nothing for dinner really struck me. Delta won many admirers among the kids being dragged along by their parents.

Sunday, July 24

I started the drive in rain until I reached Worchester, MA. By New Hampshire, the skies had cleared and a few exits into Maine, I stopped for lunch—a lobster roll at a roadside shed with picnic tables and a packed parking lot. This gave Delta a chance to happily scour the grass for oyster crackers.

After lunch, I proceeded up the Maine turnpike to Bangor, which seemed a good spot to start the trip for three reasons: easy access to Orono to eat around the campus of UMaine, not terribly far from Bar Harbor and Acadia; and most importantly, not expensive.

After settling in, Delta and I headed out to find a logging road and perhaps Boreal Chickadee, one of my big target species for the trip. We parked and Delta was free to run at will through the pines while I strolled. Although there were no Chickadees, I did spot plenty of juvenile robins, tens of Chipping Sparrows and a singing Pine Warbler. 

A beat up car stopped to ask directions. Delta ran straight to it and threw her paws up on the window. The driver, a rather shaggy man, opened his car door. Delta scrambled in, then over his lap, across the consol and into the backseat to harass the two children seated there. I was horrified that the door was going to slam shut and they would drive away with my dog. Of course, that didn’t happen. But, it did make me think I needed to train her not to hop into cars unless I say its OK.

Maine and Nova Scotia, 2011

New Breton Island, the north coast of Nova Scotia, has been on my list of places to see for years. The sight of ribbon-like roads carved along its rocky coast has resonated from the first time I saw them on TV. Since so many northern species are missing from my life list, I decided to escape the heat and humidity of New York for the cooler coastal breezes of the North Atlantic Ocean. Driving up to Nova Scotia will also give me a chance to visit Acadia National Park, another place that has eluded me.

Bolivia wrap-up

Coming soon!

Bolivia wrap-up

Coming soon!

Monday, June 27

Passport day. I just killed time, packing my bag, waiting for 4pm when I could pick up my passport with its new visa from Immigration. Of course, I ran into KK at the office, but no passport was to be found. It wasn’t ready yet. We had to come back tomorrow.

No mas. Spanish streamed from the deepest recesses of my being as if I hadn’t wasted 9 years of my life studying French. No, I could not come back tomorrow! My flight was first thing in the morning! Between KK being composed (she spoke much better than I did) and me starting to fly off the handle, we were escorted into the office of the Director. Our files miraculously appeared on his desk. Some simple questions and all seemed resolved. So, we took our seat.

And we sat.

And then we sat.

And then, just for fun, just to shake things up a bit, we sat some more.

Behind us, a teenager has just come from the US embassy because her passport was lost. She was part of a church group. They were returning to the United States on a red-eye flight that night. She needed a new visa, ASAP.

One problem: they crossed into Bolivia illegally. The border between Bolivia and Argentina is porous. Thus, not only did she not have a copy of the green entry form (damn that pesky green entry form!), there was no record of her ever being in the country. This is bad news. Unless you are a journalist/spy on secret assignment, crossing into a country this way is stupid. If they don’t know how you got there, as a rule, they won’t let you out. The irony of a church group breaking the basic immigration laws of Bolivia was not lost on either of us, and it was only heightened by the fact that this was a white church group from Mississippi. This is a demographic that would overwhelming support strict immigration controls in “illegal immigrants” in the United States.

Well, we wait. It is 6 o’clock. Employees are leaving their offices. Army officers are lowering gates and locking doors. They glare and tell us we have to leave. We do not. And we will not until they hand us our passports. And if they don’t like it, go find the director. Eventually, this is exactly what happens. He comes out of the office surprised to see us. I am not sure whether this is a show, but it seemed like even he was embarrassed by his country’s performance on this one. Two minutes later, we had passports.

Invigorated by this triumph, its time for dinner at El Tambo. It is night in La Paz. It is frenetic with corn horns and break lights and thin air and everything that makes it such a wonderful city. 

Sunday, June 26

I want to die. Honestly, this is painful and degrading. I have to sneak around the hostel finding unoccupied bathrooms. If you’ve never had Giardia, you cannot understand this experience unless you’ve have something worse like IBS or Crohn’s, which I assume are just Giardia for life. Also, I itch everywhere. And, I can’t hear.

It is Sunday, but I am determined to find an open pharmacy to get an antihistamine to block the allergic reaction to the milk. I stumble from the hostel. I am weak and woozy, but it is bright, sunny and blue. I walk and feel weak. I walk more and I feel dizzy. I find an open pharmacy, but my pronunciation of antihistamine is not working. I explain that I have las ronchas. He asks how. I don’t know how to say unpasteurized milk, so I try, Tome la leche, desde la vaca al vaso (literally, I drank milk, from the cow to the glass). His eyes lit up with that you-stupid-gringo brightness to which one quickly becomes accustomed, “Ahh, anti-HEE-sti-MEE-na.” He gave me something and I started my walk back.

I don’t think I made it more than a block when I stopped and leaned into a window sill. I don’t think I made it more than 3 seconds before I lurched forward, landing face-first on the pavement. I suppose most of the Pacenos doing their Sunday afternoon errands thought I was just another gringo borracho, but it was enough of a spectacle for at least one couple to stop and ask if I was ok. I told the gentleman I was not, that I felt very ill. He asked if I wanted water. I said yes. He returned with a bottle. When I rummaged for coins, he would not accept. There wasn’t much else he could do while I recovered from fainting, so I thanked him politely and explained that I just needed to sit for a while. (note: I think this happened in Spanish. Go me!)

Soon after, another couple stopped, but they spoke English. In fact, they weren’t locals. They were Israelis staying at the same hostel and recognized me. I recounted the description of my fainting spell and the gentlemen asked whether I wanted some chocolate. This was a genius idea and he ran off to a tienda. He also refused payment.

This entire time, I am fully cognizant of two things. First, I need to get back to my bed to recover. Second, I probably would not make it without fainting again. When the man returned with the chocolate, I ate a piece and asked them for help getting back to my room. I felt fine enough to walk if they wouldn’t mind accompanying me. They gladly agreed and all was quickly returned to normal…after I purchased 2 snickers bar at reception.

Saturday, June 25

No, fuck me. Those weren’t chiggers. I woke up in the middle of the night clawing at my armpits. Those were no insect bites. I had hives everywhere except my face.

Why do I do such stupid things? I was smart enough to ask whether the milk was pasteurized, but not smart enough not to drink it. I had a milk allergy as a child and this crossed my mind when I was offered the milkshake. But, I have not been allergic to milk for nearly 30 years. Well, it turns out I have not been allergic to pasteurized and homogenized milk for nearly 30 years. The natural stuff—not so much.

Also, my ear is clogged. Terribly clogged. I think it happened on the bus ride down because I wore headphones going from La Cumbre to Chulumani. More stupidity. Well, whatever it is, I can’t really hear from my left ear.

So, to summarize, I am leaking from the back end. I am covered in hives. I can’t hear. If I typed this into Google, would leprosy come up?

I still hiked around the grounds for a little bit in the morning, finally getting a picture of Blue-and white swallow and a better picture of Red-billed Parrot. Along with the ubiquitous Marble-faced Bristle-tyrant, I also found a female Antshrike.

While I was stomping about, a man was supposed to be purchasing my ticket and returning to the lodge to pick up for the bus ride back to La Paz. He was late. Very late and it was looking like I would miss my bus. In fact, he was still in town. The lodge quickly called a car to pick me up. The driver attempted to make time by sliding through every corner and switchback on the dirt road to town. I would have preferred to miss my bus, frankly. But, I made it because the guy charged with buying the ticket basically stood in front of the bus to prevent them from leaving without me. 

Friday, June 24

A breakfast of French toast was ready at 6:15am and I was birding by 7. I walked the road towards Apa-Apa Reserve, casually birding along the way. I was told the walk would be 45 minutes, but as with all birding, it probably took closer to 2 hours. The road netted Crested and Dusky-green Oropendola, Purplish Jay and Sparkling Violetear. Reaching the trail just after a wooden sign post, this section was mostly open, yielding Streak-throated Flycatcher, Blue-capped Tanager, Slate-throated Whitestart, Strong-billed Woodcreeper, and Marble-faced Bristle Tyrant. Moving into the forest proper produced Yungas Manakin, Grass-green Tanager, Bolivian Brush-Finch (previously conspecific with Rufous-naped Brush-Finch), Cinnamon Flycatcher, Three-striped Warbler, Tropical Parula and Azara's Spinetail.

The trail descended into the valley, eventually crossing the river. This was just an amazingly beautiful spot, which if dry and mosquito-free, I would have gladly sat and enjoyed for hours. As it was, I found a Spotted Barbtail. The walk back yielded many of the same species, but a Short-tailed Hawk passed overhead and a flock of Plumbeous Pigeon filled the tops of one tree.

Taking my boots and socks off, I noticed little red bumps along my ankles. Chiggers, I thought. I had heard they lived in the high grass that you tramp through in spots along the trail. I know there are chiggers in Texas who will bury into your skin, usually in areas that are dark, wet and pressed by clothing. I had largely avoided their nuisance back home, but seemed to be striking both along my sock lines and around my waist. I was given some rubbing alcohol to put on the bites

Dinner was marred by an obnoxious Canadian who showed up with two bird guides (actually people, not books). At one point he may have been an independent traveler who generally roughed it. Now, he is a douche. He asked, “Don’t you find that the 300mm just isn’t enough sometimes. I feel like it just isn’t enough. My 600mm is really what brings me close to the birds.” For those not aware, his 600mm lens costs in the neighborhood of $8000. Fuck him. Also, he spoke no Spanish and seemed to revel in that ignorance. Fuck him again.

Bird Tally: 12 new, 12 lifers

Thursday, June 23

I woke up early to finishing packing my bags and grab breakfast before heading up to Villa Fatima for the bus to Chulamani (Bs20). Again, I will neither bike nor drive the Death Road while here, but the South Yungas Road is its cousin. It took an hour just to get out of La Paz for reasons I do not quite understand. We finally finished getting gas and the remaining ride to the turnoff was uneventful. There was no traffic in the opposite direction, so the narrow descent with its hairpin turns, switchbacks and and blind corners seemed far from treacherous. Then we hit a road block for construction. Busses, trucks and cars were stalled for half-an-hour, generating an accordion of traffic once the way reopened. Our driver was particularly eager to save himself three minutes of travel, honking incessantly at any bus or truck that he managed to catch until they let him pass at full speed. By now, traffic was also coming from Chulamani, but the road was not wide enough for two vehicles. Downhill apparently has right-of-way. In addition to the amazing scenery and typical Bolivian shenanigans, the most lasting impression of the ride was the dachshund-basset mix that found his was under my seat and eventually into my lap. This scene is memorialized on several Bolivan cameras.

Arriving in the main square of Chulamani just after 2pm, I located a phone center to call the Portugal Hacienda to see if there was space. I was told to head on up and lunch would be waiting. Even the cab ride (Bs25) was not without issue as there was road construction blocking the road to the Hacienda, leaving me to walk the last half mile.

The hacienda is a full menagerie with Green-and-blue and Green-and-red Macaws, something that looks like a javelina, a giant terrapin, cows, chickens and a Great Dane roughly the size of my Pontiac Vibe.

I ate a very late lunch, settled my bags into the small room I would call home for two nights and strolled around the grounds and surrounding roads. This little stroll netted Bananaquit, Crested Oropendola, Sayaca Tanager, Palm Tanager, Olivaceous Siskin, White-tipped Dove, Purplish Jay, Yellow-olive Flatbill, and Green-and-Olive Woodpecker.

Dinner was simple, but tasty: a red pepper stuffed with rice and ground beef. I also had my first glass of unpasteurized milk blended with strawberries.

Bird tally: 3 new, 2 lifers

Wednesday, June 22

Today was spent entirely in La Paz. I first went to the Museum of Art, which is housed in a former residence just off the Plaza Murillo. The architecture of the building is one of its main drawing points: three stories enclosing a courtyard. From the lower stories, the rest of the building blocks out much of La Paz's uninspiring skyline, leaving only the cupolas of the largest churches surrounding Murillo against a drop of azure and white. I was once reminded that I could not take photographs, but they relented when I showed them that I was actually taking pictures of the building, not the paintings. 

The collection only includes pieces by Bolivian artists and is arranged chronologically. I could not help but use the development of art in Bolivia as a metaphor for the development of Bolivia. The early works are poor imitations of the European Baroque and Neoclassical masters intended as propaganda to reinforce to power of the Spanish Crown and Catholic Church. Moving to the early 20^th century, however, the paintings by Arturo Borda, particularly his later pieces were excellent, as was the  sculpture of Nunez. The modern and abstract art, especially the triptych Persistencia, which depicted Aymara women and children huddled on the Altiplano, was also quite good.

I received an email letting me know that my temporary passport was ready. I returned to the embassy to pick it up and ran into KK again. Passports in hand, we rushed to tourist police to file a report for the stolen passports (that’s right, without identification, you can’t get a report that says, you know, you had your identification stolen). See, losing your passport is only part of the problem. When you lose your passport, you also lose everything in your passport, including your visa and entry stamp. A passport will get you back into the United States, but it isn’t enough to get you out of wherever you are stranded.

This was a fiasco/cruel joke. To file the report, we needed copies of the new passports. We rushed from the tourist police to a copy place. Of course, their copier was broken. So, off to another place for copies. With copies, we returned to file the report. Now, the police have a computer, but the form isn’t something simple like an excel spreadsheet or word document. No, the report is printed on paper that contains spaces for responses. These were obviously created in the days of typewriters and Bolivia has decided to put them to use. Thus, the officer needs to type her answers at specific points on a blank word document to ensure they are printed in the appropriate spots on the form. Ridiculous.

Fine, whatever. This takes unnecessary time and is annoying, but we get it done. At least done enough so we will be able to go to Bolivian immigration and get new visas. Or not. Because these forms need to be signed by el jefe, who walks in while we are waiting, proceeds upstairs and then closes the door of his office. Time ticks away. A…W…A…Y……… a……w……a…………y. 45 minutes later, he finishes having sex with his secretary and finally signs our forms.

We have 30 minutes before immigration closes. We jump in a cab, slide in the door, shuttle from line to line. Fill out paperwork. Pay some money. And are told that we can pick our passports up on Monday with a new visa. Well, that is what I experience. KK does not have the original of her green entry form which has the date and location of entry. These are presented at entry and must be returned at exit in addition to having a valid visa. Her green form was in her passport. She entered by bus via Argentina and can’t remember her exact date of entry. No date of entry, no visa. We beg. We plead. She cries. Nothing works. She feels overwhelmed and just retreats to her hostel before I am halfway through the procedure. Poor kid.

I met BK for dinner at El Tambo, since they returned to La Paz from Copacabana before leaving the next day for Arica (the only way to enter Peru since protesting miners have closed the border crossing at Puna).

Tuesday, June 21

I was up and out for a cab to take me to Villa Fatima (Bs15) at 6:35. Busses into the yungas leave from Villa Fatima in the north of La Paz, not the main station in the central district. I wanted to catch an early trufi, but ended up waiting for the van to fill up anyway. We did not actually leave the corner until after 7:30. The ride up and over La Cumbre was spectacular and I was dropped off at the junction of the old and new roads to Coroico by 8:20. This was slightly further than I needed, but walking the start of the “death road” provided amazing views of both snow-capped Andean peaks and the cloud forest in the valley below.

This section of the road, along with the new road just before the junction was also very productive with Violet-throated Starfrontlet, Fulvous-headed Brush-Finch, Bar-winged Cinclodes, Amethyst-throated Sunangel, Azara's Spinetail, Hooded Mountain Tanager, Masked Flowerpiercer and Superciliaried Hemispingus. About this time, a steady rain started to develop, which required some reorganizing of gear. I found a drain-pipe under the highway that served the trick. Showers continued off-and-on for the next hour, but did not greatly affect birding as I found a Rufous-breasted Chat-Tyrant.

The walk downhill back to Cotapata was easy with a decent-sized shoulder, deep cement ditches and numerous turnouts with trails that led into the valley. I stumbled down a stone path on the right side of the road that led to someplace I was not supposed to be. I apologized to the gentleman and beat a hasty retreat back to the road. The second sighting of a Rufous-breasted Chat Tyrant was not worth the trip. As I continued walking, I spotted Brown-backed Chat-Tyrant, Crimson-mantled Woodpecker

Passing the gas station on my right, I followed a path around the bathroom building. A wide path lead through a fence to land which appeared to belong to the station. Just to the left of this, a two track path lead upward through forest. I followed this path, guessing it was the one mentioned in my notes. After a short distance, the path forked and I took the left as a flock of Hooded Mountain Tanager seemed to auger well. As the path began to descend into the valley, mixed flocks would flutter through groups of trees. In one, I found a Scarlet-bellied Mountain Tanager, Blue-and-black Mountain Tanager, Spectacled Whitestart, Rufous-capped Thornbill, Orange-browed Hemispingus, and Giant Thrush. On the hike out, I also spotted a Moustached Flowerpiercer.

I reached the gas station near 1:30 and the while the sun was not out, it was fighting its way through the dense clouds. Unfortunately, this did not last long. First, fog rolled over the road, greatly decreasing the chances that someone would see me. Then, it started to rain. Then, it started to rain harder. The thick fog made it impossibly dangerous to try the 9km walk to the trancha at Undavai. As I got progressively wetter, it seemed that my chances for a ride were becoming progressively worse. After more than an hour, I was just too wet to stand in the open, so I ducked for cover next to the gas station. As I waited out the rain, a girl brought me a cup of hot coffee to warm me up. Then a gentlemen suggested I try the other end of the gas station. The coffee lifted my spirits and the suggestion paid-off in a couple of minutes as a jeep with two men stopped to offer a ride.

I will not bike the death road on this trip, but absent a ride through the Columbian Andes with Camila's brothers, this was as death-defying as I'd like to go on 4 wheels. Nevertheless, when the two guys saw how wet and cold I was, they pulled over to find a blanket for me from the back of the jeep. It was only after 15 minutes that I realized that the driver had only one finger on his left hand and his right hand was almost never on the wheel. As we flew around corners on wet asphalt through soupy fog around slower moving traffic, I have never desired a stronger finger in my life.

We reached La Cumbre to find a celebration of the Aymara New Year, which coincides with the shortest day of the year (admittedly, this is the 23^rd of June, but who can keep track). There was a band of drummers and people were dancing in large groups. By now, I was mostly dry and enjoyed the festivities as a man encouraged me to do a little jig. Of course, I complied. They drove me all the way to Murillo Plaza, only a short walk from the Hostel. In the end, I had forgotten the soggy misery of waiting for a ride.

Bird tally: 17 new, 17 lifers 

Monday, June 20

First things first: new passport. I went down to the US embassy, which is in a beautiful neighborhood in south La Paz, first thing in the morning to get a document that would prove I had a US passport in the first place, so I could then file a police report, which I could then return to the embassy to file the documentation for a lost passport. At least this is what the tourist police told me I had to do. This was looking like an all day affair, best case scenario.

Upon reaching the embassy, I was told tourist police often make stuff like that up. There is no such proof of citizenship document. After a background check, I was invited into the embassy and started the paperwork for a new passport. I met a young backpacker, KK, who had her purse stolen at a bar. Her passport was in her purse. I am not the only person who does silly things, though looking for solace in the behavior of 20 year olds is not reassuring at this point in my life. After scraping together most of my remaining funds, I paid for the new passport and strolled through the city again, because that was really all I could afford to do until a new credit card arrived. 

Sunday, June 19

No passport. No credit cards. No debit cards. Only the money I had stashed at the hostel. These are days best spent just walking around and seeing the city.

Saturday, June 18

Today was one of the celebration of El Gran Poder through the streets of La Paz. To the best of my knowledge, this is a religious festival where different clubs throughout the city each participate in a large parade. Some men dress in brightly colored costumes, wearing masks and carrying noise-makers of various sorts. Other clubs have brass bands or a collection of percussion instruments. Some clubs include beautiful young women wearing hardly any clothing who dance and flirt; others include older women in traditional Andean outfits who dance and look stern. And everyone is shit-canned. Everyone. Every time the music stops, men with bottles of rum fill up empty cups (for a price) and women with cans of beer fill empty hands. Pacenos start at 8 in the morning and go all day and then through the night.

There is so much energy and color and music. Of course tourists like me come out of our hotels and hostels to see the pageantry, but it is a festival for the citizens of La Paz, rich and poor alike. We are simply absorbed into the crowd of revelers like so many grains of sand on the beach.

Unfortunately, two grains of sand stole my fucking wallet and passport. I walked over the hotel where BK were staying, fighting the crowds, weaving into and out of the parade route. Partly the joy of feeling that the medication I took yesterday had finally cured me and partly the joy of the occasion dulled my senses.

I had too much to carry, too big a camera, too big a bottle of water. Too big a sign reading, “Steal my stuff.” I could have—should have—asked Ben to drop my wallet and passport and 300mm lens in his hotel room. Could have, but didn’t. So, a small man pretending to be drunk sauntered up in front of me and started backing into me. My right arm went down to protect the lens. My left arm went out to jam him in the back. A third arm would have covered my pocket, but alas, I left my third arm in the hostel—incidentally, another place I could have left my passport and wallet. Instead, my pocket was picked by an accomplice. In the seconds it took to happen, they disappeared into the crowds and through the labyrinth of alleys. I walked the parade route hoping to see the one who bumped into me. I walked the back alleys hoping they would have just taken the money from my wallet, but tossed the passport. No luck.

It is important to make something clear. Although being robbed is a terrible feeling and having to replace a passport is bothersome, this is not a moment that would ruin my trip or change my perception of Bolivians as warm and welcoming people. Shit happens and it largely could have been prevented on my part by acting smarter. Oh well.