Monday. Another huge breakfast and this time a ride to the trailhead. As we hiked from the road to the stream, a chainsaw sounded ahead. Just as I took off my boots to cross, a team of locals lugging a giant log crossed the stream and laid the improvised beam into place. It was too long to fit level and required more tailoring to fit against the existing log, so I braved the stream, this time shoes around my neck and with my pants rolled above my knees. The water was higher now–my pants soaked partway up my thigh.

What made this AMC experience so special was the local involvement. We had heard the local community was tightknit and embraced this project. We had no real idea what this actually meant. The progression of this bridge (and we’re not finished with it yet!) became a symbol. We weren’t just a little group of Americans on a working vacation; we were a part of their community for the short time we worked side by side with them to build a new trail. The temporary overpass will inevitably wash downstream, but for the week we were there it eased our movement and enabled us to move further and build a bigger and more lasting presence, and not just in terms of trail. As fleeting as any actual experience is in life, ones like this leave lasting memories and enrich our souls when we let them.

Geovanny was one of the local leaders who looked like he belonged in a Mario Bros video game. His son, Miguel, was a prankster and a sprite of sorts, a hard worker who kept snagging our tools and putting us out of work (who were we to argue, we were on vacation!), but full of way too much devious energy. This little nine year old man was amazing with a machete, pretty awesome with a Pulaski, impassioned about what he called potatoes that didn’t look like them but I assume from their appearance are some edible tuber, and talented at finding grubs for the Bear Grylls and Anthony Bordain types out there, and for special delivery to Brendan, if just to redirect the kid’s seemingly infinite energy a half mile down trail to deliver a nice plump appetizer. Bill, our adult male friend with similar mischievous intent, might have been his perfect companion.

Most of the village was there, in force, the entire week. We may not have been able to communicate much beyond pantomiming “escalator” and “agua” to explain sometimes contradictory visions for stairs and water drainage, but somehow it all worked, sort-of. Robin and I had been working up the trail on an in-slope and water drainage when one of their work groups caught up to us and indicated they wanted to put in stairs. Brendan was somewhere else on the trail, so we indicated we understood but wanted to put in drainage, then proceeded to tear up the side of the switchback to channel the water. Which, by the look on their faces, must have also destroyed their plan for stairs. I think we all knew though we had the same end goal in mind.

Family after family showed up with whatever tools they had, teamed up on a stretches of switchback at a time, and rapidly transformed gnarly uneven 45+ degree slope into a gentle beautiful trail. Kids no matter how young all with machetes joined in the mix. Even several dogs, a couple leashed with lassos but most roamed free.

An adult walked past with what looked like punji stakes–really anchor points for the stairs a couple local teenagers made to stabilize a particularly steep spot. Were they permanent? No, probably not, but nothing ever is. A crew of several people could have spent a week putting in proper stone steps and those wouldn’t have been permanent either, nor would we have finished much trail. These will last as long as they’re meant to and be replaced when the time comes.

Our first full work day wrapped up mid-afternoon, and we hopped into the van to go to a Ficus tree reserve. Marco, one of the community and trail crew leaders, volunteered to give us a tour.

As we climbed a steep incline past the coffee farm, we transitioned onto a nice paved portion. We found out later this was hand poured. The same community building the trail had cemented this section of road one wheelbarrow at a time. I found myself contemplating infinity again.

The views were stunning. A large waterfall in the distance became a mere scratch in the faded sea of green as nature’s opacity filter kicked in. Through the mist a brilliant rainbow spanned the valley.

The Ficus Trees were like something out of Lothlorien. They were also hollow and kind of resembled pulled-taffy. One had a rope ladder up the inside.

Then there were these vines that looked like something Jack might climb up to a kingdom of giants. Or Pecos Bill might ride for “8 seconds to Glory” in an Ent rodeo.

We finished the tour with a side path to a viewpoint, a platform that overlooked lush misty cloud forest to the Gulf of Nicoya.

To our left was the ridgeline of the Sendero Pacifico.

As we pooled together a tip and waited for our ride, a lady with a wildlife spotting scope excitedly hurried us up a hill. Even through the focused magnification I had a hard time seeing enough fur to convince myself I saw the sloth, but she assured us. Maybe she was the emperor’s tailor in a previous lifetime.

Back in the van our crew clamored to stop somewhere to buy beer. Now the options were quite limited. The little market just down the road was an extension off someone’s house with limited stock and it closed very early. Nat said he’d try to figure something out for us but they needed to return the van.

About a half hour after they dropped us off, our driver, now on a motorcycle, showed up at the front door. He untied a bundle he’d improvised from his coat, and loose cans of Imperial appeared on our doorstep. He pulled the remainder of two cases from his pockets and shirt, to much applause.

Also, most critical of all amenities for Robin, at some point that day Nat delivered her jetboil fuel. The house here had an electric hotpot and its owners regularly brewed us some of the best tasting coffee in the world, making the jetboil largely irrelevant. Not to Robin. Within her 49.5 lb Mary Poppins checked bag, the jetboil is always amongst her gear. It’s one of her stubborn peculiarities. Of course its fuel can’t be taken on the plane, so there’s always a side quest. Now that she had her fuel she could independently boil water for instant coffee whenever she wanted, I’m sure a travesty in some peoples’ eyes but it is her signature.

To get away from some of the chaos downstairs and maybe just as much because the light coming in the windows upstairs made me want to take pictures, I hung out with the perpetual re-packers as they tried to better organize their stuff. Bill had been pinched by an earlier-than-planned departure and having to plan ahead for the thirty pound baggage limit of the domestic flight on his one day extension at the end, and now was trying to figure out what he actually packed. Jenna had apparently learned nothing from Robin and now sorted through her 68 lb bag that somehow eventually needed to fit on the same domestic flight with the thirty pound limit. Josh sat in the light, contemplative as if posing in mixed company for a Rodin sculpture.

After a hearty dinner, as some wound up and others wound down, the thought of “second-hand-smoke” from the relative quiet of the back porch appealed. But nobody had a lighter. We borrowed Robin’s jetboil as a lighter and didn’t tease her about it the rest of the trip.