~ By Sumalee & Vicky ~
The Coast: La Playa Blanca and Chomes
After getting our birding eyes primed for Costa Rica with the help of Walter Marín Ramírez, our awe-inspiring guide, we decided to venture out to the coast (Pacific) on our own and see what we could see on our own merits. The countryside quickly turned hot and dry, with nothing but pale yellows and light browns washed across dirt. We saw no animals and very few birds on our drive as we made our way from one dusty town (or more precisely, a crossroads with one or two markets and restaurants) to another. Our destination was Punta Morales, where one of our travel paperback guides misled us into believing there was an accessible lake. We drove around the Point, spotting our first White-winged Doves in the trees with their sea-washed bark overhanging the road, only to dead-end into an industrial corporation's manned gate. We drove further round the Point to end up at Playa Blanca.
This quiet, nearly deserted beach proved to be a worthy endeavor, as we spotted--or rather, chased down--several wonderful birds. First, the somewhat littered white-sanded beach stretched around blind corners, and we were hesitant to leave our rented automobile but finally decided to take the risk. We cautiously (that is, Sumalee cautiously whereas Vicky brashfully) scrambled across jagged rocks with our not-so-inexpensive optics and spotting scope, and once we rounded a bend, spotted shorebirds and sea birds out on distant sandbars and the ocean.
We recognized the elegant S curves of cormorants, but were ecstatic when Lunette, our trusty scope, revealed them to be not our Double-Crested, Pelagic, or Brandt's friends but a new cormorant--introducing, the Neotropic Cormorant, with its stunning turquoise eyes! Indeed, the theme of the first half of our time at Playa Blanca was species that were “almost the same, but not quite.” The “not” usually represented a glamorous difference: for instance, the tricolored heron and its colorful juveniles.
Here, the tricolored heron combines
the greenish tinge of the green heron with the stateliness of our common Great Blue. He wears an airbrushed green-gray into rose-purple and cream-throated regions. His young, which outnumbered him up and down the margin of the shore, were rusty creatures.
Likewise, the rufous-naped wrens darting amongst the branches of the warped, coastal trees sport bright contrasts of stripes and chevrons compared to the more subtle forms appearing in our smaller wrens back home.
Our first and thus far only Northern Waterthrush sightings came at some cost but furnished great fun. Toward the end of our Playa Blanca adventure, a furtive bobbing, bouncing ball song enticed us hither-dither, further and farther through the spikey, gnarled shoreline shrubbery through which we ducked and high-stepped on the chase. One of us spiked her forehead, drawing blood, the other would suffer the bug bite that keeps giving, while sleuthing our way toward this infuriating seductive call. We both saw two then three individuals who kept rounding marginally further away—never far enough to invite us to call it quits—while bobbing their behinds. Their bold eye-stripes and streaky breasts camouflaged perfectly with the shadows and lights created by coastal flora, but V.’s quick camera work combined with the proof of our momentary binocular sights and our CR bird guide proved that these Waterthrushes had made it to our lifelist.
This is not to say we didn’t fully enjoy seeing familiar species, like Willets, Whimbrels, and Ruddy Turnstones, on the coast. We did because it represented encountering old friends on new surf and turf. Once our water supply ran low and the hot sun signaled time to move on, we bid goodbye to Playa Blanca on our way to Chomes.
A CR birding guide recommended Chomes for its commercial shrimp ponds that attract shorebirds. It did not prepare us for the poverty of the town, which seemed desolate to us although the residents appeared content with spending the day on the porches watching their children run about. Motorcycles or mules have far better access to the shrimp ponds than an automobile, and V. had to negotiate some pretty tricky curves, as well as asking for motorbikes parked dead in the middle of the narrow roads to be moved. Hot, salty, shrimpy, and dry as bone describes Chomes, and S. began to suspect that the paperback guide overstated its birding potential. However, at the ponds proper, many shorebirds appeared and we serendipitously spotted a leggy pink streak flying low across the ponds into the horizon—a Roseate Spoonbill! We witnessed more Black-necked Stilts in congregation than we have seen back home. It’s true, we were disappointed that we didn’t see more numbers overall, but neither of us regrets making the trek out to Chomes, because Costa Rica is more than easy lush birding. At least, it can be for those who venture beyond the tourist locales.
And counting...
86. White-winged Dove
87. Inca Dove
88. Northern Waterthrush
89. Magnificent Frigatebird
90. Neotropic Cormorant
91. Tricolored Heron
92. Reddish Egret
93. Rose-throated Becard
94. Brown-crested Flycatcher
95. Yellow-throated Vireo
96. Stilt Sandpiper
97. Little Blue Heron
98. White Ibis
99. Roseate Spoonbill
100. Hoffman’s Woodpecker
101. Rufous-naped Wren
102. Streak-backed Oriole
103. Prothonotary Warbler
Return to Finca Ecológica San Luis
We made a leisurely start to our day with a jaunt down to the waterfall that provided hydroelectric power to the guest house. A short and punchy hike that proved slippery. I took a split-legged slip at the head of the trail while walking on a flat algae covered boulder. More slippery stone steps led the way down and were the most treacherous part of the six tenths of a mile trail, even more so than the two descents that required use of a rope-hold to scrabble down.
As usual we were geared up, because being in the land of a thousand bird species we would have been insane not to even for a short jungle walk. The jungle was lush and wet, and quiet. The birding, also quiet. There wasn't much opportunity to be disappointed though. The jungle was too exotically gorgeous for disappointment of any kind. Last night's rain was warming the air into a thick effervescent bath that quickly steamed us inside our heavy clothes. The quiet was a muffled hush, and yet the jungle was not still. Somehow there was movement amongst the many wet leaves. Movement like heavy breathing. The exchange of gases. The steady breaths of a pulsating, interwoven, and brilliantly healthy eco system. There was little time for lingering on thoughts of absent birdsong and lack of fluttering wings when one is surrounded by a breathing jungle. That isn't to say we didn't delight in spotting a Slate-throated Redstart hunting about for his meal amongst the exposed jungle roots. We had gorged our eyes with so many new bird sightings that we almost missed seeing the jungle for the birds, and the walk was a refreshment to our senses.
On the way to Finca Ecológica San Luis we had pulled over at a viewpoint at an elbow in the road to take in the vista. From this elbow the road continued steeply downward before it turned and leveled out. A little mini van, something like an old Volkswagen Vanagon, was taking an unusual tactic with the steep road. It was slaloming up the road. I wasn't sure what I was seeing. The van did not appear to be on the verge of breaking down, nor swerving as if in the control of a drunken driver. It was making precise, steady, and neat switchbacking maneuvers up the road. Once the van neared us at the elbow, it drove in the typical in-the-lane fashion. I could see it was a passenger van full of about five to six adults. The weight of the van plus the many passengers was enough that, had the van tried to go straight up the short but punchy hill, it would have stalled out. And thus the reason for the uphill slalom.
The owners of Finca Ecologica recognised us and were pleased to see us return to enjoy their land for another day. The wife, who just yesterday had been cold and distant towards us, actually acknowledged us with a big smile. The husband was beaming with pride that we chose to make another bird outing there. The day was much hotter and drier than the previous day, so despite the owner putting out fresh plantains in the main bird feeder area, the birds were not as active. We didn't mind as we wanted to walk the trails we missed out on with Walter. We went to the trails on the east side of the property where there was a stream and waterfall.
We never made it to the waterfall however. The trail to the waterfall spurred up a hill. We were about to start up it when we heard an alluring bird whistle from a dense copse of thin trees downhill in the opposite direction. S. opened the Merlin Song ID app. and somewhere in that tangle of tree branches was a Rufous-browed Peppershrike. We studied the photo to know what to look for. A large chunky broad-billed bird with a rufous brow, beady red-orange eyes, and yellow body. We later read that the Peppershrike is more often heard than seen, and this was our experience. I went deep into the copse to get a view and hopefully a shot. It was maddening because the Peppershrike would whistle his short rhythmic phrase once every 5-10 seconds. He always sounded like he was right above my head. We knew by listening that he was just in the treetops. The trees were only about 15 feet tall and yet we could not spot the bugger. And he is not a small bird. He is considered large for a vireo. His song, so clear and close, should have made spotting him easy. He whistled from the same spot, never moving. I wish he had moved because he would have given himself away. But he had so much confidence in his camouflage and hiding spot that he went on whistling without a care for the humans below his beak.
We knew he was in a certain part of the treetops, and we moved hither and thither changing the view to see if we could get an opening in the branches. While shuffling about we chanced upon a splendid new sighting of the Tropical Parula. A beautiful bird with a dark slatey-blue back and Sunny-D yellow belly and chest. Thankfully he made himself conspicuous by flitting about the branches in search of little bugs.
After at least another full hour, we finally got a meager glimpse of the Peppershrike's rufous brow. With most spottings, where only one of us has seen the bird, the spotter will take the time to try to point the bird out to the other. In cases like this where taking that time might mean losing the sighting, either because the bird will take-off or the difficulty of finding the bird again, we'll forego this courtesy. S. spotted the Peppershrike but was unable to describe to me his exact location in the monotony of the branches. I had to do my best to look where she was looking with her binoculars to finally see him for myself. I could see him singing his little heart out, mouth opened, and throat a-warbling. And this imperfect sighting, with bad photos to boot, was enough to make this day a memorable birding outting.
Walking on, our brains flooded with endorphins leaving us giddy, we discussed the minute events of the chase. I can guarantee we experienced that elusive state of being called flow. Just two American women in the muggy jungle getting eaten by mosquitoes and not feeling a lick of discomfort while doing nothing for the past two hours but to try and see a bird. How wonderful.