Cry The Friendly Skies

The Osa peninsula of Costa Rica contains one of the last stretches of primary lowland rainforest on earth. By definition, a primary rainforest has never been cut down and reforested. This lends itself to an absurd level of biological diversity, not unlike the contents of my refrigerator. In contrast, secondary rainforests grow where the primary rainforest has been destroyed either by man or natural disaster. While still biologically diverse, secondary rainforests typically have a greater representation of non-native species. This devolution continues until most of the primary and secondary rainforest has been completely displaced by a Rainforest Cafe. On the plus side, they make delicious coconut prawns and there is plenty of level parking.

I decided to explore this bastion of unspoiled wilderness before it was gone for good. My specific destination: Corcovado National Park. As is often the case, the journey is half the trip. Getting to the Osa from Denver takes two full days of travel, and I was going it alone. After landing in San Jose the passengers deplaned directly onto the tarmac. The humidity hit me in the face like a wet mop, and my clothes were soon drenched in sweat. My pores opened up so wide that a small bird flew out of my beard. God knows how long he had been in there, but at least now I know why I always wake up with the taste of eggs in my mouth. I spent the night in an unremarkable pension in a small town on the outskirts of the city.

Those who know me best are aware that I have a slight phobia when it comes to flying. I get anxious, my palms get sweaty, and my stomach knots up. It is not so much a fear of flying as a fear of plummeting into the ground and exploding in a ball of fire. This is second only to my fear of demonically possessed sock puppets stealing my soul. Common phobias, both. My aviation fear developed during a particularly harrowing flight through a thunderstorm in Florida, and was subsequently reinforced by inadvisable viewings of Castaway, Alive and Fearless. I've tried drugs but they don't really work. Then again, maybe I should actually try them on days when I travel. I share all of this because when I awoke the next morning I had to head back to the airport to confront my nemesis: the small, ten-seat prop plane that was going to deliver me either to the Osa Peninsula or the Gates of Hell (editor's note: the temperature is roughly the same).

I examined the Cessna for defects as I walked along the tarmac towards my destiny. Fate silently whispered in my ear that there were approximately 1,436 fixed-wing aviation accidents last year. I punched fate in the face and got on the plane, crouching low to get to my seat. The co-pilot sealed the door as the captain started the engines. The propeller loudly whirled to life, and the cabin shuddered along with my spine. A large moth fluttered around the pilot's head. He batted at it with a free hand while simultaneously twisting the dials, pushing the buttons and tightening the knobs that presumably prevent the plane from falling apart after take-off. Call it Costa Rican multitasking. Soon everyone on the plane was taking a whack at the moth as it fluttered its way around the cabin. The little bugger eventually alighted on the windshield, where the co-pilot smashed him with his flight log. Great. Now I had to worry that a crushed moth leg, perfectly mimicking the number seven, would inadvertently alter our proposed trajectory. Naturally, this would send us plummeting in a ball of flame directly into the Pacific. The pilot gunned the engine and we started rolling forward, quickly picking up speed as we raced down the runway. The gravity generator failed. We met the clouds head on.

An amazing thing happened once we took to the skies. I don't know whether it was the fact that you could easily peer out of both sides of the airplane, or that I could clearly see that the pilots weren't panicking and screaming Maydayat the control tower, but I actually enjoyed the flight. It was smooth and the view was to die for. This turned out to be an ironic thought. As we closed in on our destination I spied a curious sight that I was sure I was imagining. The plane gently glided in before crunching loudly on the gravel runway. We rumbled along the gravel past tall green grass, the cabin rattling madly, before coming to a stop in front of my unlikely vision. The landing strip at Puerto Jimenez borders a large cemetery. Creepy. Maybe punching Fate in the face wasn't the best idea after all.