The Adventurer's Son(59)
I wasn’t ready to go that way yet. Given the maze of Las Quebraditas and the subtleties of its trails, it seemed unlikely Roman would have made it through this keyhole leading off the summit plateau and down to the Pacific. I studied my topo map. At the top of the Osa, Mount Mueller forms the center of a five-pointed star with each vertex pointing to a different drainage: three to the Pacific and two to Golfo Dulce.
I asked Vargas to take us directly down to a tributary of the Piedras Blancas arm of the Rio Tigre and back to Dos Brazos where we had started, closing a big loop. The steeper terrain and thinner vegetation would naturally draw a hiker in that direction. If Roman had followed the line of least resistance from Zeledón, then east-west-trending canyons would have funneled him toward Las Quebraditas.
Relying on intuition and compass bearing alone, and given his experiences in El Petén, Roman would have balked at pushing through Las Quebraditas’ confusing landscape. It seemed more prudent to search closer to Zeledón Creek, where Roman was last seen, than here on the far side of a maze.
Dropping off Mount Mueller’s slopes there were no human, no tapir, no peccary trails. Just raw jungle travel. Even Vargas hesitated. He was tense off-trail, haunted perhaps by the memory of the bushmaster that bit and killed his brother on the spot. The bushmaster is not only the longest poisonous snake in the Americas, but also its most aggressive. Once agitated, it rarely backs down.
Vargas plunge-stepped down the steep slope of mud. It was hard to keep up, even while he sliced the herbaceous growth with his machete as he bushwhacked off-trail. The blade let out a reassuring tzing, tzing, tzing that left a path clear of snakes and a trail of fresh green leaves to follow should we need to retrace our steps, like Roman had in El Petén.
Midway down, a series of waterfall drops forced us to lower our packs to each other. The exposure here emphasized how readily Roman could have been injured had he slipped into a steep gorge or canyon, like those in the Negritos below Zeledón. I vowed to return to Zeledón and search Negritos’s canyon with ropes and climbing equipment.
The travel was difficult, not physically but emotionally, especially when calling his name. My grief painted the jungle black, but the heart of the Osa’s wilderness still left me awed. Every neon-colored dart frog, every emerald green bird, every fascinating jewel of the jungle that we passed left me with a pang of regret and sadness, remembering how our family had thrilled together at rainforest wonders. Those vivid memories grimly reminded me of why I was here. They left my eyes watery, my heart heavy.
But I couldn’t shut out forever the joy in seeing a kingfisher’s blue flash or a spider monkey’s graceful swing. To ignore those pleasures devalued our lifetimes shared in places like this where we marveled at nature’s creations. Sometime on the third day, I could again see rainforest colors and delight in the flight of a basilisk across a stream or the primeval look of a motmot in bamboo.
After we made our way back to the network of miner trails, Jefe killed a small fer-de-lance at an abandoned miner’s camp. Young poisonous snakes are the most dangerous. In their youthful inexperience, they have not yet learned to regulate their venom’s delivery, often over-envenomating in self-defense. A sixteen-inch juvenile can readily kill a man.
Soon after, Thai stepped over a log where, unknown to him, an olive-green eyelash viper was coiled for a strike only inches from his femoral artery. He could just as easily have put his hand on the snake, or swung his leg over and sat on it.
Thai was five strides ahead of me when I called out to him, “Hey, Thai! You just about got bit by a viper coiled on this log!” I held out the little green serpent, its prehensile tail wrapped tight around my trekking pole.
Thai just flashed that world-wise smile, shook his head a few times in disbelief, then turned and hurried through the heat back to town where the Cruz Roja was closing down the official search for Roman.
Chapter 31
Negritos
Steve Fassbinder rappeling a Negritos waterfall, August 11, 2014.
Courtesy of the author
The official search was over. Weary Cruz Roja volunteers headed home to their jobs. In a meeting, Dondee reminded Thai and me that my son had planned to enter the park illegally, that searches for illegals were difficult to approve in the first place, and that an exception had been made for him. Resources needed for other searches had been consumed here. Cruz Roja and MINAE would not resume their search without hard evidence.
Dondee also discouraged any offer of a reward, bringing to mind the painful story of David Gimelfarb. In 2013, four years after he had disappeared, his parents received several phone calls. The caller claimed a drug cartel held their son hostage. For twice the reward offer, the caller would reveal their son’s location. FBI investigators know that Latin American criminals take advantage of families of missing persons and dismissed the call as a scam. There was little chance anyone would hold a hostage so long before asking for ransom.
The same day Dondee said was Cruz Roja’s last, Thai went home to his wife and infant daughter, leaving me depressed and alone. Sitting at the Iguana Lodge with my hands tied, knowing every day counted more than the last, I sobbed briefly, as I did every day during private moments. I quickly choked back to regain control. Guilt followed.
What kind of father have I really been?
Parents aren’t supposed to pass out pills, smoke dope, or drink booze with their kids, and we never did. Instead, we bought them airplane tickets to exotic lands. Travel itself can be an addiction. Adventure is. Here I was, searching for Roman missing on a trip that traced directly back to me. I had not simply introduced him to international travel and the risks of wilderness adventure. I had included him, again and again, to the point that a large part of our relationship—his very name—was built on experiences like his illegal bushwhack into Corcovado.