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Published: February 14th 2011
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Cerro Chato
The "Mogul track" “This hike is very difficult” says the ticket selling guy. “That’s ok” I reply, grinning to myself, confident the hike to Cerro Chato will be no match. The information leaflet says that the hike is suitable for people from the ages 8 to 65. I’m right in the middle, so this should be a walk in the park. I’m given a simple, possibly hand-drawn map. It’s not quite clear where the train begins, but using the elimination method to rule out other potential entrances, soon I’m on my way.
Cerro Chato is a volcano, literally in the shadow of the more famous Arenal volcano in central Costa Rica. It’s been inactive for a few thousand years, and the crater has formed a little lagoon. Reaching that little lagoon seems like a nice afternoon outing.
The first part of the trail leads through hilly green pastureland. It’s fairly steep, but the path is wide and smooth. Cows line up to observe the intruder. With a dull look they seem to come to the conclusion that I’m not grass, and return to their chewing.
After the initial smooth walk, the path turns into what can best be described as a
Cerro Chato
View over the valley mogul skiing track. But instead of snow, it’s mud and grass covering the mounds. It’s slippery and dirty, and on top of it all the trail is getting steeper. After a combined climbing, hiking, and sliding effort, I reach the top of this dirt-track. I turn around, and the view over the valley is quite astonishing. As if the weather can’t decide whether to rain or shine, creating extraordinary illuminable effects over the landscape.
Turning around again I’m facing a barrier of tall trees. There is a small opening in this wall, and the trail continues. Entering that hole I exit the open fields and crossing into the jungle. What was before mostly hiking, now becomes mostly climbing. Whoever created this trail did not bother removing any natural obstacles in the shape of rocks and roots. At this angle – some 45 degrees? – every little branch or stone becomes either a great extra handle or footstep, or a major hindrance. Every five minutes I have to lean forward and rest against my knees, panting for air. But, being the stubborn f**k that I am, I’m determined to see that bloody lagoon.
It starts to rain. Not the drizzling kind, but the pouring type. I’m debating whether I should try to seek cover and wait it out, or continue. Within a minute of indecision I’m soaked, so it doesn’t matter much. I continue. Ah, so this is why they call it the rainforest. None of that where I’m from.
After some serious trekking slash climbing, the path flattens out, and finally I have reached the top. There’s only a little glade with a bench and a wooden sign. The wooden sign pointing downwards is saying “Lagoon 120 meters”. So almost there. A 100 meters and some change, and downhill. Just show me that bloody lagoon.
I hear voices, and it suddenly occurs to me that these are the first people I’ve heard so far. If something happens up here, no one will hear you scream. A sprained ankle or a broken arm, and you’d be royally screwed. About halfway down to the crater I meet them. Judging by their accents, one Australian girl, one English guy, and one American guy. Interesting mix, curious how this constellation formed. They tell me “almost there, it’s right there”. I reply “this better be good”. The girl says “that’s what we said as well”. I’m not quite sure what she means, but I’m about to find out.
At the bottom there certainly is a lagoon. The fog is very dense though, and the visibility is only a few meters. Water, then fog, then nothing. The perfect setting for a horror movie, but not exactly a photo op. I’m too exhausted to take out my camera anyway. This one is not about the scenery. It’s turned into a feat of pushing myself to the limit. A moment of satisfaction and pride to heave reached that bloody lagoon. But there is also the return trip.
The small stretch from the glade to the lagoon is even steeper than the rest of the hike. With my fatigued body, it requires some serious acrobatic moves and feats of strength to get back up. Once back at the glade, it’s downhill. Although undoubtedly less exhausting than the uphill trek, it’s not the kind of downhill where you can let gravity do the job. The rain has turned the soil into mud, and every step over the obstacles has to be carefully carried out.
At this point I’m wet to the bone, and covered in mud. I reach out for some leaves to wipe my hands. I withdraw my hands quickly when I realize that my floristic knowledge is practically non-existent, particularly on the topic on tropical plants. Seems like a bad idea risking to rub my hands in poison ivy or some other plants that make your skin go funny. The guidebook also warned for snakes. I’m thinking snakes are the last of my problems right now.
I finally reach the open fields, and enter the mogul track. With snow and skis I would probably know what to do.. As of now, the aim must be to get down without getting injured and trying not to fall in the mud. Walking, jumping, and sliding, I try to apply the slalom technique, going zigzag from side to side instead of straight down. It works to some extent, but I still slip a few times and add a layer of mud to my body each time.
I actually do see a snake on the way down. It’s lying across the patch, catching the last rays of sun for the day. It looks quite pissed off when it has to move to the side as I come trampling down.
I finally reach the end of the trail and the car. Completely exhausted, soaked and dirty as few, but with a great satisfaction of having survived the extreme workout, and actually see the bloody lagoon. The guy was certainly not kidding when he said it would be a difficult hike.
The next day I meet an American family who they tell me they will do the same hike. They don’t quite have the athletic appearance, so I warn them that it’s quite a feat. Thinking I know the answer already, but I will always be curious if they ever saw the bloody lagoon.
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