At this point in the trip, I smell unmistakably like a peccary and resemble a rain-soaked three-toed sloth (the grayer and more dirtier looking ones). We’re two thirds of the way through our Costa Rican adventure, and I’m honestly not sure how that happened. Time moves differently out here. One moment you’re stepping off the bus with clean socks and optimism, and the next you’re ankle-deep in mud, chasing a bird call before breakfast, wondering what day it is and when you last felt dry.
We kicked off this new phase of the trip with a visit to a banana and pineapple farm. If I had to summarize that day, it would be a blend of piña coladas, pineapple facts, and a slightly traumatic cheesecake. After learning that Costa Rica is the second-largest pineapple producer in the world and that 75 percent of the world’s pineapples come from here, I will never look at the fruit the same again. Apparently, the best ones are heavy, green, symmetrical, and have no smell. Good to know for future grocery store flexing. After our farm tour, we were greeted with fresh piña coladas. Then we headed into town, where I forgot my wallet and couldn’t buy anything, though I did watch someone casually adopt a stray kitten on the spot. Later that night, I taught Kamryn how to play Rummy while we all shared a dessert that claimed to be cheesecake but tasted more like flan with jam. Honestly, the whole day felt like a fever dream curated by a tropical travel blogger with a chaotic sense of humor.
At the banana farm, I expected a standard agricultural tour. What I got instead was a masterclass in resilience and ingenuity. Franchini, the woman who owns the farm, walked us through her garden, her processing area, and even her home. She showed us the banana dehydrators she bought through grants and explained how she built her own brand, Uka, using those dried slices. Her honey, harvested from stingless bees, was the kind of product you expect to see in a high-end boutique, not tucked away in a rural corner of Costa Rica. Listening to her speak, it hit me how often we underestimate the scale of someone’s impact. What she’s built isn’t just a business, it’s an ecosystem of care, creativity, and survival.
Then came the waterfall.
We descended over 500 steps to reach the base of La Fortuna. Somewhere around step 317, I realized my shoes were completely soaked, I had no socks, and my calves were already writing their resignation letter. But when we finally reached the bottom, the view made it all worth it. Towering cliffs covered in moss. A roar so loud it drowned out everything. And there, in the middle of it all, was the waterfall, crashing down with the kind of force that makes your thoughts feel small. Standing there, I didn’t feel overwhelmed. I felt right-sized. Like the world had gently reminded me of my place in it, and it wasn’t at the center.
Dr. Libby encouraged us to close our eyes and just listen. At first all I heard was water. Then I started to notice the layers beneath it: insects, leaves rustling, a distant bird. It was subtle, but once you tuned in, it felt like the forest was telling its own story. You just had to stop talking long enough to hear it.
Monteverde brought that feeling into sharper focus. The cloud forest doesn’t demand your attention. It waits. The trees don’t shout their age, but you feel it when you stand beneath them. Fog slides between the branches, not hurried or dramatic, but steady and quiet. On a morning hike, we spotted a resplendent quetzal. Even Dr. Wasserman, was stunned as it was only the second time he’d ever seen one. Its feathers looked unreal, like something painted with jewel tones.
Later that day, we learned about pumas and how their behavior toward humans is starting to shift. Scientists say it takes about five generations for them to change their perception of us. That fact sat with me. It made me wonder how long it takes us to shift our own views, of people, of places, of ourselves.
Perspective doesn’t change all at once. It creeps in, quietly. One moment you’re focused on how tired your legs are. The next, you’re staring at a centuries-old tree, realizing how little your worries matter in the grand scheme of things. In the forest, you’re reminded that you’re temporary. And strangely, that thought is comforting. There’s something beautiful about not being the center of the universe. It takes the pressure off.
Of course, this trip hasn’t just been epiphanies and poetic nature walks. There’s been plenty of chaos too. Marcelina had to crawl across a balcony to get back into her room after her keycard failed. I walked back to the bus after a waterfall swim wearing soaked sneakers and missing some pretty important pieces of clothing. And I definitely misread the currency at a souvenir shop, thought I got scammed, then realized I actually made money on the deal after realizing how I thought “” meant 20… (I need to practice my Spanish).
But even those moments fit the theme. We are not here to control the experience. We are here to experience it. All of it. The awe, the beauty, the embarrassment, the sore legs, the laughs. And maybe that’s the bigger lesson in all of this. We are not the main characters in nature’s story. We are lucky guest stars at best.
So here’s what I’ll take with me. When the world starts feeling too loud or too fast, I’ll remember the quiet hum of the forest. The layers of sound that only appear when you stop trying to narrate every moment. The waterfall that didn’t need an audience to be powerful. The bees, the birds, the trees, all existing perfectly without my input.
Nature doesn’t need to shout. It whispers. And if you’re lucky enough to hear it, you might just come away with a different view of the world, and your place in it.
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