Some said it could not be done, really, most said it could not be done. The park ranger scoffed, and gave some bogus account and psuedo terrifying story of rain, darkness, hunger and jaguars. Our host, the caretaker of the secret garden (Jardin Secreto), was also incredulous. Needless to say, after much encouragement from our friend (Kristin Fischer, aka KFi), as well as some tasty tidbits of knowledge from a Texas native english teacher, Jennifer (who told us that the annual race up and down Chirripo had a record time of 3 hrs and 20 minutes, much encouragement), we decided, that a one day peak and return was in fact, a good idea.
A late start (getting on the road, 2.5 k from the trailhead at around 6.20) was prompted by our burial in the valley, the sun had just broken the crest of the ridge as we shouldered our minimal gear (some water, some clothes, some tortillas, a tin of cherry wood smoked oyster, and a packet of walnuts) and proceeded on a brisk pace, summit bound. While I´ll leave the full accounting of the trek for a later date, let us suffice to say that at around 6.30 in the pm, a succesful summit attempt behind us (albeit in about 20 ft of visibility due to thorough ensconscement in water vapour), the light quickly fading we were still 10.5 k from home (a good 8 k from the trailhead). In our defense (maybe) we did have on lost (and found) backpack adventure about 2 k from the summit (during which I took a good 45 minute nap, waking up with a serious headache and feeling cold), and our headlamp had, sadly, been left at home. A stumbling kilometer from (7k to 6k) led us through near blackness to the realization that my camera´s LED light (for illuminating macro pictures) may have enough zing to light the way. A handheld bubble of light led us the rest of the way down to about half a klick from the trailhead, where our valiant source of illumination was finally exhausted. A stump and scuttlebut later (with no serious injuries), we limped into town to be greated by a local named Casper, who spoke a decent street english, fed us shots of Kosako vodka and arranged for his friend Luis, the owner of the Rockadura restaurant and hostel, to sell us a few beers "for the road." A bowl of granola and a hot shower later, we passed into darkness to awake at the crack of dawn to pack our limited luggage and catch the bus to San Isidro. While a full accounting of the vagaries of the Tiko travel system is beyond the scope of this narrative (at this time), it will suffice to say that Dave made his 2.30 flight back to Atlanta, and I am safe and sound in San Jose, at a friend named Marcos´ house, learning about freebording (check it out) and plotting good plans for the future.
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