The Last Can of Beans
Crossing the Isthmus
A Walk on the Edge
A Place Cortez Missed

The quest for adventure can spawn some really hair-brained ideas. My plan began innocently enough, conceived in the boredom of an international scientific meeting.

Generally speaking, the quest for scientific truth and the exchange of ideas is exhilarating for me. I've never been bored, and am usually inspired when I can fit meetings into the labors of living. This meeting was special. To begin with, the seminal scientific body of the United States, the Smithsonian Institute, sponsored it. What haughty scientist and indeed, lay thinker would not be impressed by the omnipotence of the
Smithsonian? Then too, the international meeting was to be held for the first time in the Western Hemisphere, in Panama! Panama and the intrigue of the tropics was irresistible. The Smithsonian administers the island laboratory Barro Colorado, in Gatun Lake isolated in the Panama Canal. This is a Mecca for ecologists. The opportunities for adventure were uncountable and intoxicating. Having been invited to deliver a paper on some research I had recently completed, incrementally added to my excitement, helping to drain my brain of reason and set into motion events and adventure that would occupy me for the next two years.

Manuscripts ready, photographs in order, tickets in hand, and my bags packed, I was ready for all the adventure of the tropics and more. And, let me tell you, the Smithsonian is no slouch at organization! We had expected to grab a taxi and find our way to a hotel. My wife and I moved quickly through the Panamanian Customs, the knots and cues of visitors, and as we began our exit I looked up to see this attractive Panamanian woman holding a sign. The sign caught my attention immediately, not because of its color, or the size, the tasteful way she held it, or the smile on her face, but because of what it said. In very neat block letters, black on a yellow board and hand painted, it said, "Dr. William Fox Party." Ratchet up the excitement a couple of more notches! By now my cerebral spring was wound so tight, all reason make a quick exit, and the numbness that was previously my brain could not make the connection between my lips and my frontal lobe. The Greeter must have sensed that I was one of the visiting scientists, though my face was probably more suggestive of a visiting moron. When the wheels finally began to turn and the lip and lobe gears meshed, incredulity overwhelmed all reasonable alternatives. Obviously, this woman can't be here for ME, there must be another Dr. Fox, why would there be someone holding a sign with MY name on it. And then she spoke: " are you Dr. Fox?" Well, let me tell you, I did want to say "yes", but those aforementioned gears were jammed again. Before the synchrony of mind and matter could once again find harmony, before the blank look could fade, before the recognition of my given name could recognize itself, she said, "I'm from the Smithsonian." My wife saved the moment, she said, "Hi." I snapped my head in her direction to the right. Smithsonian replied, " Would you come with me." My head snapped in her direction to the left. My wife grabbed a bag exclaiming, "Sure." My head snapped back right. As I messaged the pain in my neck, I saw them negotiating the crowd to an exit. I grabbed our bags to hurry after them thinking, " well, my wife doesn't have the pressure of being the intellectual here!"

Like I said, the Smithsonian is well organized. When we arrived at the conference the next day, all were informed that the booths and personnel in the foyer were there to accommodate all of us. If we had any desire for adventure, or sightseeing, they would assist us. It did not take long to realize that this odd collection of scientists from around the globe were just that, an amalgamation of Arachnologists whose names were well known to this eclectic assemblage. Names familiar to me from my research, but unknown to the rest of the world, they were as boring as dirt. But the Smithsonian people were just delightful. We began to ask questions and realized that the opportunity for adventure was at our fingertips. All we had to do was ask, and the Smithsonian would provide. We began the scientific meetings with the usual announcements, the agenda, the opportunities, and the lunches and dinner schedules. We lasted thru the first half of the first day. Scheduling our adventure became priority, not some discussion about the manner of a spider's fang and pedipalp articulation, or the number of bristles between the scorpions forth and fifth carpal segments. You get the picture? We still had to be on hand for the dining opportunities and the field trips, but the lectures suddenly became a distant relic and of absolutely no priority, including my own research. We were to meet with Armundo the next day, and Rafuio the day following. In the interim, we could take the Ferrocarril, their train, to some point in the jungle and catch a boat to Barro Colorado, the island laboratory administered by the Smithsonian. These became priority one.

A field trip along the Las Cruses Trail was to be our first adventure. We jumped into the Land Cruiser with the other scientists, and drove into the jungle. As they explained it, the Las Cruces Trail was the jungle trail placed by Cortez as a set of stone crosses set on the jungle floor from the Atlantic to the Pacific. They were placed every so many meters, to mark the path that otherwise would be obliterated by the rapidly growing jungle. Let in a shaft of sunlight and you have instant foliage. Cautions were given regarding the entomofauna that we might encounter, most of which would sting the be-jesus out of you, and the uncertain ground, moist and moss covered that would leave you setting on your butt if you were not careful. As we walked it was difficult to pay attention to your footing, to photograph, and to avoid overhanging vegetation intended to decapitate you. But, it was adventure! The aroma of the moist forest, colorful butterflies, the jungle sounds, the occasional monkey, were all exhilarating. Then, we crossed this wooden bridge. A bridge in the jungle affords an opportunity to see so much, it is one of the few places that you are not overwhelmed by plant growth. So, you pause, you photograph, and you drink in the natural beauty. Then, you realize that in your pause, you have become host to about several thousand tiny shiny black bees climbing up your legs, covering your clothing, and probably about to make your day not quite complete. Emerging from a crack in the boards of the bridge, you paused at just the right place, for just enough time to accommodate these little shinny black buggars to overwhelm your presence. Stomping your feet wildly, dancing like you are on fire, you resist screaming lest you attract more attention than you already have. Your day in the jungle would not be complete if you did not have this experience. Fortunately, you later learn that these bees are a stingless variety. Most of the hymenoptera that you will encounter are very well equipped to defend themselves in the usual manner of bees and wasps. But not these, they pester you by crawling into every available orifice, your ears, your eyes, your mouth making you quite uncomfortable.

We move down into the jungle, along a creek meandering through the dense vegetation. Little eddies and pools form here and there. As a trained Field Ecologist, your eyes are always alert for some anomalous feature. In one shallow pool I saw a spherical object that was truly an anomaly. About the size of softball, I picked it from the water. Rubbing it gently, the latterite, or jungle mud began to dissolve and reveal an object. It was a burial jauca, no doubt pre-Columbian, meaning that it dated before Columbus' 1492 discovery of the New World. If you were not previously excited by the jungle, the butterflies, the monkeys, the damp air, or the amalgam of it all, well you were now excited in ways difficult to describe. You could go home right then, and figure that your quest for adventure was complete. We had permission, indeed papers to collect and export invertebrates from Panama. But a pre-Columbian jauca, that would be a different story. The larceny in all of us takes on a new perspective. Is the jauca rare, is it unique, should I report it, should I relinquish it? These are the questions that plague your mind and give new meaning to your adventure.

Later we met with Armundo and told him of our desire for something unusual, something different in the way of adventure. He advised that he could arrange almost anything we desired. Thus began our planning a trip to Bocete the year following, to trek the isthumuson foot. So many arrangements, so many connections, but we had the Smithsonian to assist us!

We met with Rafuio as scheduled and told him of our desire to see some of the indigenous people of the jungle and to spend some time camping in the jungle. He said no problem, when would we like to leave and how long would we like to stay? As it happened, he would pick us up the day following. The science meeting would just have to take a back seat to our adventure. Tomorrow we would be off to the South along the Pan American highway toward Columbia, the Darien as he called it. Driving for hours and hours, first on pavement, until that ended, and then on a cut dirt road through the Darien. We crossed bridge after bridge, hundreds of miles south, seeing sight after sight. At one point we came into this logging operation. I had read about the timber cutting and deforestation in the jungles, now I was watching it first hand. These foresters were attempting to load a log of considerable dimension onto a broken down truck. The loader was a tractor with a bucket that was just not big enough, nor powerful enough to handle this log. Blowing black diesel smoke, revving to maximum RPM, groaning at the load, they managed to secure this valuable tropical hardwood log onto that poor truck. Slowing the Cruiser to take in this sight, the hills on both sides of the road were nude of forest. All that remained were brush and discontinuity. Finally, we crossed a bridge and exited onto a muddy path, to the right of the Pan American highway at what I later learned was the Etebe River.

Driving about five miles in, we came to a village of stilted huts. A few people were wandering about, mostly women and children. Immediately, you are struck to see these beautiful people because the ladies wear only a colorful skirt wrap about their waste, and the men prefer just a loin cloth. They are of the Choco tribe indigenous to Panama's jungle. We are not far from Columbia, smack in the middle of the Darien. Here is the beginning of the adventure we sought!

Driving to the middle of about 15 huts, we came to a stop at one "residence". These huts are constructed of local vegetation, stilted about five feet in the air, with a log notched with footholds that you must negotiate as the entrance. There are no walls, no room divides, no toilets, no bathing facilities, just the bare accommodation that they have constructed as there living quarters. The excitement is overwhelming. You want adventure, well here it is. We are introduced to the residence of the house, save for the husband; he is off "working". I later learn the "working" means cutting timber. This is a rather large hut, as compared to others in the village, built with guests in mind. Apparently, Rafuio has used this accommodation previously, and they are accustomed to his sudden appearance. He shows us where we can suspend our hammocks, lay our bedding, etc. The toilet accommodations are another situation. We were shown a structure, log-walled on three sides, with a hole in the ground. This is the "guest" toilet; the locals' just use the jungle. There are "tables" and chairs in the hut, for our accommodation. The Choco don't waste resources on such trivia. The kitchen was unique for us. In another adjoining hut, separated by about two feet, a good step, was the kitchen. The stove was a pile of dirt with three large hewn logs, about three feet in length, they're upon. The cooking fire burns constantly, fanned to bring it to cooking temperature. The logs last about five days. A pot is supported by the logs, which, in turn provided the cooking flame. They use a lot of oil, and apparently, as an indication of there wealth, they hang the empty oil bottles from the eves of the hut. I watched our host cook fish, bread, and vegetables in this pot, modifying the contents and flame to accommodate her needs. I was most impressed when watching her third of four children consume a small fish, one evening. The fish was, or was related to a common aquarium fish called the Plecostomus or "algae eater." I saw the men fishing for these in the river. They had a metal road, perhaps 1/8" in diameter, and about four feet long. Sharpened on one end they would swim in the river with a face mask, and seeing this fish clung to a rock, impale it, threading the fish up the rod one at a time. He had about ten fish on the rod at once. It was barely big enough to hold, and full of bones. The boy held the fish, and nibbled and sucked the cooked flesh from the body with his lips. No utensils, no plate, and none needed. On another occasion, she made dough and fried bread in the oil. The pile of cooked cakes looked delicious, but I couldn't ask her to share the family food with me.

One afternoon, as we walked about the Village, we came to one hut that had meat hanging from strings. I inquired as to the ‘Kind’ only to be discouraged by our language barrier, and difficulty to communicate. But, then they handed me a hoved leg that I immedately recognized as a tapier, or ‘macho de monti' to them. They had killed, fileted, and were drying the meat of this large jungle inhabitant. What was remarkable to me, was that we list this animal as a ‘rare and endangered species’. To the Choco it was just food.

They also had these ‘ears’ of corn, or so they appeared, but were really corn husks, packed with a sweet corn meal mush, a kind of billet of corn. They were tied then steamed to cook the mush. It was very much like Masa Harina, only sweeter. They gave each of us a billet, and as protocol requires, you must consume it in it’s entirety! The corn billets were so big, and you had to wonder if every bite is one step closer to death, or some tropical parasite! We thanked them for their generosity and moved on!

To feed us, Rafuio brought most of our supplies from the city. He did purchase some meat one afternoon. One of the men returned home one evening with an animal that, with very little bidding Rafuio purchased. I recognized it as an agouti, but different than the ones I had been familiar with. Its coat was spotted, thus they called it Conejo Pintado, translated as "spotted rabbit." Rafuio barbequed the agouti and it was juicy and tender, much like a good pork chop. There were four of us and we had two good meals from that one animal.

One morning I woke up early, wife still in her hammock, but our host already up and cooking. It was early, and I watched the sun rise over the jungle canopy. There was a mist clinging in the air, and the mood was magical. It was as if the mist was stuck to the trees, filtering the morning light in quiet solitude. It was beautiful beyond description, a symphony for the eyes, and the jungle aromas just added to the magic. It was one of those memories that stay with you a lifetime, incomparable in a life of experiences.

We decided to take a float trip down the Etebe River. Rafuio secured a dugout canoe for us, and off we went. This is when I encountered the men fishing for the algae-eaters that they dined on. Here, also I observed a young man, boy really, panning for gold on the river. His technique was a bit primitive, but effective. Some years earlier, I had made a suction dredge and went seeking gold on the Yuba River in Northern California. So I knew a little about gold panning. The boy would shovel several loads of gravel from the bank into his homemade gold pan, and fill it with water, sluice it about quickly, push out the large rocks, then pan vigorously. When he got down to black sand, I motioned to look, and there in the wet trail of the black iron were the tiniest flecks of gold. Several pans of this would quickly yield an ounce. No wonder Cortez and the rest of the invaders were so enamored of this area and strove to concur it. What the Choco could do with a suction dredge would boggle the mind! I momentarily got "gold fever," realizing the potential for wealth. One could never accomplish such a feat however, the Choco knew the potential, had a history of being robbed, and would surly shoot anyone who tried to take their legacy. We continued down the river, dreams of huge gold profits filling the mind, and realizing that being shot was not worth any amount of gold.

The river was slow and gentle, and the view just grand. Like any tropical region however, the reason for the green soon became evident, it began to rain. You should never visit the tropics unless you plan on, no, expect the rain. You must be prepared for rain because that is what makes it so green, a green that is complex, complex, because of the layers and tones of green that overwhelm you. I once opined that humans must have a gene for green. I was just kidding, but we are soothed by green, calmed by it, enamored by it. This is a color that dominates the planet, clearly defines our home. We measure the quality of life by the green of the planet. We recognize that the health of the planet is really how green it is.

We would return the following year, rent a car and drive to Bocete in the mountains. This is where the gentry of Panama go for their vacation get away! Bocete is a small town in the mountains with interesting character. The altitude keeps it cool, a comfortable respite from the steamy atmosphere of tropical Panama! As it happens we arrived on a Saturday, “market day” for this area Like our “Farmers Market”, they have their own local variety, interesting in its assemblage of produce and crafts. People gather from the mountains each Saturday, to sell their wares. But their market is different in it’s assemblage of offerings. Unlike Ojai’s Farmers Market, not just oranges and lemons were for sale, but they had tethered monkeys, and caged song birds captured from the jungle for sale!

If you have ever been to an open-air market in any less developed corner of the world, then you know the scene. Food, often unfamiliar to you, stacked usually in neat rows or piles, produce hanging from overhead, or some dark room with cans in neat rows that are familiar in appearance, but written in language often barely recognizable to you. While your imagination scrolls seeking an explanation, your eyes survey for clues. There is a shop you want to try, but the entry is usually too small to begin with, often with only a narrow door that would not pass inspection were even the most generous codes influenced the architecture. Or, more often, a roughly constructed flap of uneven boards, or a rusty corrugated tin flap or warn cloth and cardboard, all held together with twine and a promise, hanging and hinged with a couple of bent rusty nails, certain to fail should you move closer beneath the contraption. You realize that their carpenter must be the fellow in town that owns a hammer, his only requisite to be a carpenter. Boldly, you step forward, peering into the darkness. Greeted by disarming politeness, your mind races to find an appropriate reply while your eyes take there sweet time to adapt to the unlit interior. In the full knowledge that your guilelessness is written all across your face, wondering if the proprietor has caught on to tour obvious stupidity, you look to see if this is the correct establishment, or if there is another market to better serve your needs. Scanning the street, eyes in and out of the brightness, blinded by the constant accommodation between the dark interior and the bright sun, your face reveals your uncertainty, your mind says, "how could you be so stupid, this can't be the market". As a man of letters, a first-world resident, a visitor to this forsaken place, never really challenged by your surroundings, the situation does not give you a since of comfort. That is putting it lightly!

With the convenience of a car, we motored out of the market area, along a dirt road to no where in particular. Upon coming to a bridge across a stream of water, we stopped. This creek was an “attractive nuisance” to this biologist, an irresistable lure to my senses! I scrambled down to the water to encounter a large Ranid, as big as the Bull Frogs we have at home.In time and with investigation, I also discovered many bight yellow, black striped Arrow Poison Frogs of the genus Attalopis. Striking against the back-drop of the vibrant green vegetation, I crabbed them too! It was much later upon arriving at home, that it discovered that they were the “Golden Frogs of Elviye, and I had three of them! They have a very limited home range. just a few square miles of the Panamania Jungle, and I had stumbled onto their range! We stopped along this dirt road several times. The tropical butterflies were so numerous and so exotic that I just had to collect them too!

Arriving at the Hotel Las Flores, where accomodations had been arranged for us, we met the propritors. It was no coincedence that they had traversed the Isthmus in a vehicle several years previous. Armando had chosen this hotel for us because they might be of assistance in our desire to cross Panama on foot, like the post-Clumbus Spanish before us. Armundo had also arranged a guide for us, Benjamin, a Choco Indian forester who had made the crossing before. So began the real adventure. Everything the previous year would pale in comparison to this crazy undertaking!

We had driven along the Pacific Ocean from Panama City into the mountains to Bocete. Now, from Bocete we were taken to a place in the mountains alongside a dire road, where we would start our trek. Along with my wife Sally, I brought my two sons, Mike, the oldest, just seventeen, and my youngest Joel, now eleven. Both were experienced hikers, on one occasion they had walked with me up Mount Lassen, when Joel was just six.

Our packs organized and full, off we went! At first, there was no trail, just a direction. From the Pacific you head east to the Atlantic! In time we came across a cut that was in the general direction of our destination, but free of jungle vegetation. I was to discover later that this cut was to bury a meter diameter pipe that flowed oil from the Atlantic to the Pacific, thus avoiding the uncertainties of the Panama Canal. Our President Carter had promised to give the Canal back to Panama, but not before establishing a secure separate transport for petroleum. We were on this pipeline cut! The first night we came to a local families homestead. Apparently, in Panama you can own any amount of jungle that you can clear. So, here we were on this families plot. They had sugar cane, coffee, and vegetables planted. The wife hid from us at first, peering from a darken room adjacent to the main living quarters, with several children. The older child, perhaps seven or eight years, took some roasted coffee beans and ground them in a hand-cranked tool. Then his wife came of hiding, and fanned up a fire to boil water, and dumped the ground beans into the hot water. After a few minutes she presented me with a cup of the most delicious coffee I can remember. They also had a cow, which they milked. From this she made a small batch of cheese. This was their protein and very little of it, so I was surprised when she divided it up a gave it to us! Their generosity was overwhelming, and I felt uncomfortable taking their food. Besides the Cow they had chickens (eggs!) and a pet dog with a litter of pups. As the evening grew on, it became quite chilly, and the pups began to wander about. I watch one find its way to the coals of an earlier fire, and lay down on this warm place. That is, until the still burning coals began to burn it! The following morning we bathed in the near by creek, brushed our teeth, etc., and were off. This warm, congenial family was a wonderful beginning to our adventure, something we had not anticipated.

After two days, we were off the cut and into the verdin jungle. Up one mountain ridge and down another, the spine of mountains that link North America to South America, the isthmus of Panama was our destination! At one point, at approximately 11,000 feet in elevation, it began to rain. Not like any rain I had ever experienced, more like standing in a shower with my backpack on! Everything was wet! My precious cameras, despite being in plastic bags, were wet, destroying the electronics of one. It rained non-stop for the next three days. On the third day we walked for fifteen hours, descending in elevation, but losing the trail! Hours after dark, not a flat spot to pitch the tent, we came to this mostly flat area that would serve as a campsite. Crushing down the vegetation, we were able to pitch the tent. Meanwhile, Benjamin had built a cosy fire and we squat under a tarp to consume our rice and beans. Retiring to our tent, we discovered that this flattish spot was actually a “hanging bog”. The tent now had about two inches of water in it, and our bags were floating there! Cuddling for warmth, Mike suggested that we put plastic bags over our feet to conserve heat, a trick he learned in a NOLS outdoor survival class he had take in Wyoming earlier. So we passed the night wet, cold, and huddled, four abreast, in a tent built for three! We were looking for adventure and now, quite certain we had found it!

The following day, as we descended in elevation, the rain subsided, and we found ourselves trekking along a steep-sided ridge with hundreds of feet to fall with any misstep. A slip to the right or a step to the left and you were history! There was no stopping your fall, except for the dense vegetation. We knew we were going in the correct direction, as the anchient Choco had carved pictographs in several large volcanic boulders along the way. Other than these boulders, there was no trail except for West to East, we were lost! As the mountains began to shoulder off, the landscape began to flatten and we came to an abandoned shelter constructed in the jungle. Here, we unpacked our gear to begin drying it, and built a fire. It was pleasant to have a thatch over our heads and a platform under us! There was a striking Tokey Gecko on one post that caught this photographers eye. While I was engaged in capturing its image, a long, bright green vine snake slithered into view. I assumed that is was not venomous, but I exercised discretion, and did not capture it, save for the photograph. This was no place to be envenomated by an uncertain tropical serpent! After hours of waving our wet cloths over the fire, Sally finally relaxed to enjoy the view. In the distance we could actually see our destination, the Atlantic Ocean.

As we proceeded down slope we first encounter an area being cleared for a home. The trees were all felled, the under brush cut, and among the piles there was this beautiful toucan, dead. Apparently, the foresters had chopped its nest down. There was also a “trapechet’ here as well. This is a lever device used to squeeze sugar cane to extract the sweet juice, processing to sugar! A day later, raining again, we came to a plantation. This was a plantation I had read about. They were growing cocaine! Peering from a window, the inhabitants spoke to Benjamin, in quite voices. We were not welcome, such a different experience from the farm we had visited earlier! They did not look friendly, and we did not have any defense. Looking over our shoulders, we made a hasty pass on into the jungle. I was glad for the rain I had so vociferously cussed earlier as this might keep these infidels at home.

Continuing down slope, we could no longer see the Atlantic. The sun emerge from behind beautiful clouds, and we sat on a grassy ridge to open our last can of beans. Given that we were now out of food, the hope was an end to our trek! A few miles more and we came to a road construction. An enormous relief came over everyone, as we trekked on. Soon, there was a bus moving down the unpaved corridor. We were able to get the driver’s attention, and had a ride from that point on. With salsa music blaring, a bus full of eyes peering at us, you can only wonder what they might have been thinking! Who are these crazies walking out of the jungle from nowhere?

It wasn’t long before we came to the port of our planning, Chirique Grande! It was here that we had been promised transportation to an offshore island, Boca del Torro, that had an airport. Communication was difficult, but apparently the gentleman whom we had made arrangements with, was in Panama City and unavailable. Again, fortune smiled on us. A gentleman overhead our dilemma, and approaches us, In perfect english he communicated that he too, was trying to reach Bocas del Torro, it was his home! He would find us a boat and pilot to take us there! All we had to do was wait. We arrived hungry, hot, and expectant, now we had to rely upon the kindness of this man. The day grew long quickly, and about dusk we finally had a ride! But wait, this boat is nothing more than a dugout. Large to be sure, but still a dugout! Setting two abreast, we were off and the sun set. The Island was to be some distance from our departuure point. On a map it was about an inch, but on the water it was to be hours of motoring in the dark. To make things more exciting, our pilot was a sixteen year old boy. As we motored in the dark, an occasional mangrove could be seen in the dimness, then a pole, then nothing. Lights bobbed in the distance, and then the motor quit! Out of gas! Not to worry, he had a spare tank! Off again, one row of lights after another, anticipation overwhelmed us. Finally, we pulled into a dock, it was after 10PM. We had not eaten for over four hours. This cross-ocean voyage, in total darkness, led by a young man of uncertain experience, hunger upon us was not part of the original plan. Was there a plan? Yes, but this was not part of it! Again, fortune smiled upon us, we were there and we were safe! Now to get some food. The gentleman who had approached us, had made arrangements for the boat, went the final mile! He went to a local shoreline restaurant and arrange a lobster dinner to await us upon registering for the hotel! This should be easy. Should be, but this is Panama, not Las Vegas. We were not expected until the next day. Would there be rooms for us? The consierge of the hotel, a man of about 70 years, assured that there would be no problem, we just had to fill out the hotel registration forms! And so it began, hunger biting at our ribs, dinner waiting, line by line he had to write everything by hand, every detail regarding our passports, our personal information, our destination as well as our point of departure. Chagrined that we had actually WALKED across Panama, his curiosity was greater than his forms! Finally, our packs in our rooms, we headed to the restaurant and our awaiting repast. This could be the end of our adventure, but it is not, not by a long shot!

The next day we were informed that our airline reservations were canceled, we were stuck on Bocas del Torro! But wait, there is more!