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Times
3 days ago
- Lifestyle
- Times
This Costa Rica tour feels like a David Attenborough documentary
'Good morning, my friends! Welcome to my office!' announces the rafting guide Pepe Mora, as he wades waist-deep into the Rio Pacuare, Costa Rica's most celebrated stretch of whitewater, 50 miles inland from the Caribbean coast. In the morning light, the river glints like silver. On either bank, green jungle rises into mist, dense and verdant as a Rousseau painting. Skyscraper trees tower overhead, their tops melting into haze. We put on lifejackets and helmets, clamber into our raft and receive Rafting Lesson 101. 'Most importantly: secure your feet and hold onto your paddle,' Mora says. 'We'll be fine as long as you follow instructions: paddle hard, backpaddle, lean in, get down. I've been rafting here for 30 years, but even now, the river still likes to surprise us. Now, vamos!' Paddling in unison, our boat turns downstream. Soon, I hear the first rapids, the whoosh of water moving at speed. Ten seconds later, we're in the maelstrom. Cascades of whitewater crash past. The raft plunges and dips like a rollercoaster: one minute vertical, the next tilted at an alarming angle. 'Get down!' Mora shouts. We hunker down, drenched by spray, clinging onto the ropes for dear life. And then, suddenly, we're through, gliding over clear blue water. Birdsong replaces river roar. We're soaked — and everyone is grinning from ear to ear. We reach our destination, Pacuare Lodge, after another hour or so of rafting. We wade out of the boat, hot, sweaty and drenched, but pumped full of adrenaline, and pile up our gear on the pebble beach. I've stayed at some remote hotels in my time, but Pacuare Lodge is the first I've reached by paddle power. On an isolated stretch of the Rio Pacuare, 12 miles from the nearest town of Turrialba, it began as a rafting camp and has since evolved into one of Costa Rica's most luxurious — and isolated — eco lodges. Although enveloped by jungle, the 20 villas offer the kind of spoils you might normally expect in a five-star resort: gleaming teak floors, hammocks, private verandas and plunge pools among trimmed lawns. There are some swish new additions too: river-view villas, a revamped restaurant and a swanky new infinity pool. Somewhat improbably, the hotel has also added its own craft brewery — an unexpected, but by no means unwelcome, find in the middle of the tropical jungle. There's even a treetop 'nest' where you can order up your own ultra-private candlelit dinner for two. I'm here for a few days before heading down to its sister property, Lapa Rios, on the isolated Osa peninsula. It's an opportune time to visit, since the national park next door, Corcovado, is celebrating its 50th anniversary this year. • 17 of the best places to see wildlife in Costa Rica Though most guests arrive at Pacuare Lodge by raft, there is also a rough access road, navigable by 4×4. However, it stops on the opposite side of the river from the lodge, meaning everything has to be winched across by pulley, including food, supplies and luggage. Despite — or perhaps because of — its remote location, the lodge is mostly powered by renewable energy: water turbines and solar panels generate electricity, with a back-up generator for emergencies. 'I remember that first time rafting in,' says Mora, the lodge's most experienced river guide, over a fresh-pressed guava juice. 'This was all forest then. Completely wild. It's crazy to see it now. Sometimes I pinch myself.' He heads off to sort out the raft as I sit down for lunch: pejibaye (peach palm fruit) soup, followed by the Costa Rican staple, casado — rice, beans, grilled plantain and heart-of-palm. I finish with homemade popcorn and pumpkin-honey ice cream and, of course, a Costa Rican coffee: rich, fruity, black as coal. • 14 of the best hotels in Costa Rica Pacuare Lodge is the original property of Böëna Lodges, a luxury Costa Rican operator that now also owns four others: two in the cloud forests of Monteverde, one in the wetlands of Tortuguero National Park and one on the Osa peninsula, in Costa Rica's far southwest. Each employs its own in-house guiding team that provides guests with bespoke adventures, from ziplining to kayaking and canyoning to organised hikes. While they aren't cheap, for a bucket-list experience it's hard to think of a better way to experience the country's natural wonders — after all, this little Central American nation has 5 per cent of Earth's species in an area less than half the size of England. For wildlife lovers, it's paradise on earth. The next day, I hike into the forest with Eric Morales, a member of the Cabecar, the second-largest of Costa Rica's indigenous groups, whose traditional territory spans the area around the Pacuare River and the nearby Talamanca mountains. The morning is alive with animal sounds: whoops, barks, twitters, cackles. We spot toucans and motmots in the treetops. Spider monkeys loop through the canopy. Basilisk lizards bask on logs. Tree frogs lurk under leaves. At one point, a fer-de-lance — Costa Rica's most venomous snake — slithers across the path. It's like stepping into a David Attenborough documentary. We stop in Morales's village for lunch, eating plantains and tortillas in a palm-thatched hut, while mop-haired kids peep in through the doorway. On the way back, he gives me a primer in Cabecar bushcraft: plants for stomach pains and antiseptics; a tree with flammable sap (handy for torches); the raffia palm used to make cordage, baskets and roof panels. The afternoon heat is punishing, so Morales fashions me a cup from a plate-sized leaf, filling it with ice-cold water from his flask. Of course, it's leak-proof. That evening, I head up to the bar for a lecture on Pacuare's jaguar tracking programme, sipping an IPA brewed in its own micro-brewery while I learn about local conservation efforts, and try my best to filter out the night-time jungle noises. All six of Costa Rica's native wild cats can be found here: puma, ocelot, margay, oncilla, jaguarundi and jaguar. Since 2008, the lodge has worked with biologists to monitor an 840-acre area using camera traps: each individual cat is identified by its pattern marking. Fourteen jaguars have been sighted, although their range is huge, so keeping tabs on them is a challenge. Our lecturer, Geo, shows me a video of a cat padding down the trail behind the lodge, freeze-framing as it stares down the barrel of the lens. 'I have never seen one in real life,' Geo says, ruefully. 'One day, I hope I will.' The next day, after another white-knuckle rafting trip to the town of Siquirres, I transfer back to the capital of San Jose, then catch a twin-prop plane down to the Osa peninsula, home to the largest area of primary rainforest in Central America. It's a wonderful flight, skimming low over peacock-blue seas and jade-green jungle before touching down two hours later in the dusty little port town of Puerto Jimenez. • Best time to visit Costa Rica Here, I'm picked up by 4×4 and rattle along a rough, rutted dirt road for 11 miles to Lapa Rios, the most recent addition to the Böëna group, which was acquired in 2019. Founded in 1990 by the American expats John and Karen Lewis, Lapa Rios is often credited as the place that kick-started Costa Rica's eco-tourism boom. It's surrounded by its own private 1,000-acre rainforest reserve and, like Pacuare Lodge, offers wilderness with a side of luxury. Its 17 thatched bungalows are connected by a treetop walkway, offering panoramic views along Osa's beach-fringed coast and the steaming canopy of Corcovado National Park. It's like staying in a boutique hotel designed by Tarzan. After breakfast, I trek into the rainforest with one of the lodge's naturalists, Frank Chaves. An Osa native, born into a family of farmers, Chaves trained as a journalist, but returned home to become a conservationist and wildlife guide. 'Osa is an oasis,' he says, as we trace the trails, watching our step to avoid the tentacle roots of strangler figs, or caravans of leaf-cutter ants marching across the path. 'Growing up, we took it for granted. To us, it was our backyard. It's taken me a lifetime to realise how lucky I was.' We spend the day uncovering the rainforest's secrets. We watch hummingbirds buzzing around heliconia flowers, scarlet macaws squabbling overhead, red-throated tanagers perched on tree branches. In the undergrowth, we find golden orb spiders, eyelash pit vipers and poison dart frogs. We lunch beside a clattering waterfall, watching clouds of giant blue morpho butterflies floating past, their wings so iridescent, they look like something out of a Disney cartoon. Chaves points out the key tree species of the rainforest: teak, mahogany, cedar and 100ft-high ceibas, as well as more unusual ones like the dragon blood tree, named after its crimson sap, and the walking palm, which shoots out side-roots in search of water, moving across the forest floor as it does so. I ask him how Osa has changed since he was a boy. 'There is much greater understanding of conservation now,' he says. 'Especially among the next generation. People have realised what we have here, how we all need to work to protect it.' Anti-poaching measures and habitat restoration programmes have helped to stabilise wildlife numbers, he explains, including jaguars. 'We have seen them on camera traps, and found tracks near the lodge,' he says. 'But honestly, in a way, it is better that we don't see them. It means they are still wary of us. If they are still going to be here in 50 or 100 years' time, it's important they stay that way.' By the time we return, it's dusk. I stow my walking stick and binoculars, bid Chaves farewell, and walk up to the lodge for supper. A coral-pink moon is rising over the trees. The buzz of cicadas fills the night air. Somewhere down the valley, I hear the boom of howler monkeys, an eerie howl-hoot that sounds almost extraterrestrial. It occurs to me that a jaguar could be watching me, right now, somewhere in the gloom of the forest, and I'd never have a clue. Off to my left, something flashes. A firefly, surely? Staring out into the inky blackness, I suddenly don't feel quite so Berry was a guest of Audley Travel, which has nine nights — three nights' full board at Pacuare Lodge, four nights' full board at Lapa Rios and two nights' B&B in San Jose — from £6,300pp, including flights, transfers and activities (
Forbes
21-05-2025
- General
- Forbes
The Courage We Lack: A SEAL's Story Of Silence, Belonging, And Tragedy
Intense white water spray against a black background. Perfect for compositing. In 1995, a team of five Navy SEALs embarked on a high-risk mission in Venezuela to test a relatively unproven capability at the time—navigating extreme rapids in inflatable boats. The theory was that rivers could serve as highways through rugged jungle terrain inaccessible by road. If SEALs could be parachuted into such environments in rafts, they could carry out missions that would otherwise be impossible. Their entry point: the base of the Guri Dam. To this day, the Guri Dam releases more water per second than Niagara Falls at full flood. At the dam's base, water is forced into a narrow chute—about 100 yards wide and over 700 feet deep—creating violent Class 5 rapids, some of the most dangerous in the world. Four of the SEALs were experienced combat veterans. The fifth—Alex—was fresh out of training. Yet Alex brought years of experience as a professional whitewater rafting guide and had the deepest understanding of the dangers of such violent rapids. As the team deliberated the best approach for their mission, Alex had significant concerns. Yet, as the rookie recruit, he was acutely aware that new SEALs were expected to prove themselves before offering input. He didn't want to seem disrespectful of his rank—or worse, be seen as lacking the courage it takes to be a true SEAL. And so, he said nothing, rationalizing that if these highly trained warriors felt it was safe to proceed, who was he to question otherwise? As he later told me, 'In that moment, I was more afraid of not being accepted than of the rapids themselves.' Alex's decision that day shows that even the bravest among us—those willing to risk their lives in the world's most dangerous places—aren't immune to fear. But the fear that held him back wasn't of dying. It was the fear of losing face. Of looking weak. Of not belonging. Of being judged unworthy by those whose approval he sought. Fear of social judgment wears many faces. Rarely does it appear as overt anxiety or panic. More often, it shows up in subtler forms: perfectionism, posturing, control, or compulsive busyness. On the flip side, it can show up as excessive humility, people-pleasing, or quiet compliance disguised as being a 'team player'. The irony is that when we are stuck in impression management - our fear of looking bad keeping us from speaking up or taking action - we surrender the very strengths we're trying to prove. Having worked with many exceptionally talented leaders—some of whom fit the mold of 'insecure overachievers'—I've seen how fear often hides behind intellectualized emotions and a relentless need to prove oneself. Research published in Psychological Science found that status anxiety can significantly inhibit people from speaking up—especially in hierarchical environments—keeping them stuck in a cycle of insecurity alleviation. And the cost of silence in such moments can be far greater than the risk of voicing concern. Yet that 'timidity tax' is rarely obvious at the time. In our efforts to secure status with others, we must be careful not to betray ourselves. When Alex's team launched their rafts into the river, they were immediately overwhelmed by the sheer force of the water. Their raft capsized, plunging them into a violent, raging current just upstream from its most perilous stretch. Armed only with life jackets and survival instincts, they fought for their lives to avoid being dragged under the wild and unforgiving rapids. At the bottom of the rapids, Alex and three of the other SEALs pulled themselves out of the river—shaken, exhausted, but alive. Realizing their teammate Jason was missing, they began searching for him, eventually calling in a helicopter to assist. It would be three harrowing days before his body was found—20 miles downstream. Alex was the last person to see Jason alive. And the first to see him dead. Alex's story runs through The Courage Gap as a sobering reminder that courage isn't just about laying our lives on the line (which most of us will never be asked to do). More often, it's about laying our pride, reputation, and status on the line—risking a bruised ego or disapproval in the eyes of those we're trying to impress. As I wrote in The Courage Gap: While Alex has since gone on to lead in other arenas, it's the courage he's shown far from war zones that I've found most inspiring: the courage to reflect deeply, to confront the self-protective story he told himself after the tragedy, and to admit hard truths. The courage to make peace with his fallibility and embrace vulnerability as his deepest source of strength. In a powerful and raw conversation on my Live Brave podcast, Alex and I unpacked how our unfaced fears—particularly the fear of judgment and rejection—often cost us far more than we realize. While most of us won't ever stand on the edge of roaring rapids, we've all stood at decision points—moments where the easier choice is silence, delay, or retreat, and the braver one is to speak up or step forward without a map or a guarantee. Fear widens the gap between what we know, deep down, we should do—and what we actually do. It takes courage to close it. And here lies the paradox of courage: The idea that fear holds us back isn't new. But we underestimate its reach or its cost. One study found that 76% of people at work avoid conflict while a survey by CrucialLearning found that nearly 75% of employees regularly withhold concerns—even when doing so could prevent major problems. It's why some of the biggest problems individuals and organizations face stem not with what was said—but with what wasn't – due to fear of how it would impact their status. As history shows, when fear governs decisions, it generally leads to worse outcomes over time. So what's the solution? It starts with us. Just as we are our greatest source of risk—through what we ignore or deny—we are also our greatest resource in overcoming it. That begins with being honest about where fear is pulling the strings and recommitting to the values we want to live and lead by. Every day. The root of our biggest problems isn't that we don't know what to do. It's that we don't do what we know. The only way to close this courage gap—the space between knowing and doing—is to become more committed to what we want to gain for ourselves and others than to what we fear we might lose in the process, including our place in the pack. Until we are, fear of looking bad will restrict our freedom to act—and limit the good we might otherwise do. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is risk being misunderstood. The more we practice courage—a learnable skill—the greater our capacity to take the emotional risks that bold leadership and meaningful lives require. Every time we refuse to betray our values to keep false peace or win approval and risk judgment to show up as the person (and leader) we most aspire to become, we reinforce our agency and loosen the shackles that hold us captive to others' opinions. At a time when the pace of change is relentless and external threats—GenAI, nuclear escalation, climate change—feel increasingly existential, the greatest danger to our future isn't 'out there.' It's within us—in our underdeveloped courage to confront these challenges head on and to risk what feels secure today for what could build a more secure tomorrow. As Alex's story reminds us, when fear of judgment guides our decisions, we don't just undermine our integrity—we gamble with the outcomes for others. History doesn't just turn on events; it turns on the courage—or timidity—of people facing them. So wherever you find yourself playing it safe today, ask yourself: What would I do if I wasn't afraid of being judged?And what might it cost if I don't? Not every act of courage will change the world. But any single act of courage might shift the trajectory of your life —or that of others. Perhaps more important, it will spare you the regret of wondering, 'But what if I'd tried?' Alex knows that pain. Let his story be your call to courage.
Yahoo
11-05-2025
- Business
- Yahoo
Running bureaucratic rapids
May 11—Nonprofit partners of the U.S. Forest Service have scrambled to avoid what some had feared might be a summer rafting free-for-all on coveted stretches of whitewater. The federal hiring freeze combined with the on-again, off-again dismissals of probationary employees and about 5,000 workers opting to retire early or otherwise leave the Forest Service have left it short-staffed across the country. That includes the seasonal crews that work at put-ins for the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, the Main Salmon River and the Snake River in Hells Canyon — all of which require permits to float during the busy rafting season. The people who work at put-ins, known as checkers, meet with permit holders prior to launching. They make sure each trip has the needed permits and give them a rundown of the rules and regulations. Other Forest Service employees work as river rangers and on-the-water patrols. They float the rivers, work with rafters, kayakers and others to make sure fragile resources are protected. Dustin Aherin said without river checkers and patrols, it's possible the rivers could be flooded with unpermitted groups or that permitted groups, both private boaters and outfitted trips, could have exceeded caps on the number of people allowed per trip. "There was a very real possibility of that," he said. "There was a moment in time when they didn't have any employees." Aherin, of Lewiston and Salmon, owns Idaho River Adventures and is president of the Middle Fork Outfitters Association. During the chaos that followed the Trump administration's decision to dismiss probationary federal employees, his organization worked with the Idaho congressional delegation to lay the groundwork for a solution. The Middle Fork Outfitters Association has been using the Trail Stewardship Act to help the Forest Service maintain the roads that provide access to Boundary Creek. The 2016 law allows holders of special use permits to use the money they are required to pay the Forest Service (3% of their gross profits) for trail maintenance and to care for other recreational infrastructure. Before the act, outfitters would write a check to the federal government. Now they can write checks to contractors who perform maintenance work and then use the receipts to offset what they own the feds. This summer, Aherin and other outfitters will divert the money they owe the Forest Service to the Selway Bitterroot Frank Church Foundation. In turn, the group will hire four people to work as checkers at put-ins and two to work on Forest Service river patrol crews. "It is really in line with our mission, it's just not something we have done before," said Ryan Ghelfi, executive director of the foundation. The group typically hires trail crews and wilderness rangers to help the agency care for the Selway-Bitterroot and Frank Church-River of No Return wilderness areas that overlay much of central Idaho's backcountry. Working on the river is new and so far a temporary part of the group's work. Daily headlines, straight to your inboxRead it online first and stay up-to-date, delivered daily at 7 AM Ghelfi said the people the foundation hires will work under the direction of the Forest Service and at least for now, it is just for this summer to help the agency deal with unexpected circumstances. "The way things are right now, it's something our organization needed to be able to say yes to and we did." Amy Baumer, a spokesperson for the Salmon-Challis National Forest, said the agreement builds on previous partnerships leveraging outfitter offsets authorized by the Trails Stewardship Act. "We see the opportunity to collaborate with SBFC (Selway Bitterroot Frank Church Foundation) during this summer's boating season as a significant benefit to boaters and the river environment. More people (SBFC) to work alongside Forest Service river staff educating boaters, checking permits, promoting river ethics, and providing important fire and river information can only lead to a better boater experience this summer." On the Snake River in Hells Canyon, Idaho Power Company employee Jared Farrens works at the Hells Canyon Creek put-in beneath Hells Canyon Dam to check in permit holders and give them an orientation of river rules. In the past, the Forest Service has covered weekends for Farrens. But given the agency's staffing problems, it looked like that wouldn't happen this year. Idaho Power spokesperson Brad Bowlin said Discover Your Northwest stepped in and will hire people to work shifts not covered by Idaho Power. The group, based in Seattle, operates retail shops within federal public land visitor centers and uses the income to fund and manage a grant program. "They are planning to use those funds to hire seasonal employees and cover that gap left by the cuts to Forest Service recreation staff," said Bowlin. Aherin said the creative partnerships might not save money but it shouldn't cost any more either and is a sign of the times. "What we are doing is kind of in line with the current administration's desire to cut out burearcy. Nobody is saving money to do this and it's not costing anybody any more." Barker may be contacted at ebarker@
