BY
LISA M. KRIEGER
Costa
Rica—which received a 2019 Champions of the Earth
award, the United Nations’s highest environmental honor, for its
role in protecting nature and combating climate change—hosts plenty of ecotours
that offer zip-lining, mountain biking, kayaking, and birding.
But
the nation is now discovering the value of a much smaller—and more
threatened—natural asset. Lodges are building frog-friendly ponds; parks are
leading frog-finding tours. Even the busy urban San José airport has a new
frog-patterned carpet.
As
the world gets hotter and drier, frogs’ future is in peril. Amphibians have
survived the past four great extinctions, from ice ages to a meteor collision.
But something is happening today that is causing amphibians to disappear at
alarming rates.
An
estimated 200 frog species have already gone extinct, and hundreds more may be
on their way out. They’re experiencing death by a thousand cuts, succumbing to
a lethal cocktail of factors that include pollution, climate change, and
habitat loss and degradation. All of these factors can weaken the immune system
of amphibians, and now a fungus is dealing the final blow.
Costa
Rica has already lost its fabled golden toad—and experts fear for other
species. Once frogs that eat insects are gone, an ecosystem loses its delicate
balance.
It
is not enough to lament their loss, says Kerry Kriger, founder of the nonprofit
organization Save the
Frogs. Frog-focused travel, he reasons, could strengthen the
amphibian-human connection and spur advocacy to conserve some of the world’s
most beautiful and charismatic creatures.
Where
to find frogs
In
a world that is rapidly losing amphibians, we set out to find them. Our tour
group, which included a psychiatrist, a pediatrician, and a Lockheed Martin
F-35 instructor pilot, was organized by Save the Frogs, an effort to support
the growing number of parks and ecolodges that protect the vital habitats for these
vulnerable creatures. “These are our goals: Find frogs. Go to places that have
lots of frogs. Give these places money, so they keep saving habitat and keep
having frogs,” said naturalist Michael Starkey.
We
found ourselves deep in the middle of a Costa Rican jungle. Rain dripped down
my face and muddy water swirled around my boots. I stabbed my flashlight into
the darkness. This is where we’d find our frogs.
They
beckoned us with a weird nocturnal orchestra: bass notes and piccolos, barks
and whistles, croaks and hiccups. We had traveled thousands of miles for a
glimpse, and they now surrounded us. Yet, maddeningly, they were impossible to
see. Then, through the vine-draped trees, I heard excited voices and saw a
scramble of flashlight beams.
“Right
here. Under this leaf,” whispered Starkey. We crouched around a small shrub,
squinting for a view. A tiny glass frog stared back at us.
Translucent
and gemlike, this frog was soon joined by scores of other species sighted in
the soggy days that followed: strawberry poison dart frogs, smoky jungle frogs,
masked tree frogs, hourglass tree frogs, red-eyed tree frogs, snouted tree
frogs, and others.
It
is an addictive game, chasing eyes that glow like jewels in the dark. We have
lists, like birders. We have our own jargon. We keep odd hours, swat
mosquitoes, and wear closed-toed shoes to prevent snakebites.
Frog-spotting,
like bird-watching, takes patience and perseverance. It’s an intimate view of
nature, full of disappointment as well as discovery.
Your
chances are best when conditions are worst. We picked July, the middle of the
rainy season, when clouds swallow mountains whole. After several days,
suitcases take on an aroma dubbed “jungle funk.”
It’s
not essential to have a guide, but recommended, especially if your frog-finding
skills are rusty. Starkey, a Sacramento native with a giant salamander tattooed
on his arm, has lifelong expertise in scanning leaves, stems, and the edges of
ponds.
Our
trip had started on the outskirts of San José at Hotel Bougainvillea. Several
small ponds in its 10-acre gardens were built specifically as breeding habitat
for endangered species such as Forrer’s leopard frog and the brilliant forest
frog.
Then
we prowled the leaf litter in forests around La Quinta Sarapiquí Lodge, two
hours north of San José, finding smoky jungle frogs. Built on the site of a
cattle farm, this family-owned lodge is creating wild gardens as a habitat to
attract frogs, butterflies, small mammals, and birds.
Along
the slow and muddy Sarapiquí River, we boated past crocodiles that looked
irritable as they watched us, only their eyes and nostrils above the surface.
Iguanas gazed down from their treetop perches.
The
week became a game of wildlife bingo. At the Arenal Oasis Eco Lodge, in the
mountain town of La Fortuna, our night tour yielded 13 different frog species.
Guides, like those on the grand safaris of the Serengeti, communicate by phone;
when they find an interesting creature, everyone rushes for a glimpse.
Wildlife
discoveries
Rainmaker, a
reserve closer to the Pacific coast, is cherished for its role in the
rediscovery of a presumed extinct species of harlequin frog. Once owned by a
local rice farmer, the land was in danger of being clear-cut. Now it’s a
private sanctuary at the end of a long and bumpy dirt road, hosting small
groups for tours in search of early birds and late night frogs. But we loved it
most for its incongruous microbrewery, Perro Vida, which crafts beer from
mountain spring water.
In
the dark, we hiked across the preserve’s suspension bridges and up steep trails
built with old tires, stopping to peer into small holes, where we spied
strange, secretive yellow-spotted tropical night lizards.
Each
morning, we awoke with the birds and watched brilliantly colored tanagers
gobble down melons at nearby feeders. Three species of kingfisher plied local
waters. Assemblages of swallows crisscrossed the sky looking for prey. There were
trogons and toucans, curassows and woodpeckers. Hummingbirds hovered around
flowers, like tiny emerald and vermilion fighter planes.
During
the long, steamy afternoons we tramped through pristine forests, marveling at
the processions of leafcutter ants. Butterflies—huge Disneyesque creatures,
with iridescent wings—fluttered about. We spotted alligator lizards and a
Cope’s racer snake.
Every
evening, as other tourists sipped after-dinner drinks, we donned ponchos and
boots and equipped ourselves with flashlights and cameras wrapped in plastic
bags.
Once
we made the chilling discovery of a poisonous pit viper—bright yellow, like a
toxic banana—up in the branches, suspended over our trail. Returning to safety,
we celebrated the sighting with a toast.
Then
came unexpected news: Guide Carlos Chavarria heard reports of a resplendent
quetzal—the most iconic bird of the rainforest—at a nearby ridge. We
rushed to join a sunrise pilgrimage. The wait on the steep ledge felt
interminable, with only breeze-ruffled branches to break the tense silence.
Then the big bird suddenly arrived on a nearby avocado tree, greeted by gasps
and the clatter of camera shutters.
One
evening, scanning a pond as dusk descended and the frogs’ chorus reached a
crescendo, we saw something glare back at our flashlights’ beam. It was a pair
of eyes. There are 149 frog species in Costa Rica; so far, we’d seen 22. Was
this another?
Yes.
It was a Vaillant’s frog, strong and sturdy. Starkey picked it up, and we
gathered around in admiration. Then he loosened his gentle grip, and it leaped
to freedom. Silently I bade it good luck and prayed that many future generations
would follow.
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