(In which we vacation for 9 days and 8 nights, split between two locations; a tropical rain forest lodge, and an intimate Caribbean island retreat.)
My Honduras YouTube playlist
Link to trip photos
“Turf”- The Rain Forest
Our plane from Atlanta dropped through the clouds to reveal San Pedro Sula below, only dimly viewed through the pall of smoke choking the Sula valley where the city sprawls. As the plane rolled toward the airport gates and acrid smoke wafted through the aircraft, I was reminded we were once again visiting a third world country, where almost any unwanted item becomes litter or trash, much of it eventually finding its way either into the Caribbean Sea or a burn pile.
But, hey, we’re in Honduras, on vacation, and we are determined to have a fantastic time. Especially since this trip is the culmination of several months of painstaking research and meticulous planning, including a steady stream of digital communications to schedule and secure transportation and accommodations, careful study of maps and charts, plane schedules, weather forecasts and even whale shark migration reports.
The smoky view of nearby mountains vaguely seen from the main terminal windows served to distract somewhat from the frequent ear-splitting and incomprehensible loud-speaker announcements that assaulted us during our three hour layover as we waited for the flight to the coastal city of La Ceiba, some 120 miles distant, on the Caribbean coast of Honduras.
Honduras and Bay Islands map.
Our flight to La Ceiba was short and uneventful, and upon arrival we were captivated by the sight of the Cordillera Nombre de Dios mountains, razor-toothed and mist-capped, looming over us in the late afternoon light.
We were met at the small airport by the driver of the van from the Lodge at Pico Bonito, our pied-a-terre for the next 3 nights and days. As the only passengers, we had the undivided attention of Manuel, the taciturn but friendly-enough driver who kindly informed us that the cultivated fields rolling by were pineapple.
We sanguinely gazed out the windows for the next 20 minutes while the van bumped over ubiquitous tope’s (“Toh-pays”, or speed bumps) on the main road out of town. Pineapple fields slipped by and we were continually passed by drivers determined to run us or the oncoming vehicle out of our respective lanes. Cars, trucks, motorcycles, and three-wheeled taxis called tuk-tuks darted in and out of the traffic, while pedestrians and bicycle riders made their way slowly and carefully along the narrow gravel verge, somehow managing to avoid being sideswiped.
Like I said, we were fairly sanguine, having seen it all before, many times, in many Caribbean locales. All the same, I found myself breathing a sigh of relief as we pulled off the busy road onto a peaceful, tree-lined, rutted and dusty track that meandered between coconut, pineapple and palm oil plantations as it wound its way relentlessly uphill, pulling us into the embrace of those mysterious purple massifs.
Manuel explained that the area plantations were owned by the Standard Fruit Company (later, Dole) which, along with the United Fruit Company, in the 1920s played a significant role in the governments of Honduras and other Central American countries, which became known as “banana republics” because of the highly favorable treatment the fruit companies were given by those governments.
“It’s complicated” barely touches the history of U.S. influence in central america politics and business, but that’s a topic for another day, and someone else’s blog.
In any event, we were fairly well-informed of the country’s colorful past, and more importantly, current woes and how the latter could conceivably give us some concern for our safety, which is really a continuance of our experience on the island of Roatan in 2008.
In prepping for this trip, we had long since come to an accommodation of our understanding of the dangers inherent in traveling to a third-world country where the rule of law is iffy at best and where there is a certain comfort in glimpsing the heavily armed private security guards as they patroled the hiking trails around and roads leading into the properties where we stayed.
We realized that our three night stay in a tropical rain forest would expose us to an environment fraught with mosquito-and-water-borne disease, poisonous critters (Fer de lance snake!) and a zillion stinging and biting insects just waiting to pounce. Even so, we figured flying in planes that we knew would get smaller, older and more haggard as our travels unfolded gave us more pause than did thoughts of mosquito-borne diseases and parasites. There’s no DEET for a plane that can’t fly and won’t float!
Historic, Serene Pico Bonito Lodge
Garden entry to reception at Pico Bonito Lodge, Honduras.
As the van passed through the guarded entry gate of the Lodge, the scrub of overgrown plantation grounds soon gave way to lovingly tended tropical plants, shrubs, and trees bursting forth with blossoms, blooms, giant buds and flowering spikes of various sizes, shapes and shades of red, orange, and magenta that glowed among a wall of greenery decorating a large garden area bisected by a lengthy lined gravel walkway.
Out-sized palm and banana leaves, ferns and bromeliads, orchids and epiphytes nodded in the late afternoon breeze flowing off the mountain, seeming to beckon us toward the massive covered entry and the raised portico of the Lodge.
This description may seem a bit, well, flowery but when you see our pictures you may begin to understand why we were so quickly and so surely captivated by the sights, sounds and smells of this amazing place.
Robin pets Bird of Paradise, Pico Bonito Lodge grounds, Honduras.
Stepping from the air-conditioned quiet of the van, my senses were overwhelmed by the onslaught of sights, sounds and odors. The late afternoon light limning the massive mahogany posts, beams and polished floors of the soaring, open-aired entry to the Lodge signaled a place that had grown from and into its immediate surrounds.
Built on the site of former coffee and cacao plantations, the Lodge is nestled in the lush 270,000 acres of Pico Bonito National Park, home to hundreds of varieties of tropical birds, as well as monkeys, anteaters, tapir, kinkajous, reptiles and jaguars.
I certainly felt I was well off the grid now, in a spectacular setting, the humid breeze redolent of the fecund smell of rotting vegetation, sweet tropical blossoms, freshly watered soil, crushed gravel and cinnamon. And the sounds! A symphonic flow of bird calls pealing, tinkling, chirping and whistling blended together in a harmonious concerto, accented by the percussion of geckos and cicadas. All was overlaid by the sustained high-pitched burr of thousands of insects.
Robin and I hardly had time to share stunned smiles because here was the beaming receptionist offering us a small tray with warm, wet and scented hand-towels to refresh ourselves, even as another friendly staff person flourished a large serving tray arrayed with two sweating glasses of a cold tropical concoction, to which I agreed a tipple of rum added was in order. I even managed to notice the lovely hibiscus bloom next to my glass before I snatched it up eagerly. The glass, not the bloom.
Arriving on a Friday evening was apparently in our favor, as we were the only guests checking in, so before undergoing the rituals of registration, we were given ample time to slowly walk around the vast interior of the main Lodge entry, pulled inexorably to the vista that unfolded as we made our way to the garden side of the entry. Photos hardly do this sublime scene justice, and my first view left me rooted to the spot, just trying to take it all in.
Lynn gazes at view from Pico Bonito Lodge reception, Honduras.
To spare the reader more over-blown exposition, I refer you to our trip photos, which I believe capture the visual lushness of the scene we encountered. But do return to the story, it will be worth your patience!
Soon we were stepping along a raised boardwalk and then down to the gravel path that led to the cabins, situated some distance from the main lodge building, yet readily reached, as long as one stayed on the gravel paths. Heavy undergrowth grew right up to the pathways, the plants and trees springing up from leaf-litter that was, on average, as deep as one’s thighs. Largish rocks poked up from the gravel walkways and my not-quite-healed injured ankle was, even in my hiking boot, sorely tested as my foot slipped off one and then another of these treacherous devils.
In the Rain Forest, High Above a River Gorge
The following day, on our ass-kicking hike to Unbelievable Falls, I would find myself cursing these rocks and all their brethren who did their best to deny us the dignity of a somewhat balanced tumble. The gravel paths would prove to be tiring and slippery as we made our way around the 400 acres of the lodge property during our stay.
Robin at our trail-side cabin, Pico Bonito Lodge, Honduras.
Our cabin appeared to float among heavy foliage and as we mounted the steps from the gravel walkway, I spotted one of the many large feeder trays piled with rotted fruit that were positioned around the property. The feeder was less than 40 feet from our cabin, just across the loop trail which our deck overlooked, and was perched on the sharp edge of the river gorge, which dropped precipitously almost straight down to the river some 200 feet below.
Robin, Las Pilas river in the dry season, Pico Bonito Lodge, Honduras.
The sounds of the rushing river water harmonized with the buzz of insects and bird calls, which echoed off the massive trees that screened much of the afternoon light. In the gloom under the forest canopy, the cabin interior glowed from lights thoughtfully switched on, bathing yet more hardwoods used in constructing the interior of the cabin and its furnishings in a warm and welcoming glow.
Our cabin interior, Pico Bonito Lodge, Honduras.
Thanks to our luggage having magically made its way to the room, we were soon showered and refreshed from a long day of travel and ready to walk the grounds a bit before the typically rapid tropical sunset. But first, we faced a visit from a White-Faced Capuchin monkey, who was as surprised to see us as we were to see it!
White Faced Capuchin monkey, Honduras.
Robin and I were relaxing on the cabin deck under the paddle fan when we heard rustling in the trees overhead. A falling branch prompted us to step out onto the deck, and there was the monkey, peering down at us from some 30 feet up in a tree. As soon as it spotted us, it chattered at us and started moving away. In the matter of a minute it was lost to us in the thick foliage. We watched for several minutes but could detect no sign of movement in the trees or any sound.
This was my first close encounter with a wild monkey in the rain forest. I’d seen Howlers in Belize but never got as close as we did to this one. We agreed it was a special moment.
After the monkey’s visit, we headed down the hill to the magnificent dining area close by the main Lodge.
Robin relaxes in the Pico Bonito Lodge dining area, Honduras.
Armed with flashlights and DEET, we took a turn around the lovely and well-kept pool area and took in a view of the deep and narrow river gorge afforded from a platform nearby. The sounds of the rushing river water below drifted up to us, along with a light spray which did nothing to dissuade the mosquitoes, so we escaped to the spacious deck of the dining area and enjoyed the sight of the last golden light of the day gilding the clouds that shrouded the tallest peaks of the mountain range to the east and south.
Aguti, the Lodge at Pico Bonito, Honduras.
Small, rabbit-like mammals called Agutis darted here and there among the flowers and shrubs, and we soon understood that these rabbit-sized rodents were considered a nuisance by the locals. We found them rather cute and amusing and I managed to get a couple of shots before we lost the light.
An amazing meal provided a restful segue to our traipse back up the hill (getting lost along the way) to our cabin. I was too tired to linger long in the hammock on our deck, even as I was loathe to fall asleep and miss one minute of the night sounds of the forest.
Lynn relaxes on the deck of our cabin at Lodge at Pico Bonito, Honduras.
Bats swooped in the faint light from our room. The bird sounds throttled back but not all of the feathered types went to bed, apparently. The cicadas really cranked it up, so loud that at times we couldn’t hear each other over the noise unless we shouted- really, they are quite loud. Grunts and peeps and squeaks abounded (we learned that many of the sounds I thought were frogs were instead geckos). As for this nature-lover who is accustomed to recognizing all manner of North American critters by their vocals, I found myself befuddled, unable to recognize much beyond “Gee I think that’s a bat squeak!” Or a mouse? Or an Aguti or other rodent?
Eventually, it was Lights Out and into the arms of Morpheus, accompanied by the sound of the rushing river below and the night sounds of the rain forest enveloping the cabin.
I was awakened suddenly around 1am by a “thump-thump-THUMP!” sound from the feeder, quickly followed by a prolonged, high-pitched squeal that rapidly faded as, apparently, some poor creature was spirited away on wings.
A Brutal Hike Through the Rain Forest
Right after dawn we were up and at ’em, preparing our hiking gear for what we anticipated would be an arduous but awesome hike way up a mountain and down into a river gorge, where the 100 foot drop of Unbelievable Falls and its two pools beckoned. But first, we got to watch the early morning Bird Show from the gallery of the dining area while we sipped Honduran coffee and enjoyed a light breakfast.
Robin at breakfast, Pico Bonito lodge, Honduras.
I have no idea how many of the 300+ species of tropical birds we saw and heard, but the activity was fierce, the bird calls loud and entrancing as tropical fowl flitted, flapped, dove, darted and soared among the shrubs and towering trees arrayed before us. For close-up activity, the fly-bys of hummers coming to feeders positioned around the gallery were a delight.
At times the bird call concert would pause, and in the silence we could clearly hear the hummers’ rapid wing-beats and tiny peeps and cheeps as they flitted here and there, from feeder to feeder, aggressively defending territory from other hummers. I spotted at least 3 different hummer varieties, both male and female specimens, before I lost count.
Right on time, our guide showed up and we were off, up and up and up and relentlessly UP the steep, narrow, washed-out, dry, dusty and rolling-rock-underfoot trail that would, some 2.5 hours later, in the heat and humidity of the equatorial mid-morning (when the breeze from the nearby coast lays to!) take us to Exhaustion Falls, er, Unbelievable Falls.
Unbelievable Falls, Pico Bonito refuge, Honduras.
Upon making our way down the incredibly steep, treacherous, one-misstep-you-are-gone-baby trail into that gorge, I was ready for the rescue helicopter.
But of course no helicopter could make its way to us. Not amid these steep mountain gorges thickly covered with towering 120-plus foot tall trees festooned with tangling vines– certainly not in this vastness, which we had all to ourselves. But of course we had it all to ourselves. The only way in and out was by foot. So after resting, eating protein bars and drinking a lot of the water we’d packed in, it was time to face that steep gorge incline.
Clambering over slippery and mossy rocks and pulling ourselves up using trees and vines (while ever-vigilant for where we placed our hands!), we made our way ever so carefully up and out of that gorge. I’ve hiked some of the highest mountains in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, braved the treachery of the Rockies at over 10,000 feet and tromped peaks in Georgia for years but this was just brutal. Admittedly, I was working with an injured ankle, which made it necessary for me to plan every step, every second, which probably didn’t help!
You can view photos of the falls and surrounds, and check out my YouTube Honduras Playlist for short snippets that nicely capture this rain forest experience.
Enough whining. Now it was time to buckle down and retrace our steps, back up and down steep ridges, through several valleys, past Hummingbird Gulch (my name for an area where we were surrounded by dozens of hummers, darting about our heads and objecting to our incursion). Past Army Ant hill (again, my name), where one simply didn’t stand in one place but kept dodging the lines of these voracious insects while clambering over giant, fallen trees and crunching through a hillside of dead vegetation the locals had chopped, denuding the valley to enable illegal lumbering.
Across the valley we spotted two Toucans flying from tree to tree, calling to each other in high-pitched frog-like croaks.
Further along we again walked across a steep hillside planted with cacao trees, where our guide had earlier introduced us to the sweet meat found in each gourd. White, fleshy thumb-sized bits of gooey fruit surround each cacao bean which, when processed, delivers the basic stuff of chocolate. We sucked the moisture from the white fleshy parts and were surprised at the fairly pleasant and faintly sweet flavor.
Crossing the next-to-last ridge on our way to the final downhill run to the Lodge, we stopped to admire the view out to the Caribbean Sea less than 10 miles distant. A large valley below us provided an unimpeded view of massive buttressed Ceiba trees, 200 feet tall and higher, in clumps that from a distance looked like tall broccoli heads.
Oropendola, Honduras.
We could clearly see many Montezuma Oropendola birds returning to their nesting colony made up of hundreds of large nests that looked like long-necked gourds. The racket these clever and colorful birds made came to us across that valley. We stood in the breeze and enjoyed the spectacle for a few moments while catching our breath.
We also passed by a lone and massive tree on the very top of a ridge. The main fork of the tree featured two huge branches and against the fork rested a long, thick tree branch. Clearly, someone had chopped steps up that branch using a machete. I looked and saw no fruit on the tree, so I asked the guide what the ladder was for. He hesitated then explained that someone was using the tree as a place to catch wild parrots for the illegal trade.
I had wondered if something was amiss. Still, this sight, combined with the deforestation we witnessed as we crossed unprotected areas of the rain forest during this hike clearly illustrated much that we’ve heard and read for years about the threats to natural areas worldwide.
It seems that even in the midst of the enjoyment of nature, we are constantly reminded of the devastating effects of human impact. Poverty, disease, fear, crime, poverty, more poverty and so forth are constantly with us, no matter where we travel. No matter how I crop the images I take and dress up the stories of our experiences, the not-so-paradisaical reality is always there, ever-present. Which I guess is why we do what we do, and go where we go.
We’re admittedly, selfishly, doing our best to experience what we can, even as we see it disappearing and destroyed before us. And, to be fair, WE are a part of the problem, no matter how we may clothe ourselves in “eco-adventure” language, Cool-Max clothing, and good intentions. But, honestly, if the choice is stay at home and watch the Travel Channel, I’ll opt for the travel, every time.
At this point I left the soap-box behind and, eventually, managed to stumble back to our cabin, where a shower and bed awaited. I slept most of the afternoon and through the night, only awakened once by the vocalization of some sort of cat that was NOT a jaguar but was equally NOT a house cat. I suspect it was a Margay, fairly common in this area of Pico Bonito.
A Day at Cuero y Salado Wildlife Refuge
The next day we were up again at the crack of dawn. We grabbed a quick breakfast, and met our guide at 6:30am for our trek to Cuero y Salado wildlife refuge on the coast nearby. I’d never heard of this place and wondered why, because it is truly an amazing place worthy of the full Travel Channel (or Lonely Planet) treatment!
Quiet morning by the lagoon, Cuero y Salado refuge, Honduras.
The 82 square mile preserve forms a triangle encompassed by the Cuero and Salado rivers and the sea coast. It was designated a protected area in 1986 because of its endangered manatee population, as well as the complex series of saltwater and freshwater wetlands it contains. The park protects about 35 species of animals, including manatees, jaguar, Jabirus (storks), Capuchin and Howler monkeys, as well as gators, crocs, iguanas, bats and a great diversity of fish species.
Lynn and Robin pose, at Lagoon, Cuero y Salado refuge, Honduras.
Robin, rain forest river excursion, Cuero y Salado wildlife refuge.
We actually spotted quite a few critters during our 2 hour ride in a jon-boat. Our trip up-river had barely begun when a troop of Howler monkeys growled at us as we approached the east side of the river. The boat slowly eased through the deep shadows near the bank and at first we had a hard time spotting these fairly large and slow-moving monkeys, but soon enough the Alpha male moved to the outer branches of the trees and looked down at us while barking his warning calls.
We spent a few minutes marveling at these marvelous primates. I was struck by the contrast between their loud and threatening vocalizations and the careful way they moved through the trees; altogether a different experience than the one that awaited us elsewhere on this morning’s expedition.
Male Howler monkey, Cuero y Salado refuge, Honduras.
Before long, the Howlers moved back into the trees away from the river’s edge, and we continued our trip, nosing into backwater canals and small lagoons off the main river to see what we could see.
We soon came upon a large crocodile floating among water hyacinths near the bank, jaws agape. When it finally moved, its lengthy body sinuously slid across the hyacinths and we estimated its length as close to 12 feet. The guide commented “Yes, no swimming in this river!” No argument here.
Cruising slowly around a lagoon, we spotted many water birds common to sub-tropical Florida, such as kites and egrets, herons and cormorants, rails and limpkins. A large Belted Kingfisher kept us company for a few minutes, crossing from one river bank to the other, chattering its signature rattling call as it zipped back and forth.
It felt kind of strange to me to be in the watery environment of a tidal fresh water river, surrounded by trees and animal life so familiar yet quite different from the outdoors where I’ve spent a great deal of my life. Here the trees were far larger, and more jungle-like, than those in the Everglades or the few remaining sections of ancient wetlands along Florida’s coasts. For instance, in Florida, very few old-growth giant mangroves and cypress trees survived 80 or more years of intense logging. I was gratified to see so many healthy, old, untouched trees lining the river and lagoon banks.
The boat skipper slowly nosed us toward a large tree overhanging the water and lo and behold, mere inches in front of us, were 7 short-nosed bats lined up on the underside of the trunk in the reflection of the water, hanging downward, their tiny legs clamped securely to the trunk.
Short-nosed bats eye the camera, Cuero y Salado refuge, Honduras.
We approached slowly and I was able to get a picture of these little mammals that were so close I could have touched them. If you look closely, you can see their little faces low down on their upside-down bodies. They were looking out, right at us. So cute!
As the boat backed away, they all took flight in a simultaneous burst, and in the blink of an eye, they were gone.
Next, we turned into a narrow canal, out of reach of the light breeze over the open water. The mid-morning sun was developing a real bite as we came upon a small landing, where our guide pointed out a short boardwalk that led to a narrow foot trail through the undergrowth. We agreed to follow the trail for a short distance to see what we might run into.
We quietly made our way along the boardwalk and stepped down onto the foot trail, right into a cloud of voracious mosquitoes. We started to converse about the wisdom of continuing without a thorough dousing of DEET when suddenly the trees around us erupted in a volley of sound and movement. “Quick! Monkeys! A lot of monkeys!” our guide whispered and motioned us onward. We scrambled to catch up, looking overhead as shapes darted here and there, rattling limbs, shaking bushes, and screeching in an alarming manner. Twigs and leaves rained down and it dawned on me, those monkeys were throwing them at us!
We danced down the trail a bit more, spotting monkeys. “Here!” “Over there!” “Look- right there!” I had the camera ready to go, but the rapid movement of the monkeys through the thick vegetation foiled any attempt to photograph them, so I stood still and watched as the troop quickly moved off.
At least we got a good look at them, and no doubt, they were Capuchin monkeys, which were smaller than the Howlers and much more colorful, sporting a white scruff and face accenting black furry coats. Our guide was simply delighted, telling us that he’d not seen Capuchin’s in the reserve in more than a year.
By now, the clouds of mosquitoes made lingering a non-option so we all hoofed it quickly back to the boat and shoved off.
A short run in the jon-boat brought us to the wide mouth of the river, which debouched directly into the Caribbean Sea. We saw no signs of development along the beach, only a large gathering of Turkey Vultures busily fighting over the piles of garbage and plastic that the tide had left on a long sandbar at the river’s edge.
Between the vultures, the sight of so much garbage on an otherwise beautiful and deserted beach, the smell and the flies, the scene lost a lot of what should have been a certain appeal, and we quickly demurred when our guide asked if we wanted to walk along the beach. I figured hoards of sand flies were crowding to the water’s edge, just waiting to get their little jaws on unsuspecting tourists. Besides, I didn’t want to get a closer look at the material that was creating that nauseous smell.
Soon we returned to the dock and after tipping our skipper, spent the next hour or so in the shade of a tree just outside the preserve’s school building. Our guide provided cold water and chilled fresh fruit slices from a cooler, and before long we were joined by several incredibly mangy and emaciated dogs, which brought with them a swarm of flies.
We ate hurriedly, trying not to spend too much time agonizing over the condition of the poor canines, but it was hard to ignore them when they flopped in the dust under our picnic table. One poor fellow with a glassy thousand-yard stare was so weak he could barely manage to stand, his legs shaking as with the ague, his tongue lolling. I was afraid he would collapse and expire right there in front of us. My heart ached. That was about the time Robin got up to go walk around.
Close Up: Developing World Woes
With a clatter, the little-engine-that-could train announced its arrival and we didn’t dally as we joined the small gathering of passengers who were headed back to the village of La Union with us. The train driver pushed the open-aired wagon toward the little engine and, with the help of a couple of by-standers, connected the two.
Old banana republic rail car, transport out to Cuero y Salado refuge.
We took our seats on the rough wooden benches and with a jerk the train struggled back the way we’d come, belching diesel fumes while it thumped and squealed and rattled down the narrow-gauge railway.
For the next 45 minutes we bumped and thumped and screeched our way past pineapple plantations, scrub, and herds of sleek cows grazing in low pastures that were mostly under a thin layer of water. Clearly this was a wetland, subject to flooding during the rainy season, which made for lush pasturage but required the few simple homes and ranch buildings we spotted to be built on stilts well clear of the ground.
The closer we got to the community of La Union, the more people we saw walking along the well-worn foot path beside the raised rail bed. Without exception, these rural folk were barefoot and not prosperous, judging by the worn condition of their colorless attire. Some men wore woven, straw cowboy hats, but most were bare-headed, as were the women.
I watched the faces of people as we passed, and those who deigned to look up at us wore expressions ranging from dull curiosity to resignation and weariness. I caught not a few glares of resentment. Mostly, people went on about their business and ignored the passing of what is clearly the primary connection and transport into and from the surrounding countryside.
As we came into the settlement, I was again struck by the amount of garbage, litter and junk strewn along the tracks, down the steep hillsides, at the bottom of ravines and surrounding what can charitably be called hovels that were squatting right next to the rails, almost within touching distance.
These homes were make-shift, put-together affairs, using broken lumber, tree limbs, old tin, plastic sheeting, torn tarps and cardboard. The “roofs” were often weighed down by stones or old bricks. Women washed clothes in rusted tin tubs, the lines of uniformly grey shirts, trousers, dresses, children’s school uniforms and undergarments hanging on chicken wire or rusted barbed wire fencing, or laid out on items like old refrigerators laid on their sides, wagon wheels and other unidentifiable items strewn about.
We had noticed that the few small homesteads further out of town all sported barred windows and doorways, and were surrounded by high concrete walls topped with worked iron bars. The places in town more often featured lower concrete walls with broken glass bottles thickly embedded along the top. Every window and the meanest opening sported bars or a barrier of some sort.
It certainly looked to me like the residents feared each other, and this level of security wasn’t limited to this community — we saw such evidence of fear and concern for security throughout our entire trip. The only difference between how these folks lived and the places we stayed is that we had guards with automatic weapons roving discretely around the property, maintaining a 24-hour vigil, particularly at points of relatively easy egress to the property.
Our van driver was waiting for us when the little train huffed across the main street crossing in town and with a final prolonged and ear-splitting metallic screech, pulled into the engine’s tiny open shed.
The ride back to the Lodge was uneventful and we were glad to pass through Checkpoint Charlie and make our way back to the main Lodge, where lunch awaited us.
The Coati Troop and Home Tree
As this was our last full day before moving to an offshore island destination for the remainder of our vacation, we wanted to explore more of the Lodge property, eschewing the temptation of spending a hot and still afternoon lounging by the pool.
Fortified with a meal and packing our water, we headed to the nearby river gorge area called Las Pilas, which offered yet another brutal up and down trek, but lovely pics and a video snippet of the river made it worthwhile.
We made our way back to our cabin, trudging slowly and carefully along the loop trail that encompasses the Lodge grounds. Under that towering canopy of massive trees, the afternoon heat seemed to press in on our tired bodies, while the few bird calls and the unrelenting burr of cicadas echoed all around us. For just a moment I felt disembodied from a weird combination of fatigue and euphoria as I virtually swam through the humidity, clouds of gnats, and the wafting odors of rotted fruit and vegetation.
A late afternoon shower and chilling with a cold drink on the covered deck under a fast-spinning ceiling fan seemed in order.
Along came a Lodge employee, adding fresh fruit to the overflowing bird feeder just across the loop trail from our deck. We lazily watched him as he piled on the fruit, then suddenly he gestured at us excitedly, motioning down the ravine behind the feeder. “Huh? What did he say?” I asked Robin, whose grasp of Spanish is light years from my own.
“Something about ‘grande’, something big out there, I think,” she replied. I struggled to dismount the hammock as Robin asked the fellow what he’d seen. I could hear him excitedly chattering while I stumbled around the cabin looking for my hiking boots or a pair of socks or something to put on my feet before I could get to the feeder through the leaf-litter surrounding the cabin.
Shod, I came out onto the deck and saw Robin peering over the lip of the ravine. The employee was gone and Robin was waving at me. “Coatis!” she said excitedly. “A whole bunch of them! Moving down there!” She pointed down the ravine.
It seems that “grande” in this instance meant a Bunch, not something Big. Cool!
Coatimundi, Pico Bonito Lodge, Honduras.
After stomping through the leaf-litter and coming up on the deck, Robin reported she’d seen six or more Coatimundis, or South American raccoons, moving along just below the ridge line, heading toward the setting sun. As we discussed whether to trail after them to get a photo, we spotted one climbing the trunk of a huge tree about 150 feet from us and just off the loop trail. We decided that we would likely make noise getting through the leaves to the trail and we might disturb the troop, so we decided to stay put. Besides, we could clearly see more Coatis working their way up the tree.
From our vantage point, the tree was back-lit by the now blood-orange red globe of the rapidly setting sun, the Coatis sharply silhouetted as first one, another then another crossed a low, lengthy horizontal limb to yet another tree.
The photographer in me wanted so badly to rush right down there and try to get a shot, but the nature-girl recognized the effort wouldn’t be worth it as I’d probably disturb the troop and miss out on the rest of the action.
For the next 10 minutes or so, we stood captivated by a sight that struck me as precisely something one would see on a nature video. Life imitated art in an amazing view of this family group of more than eight Coatis moving through what was apparently their Home Tree. I saw one young Coati pause on the horizontal limb, scratch itself, and be joined by another Coati, who passed the youngster then returned long enough to share a bit of mutual grooming.
And so the sun dropped over the mountaintops to the west, casting all in the deepening gloom of an equatorial evening as the night birds called, bats squeaked, and insects chirred against the background of the river waters rushing to the Caribbean Sea, far below.
In my memory, this is the most indelible visual of our rain forest visit, made more poignant by the knowledge that this was our last night in this place.
Taken together, the extraordinary sense of peaceful isolation in the rainforest, surrounded by what quickly became familiar sights and sounds of the wildlife and insects, the smells, and the majestic presence of so many massive trees will remain with me for many years to come.
“SURF” – Utila Island and Nearby Bay Islands
Our quick hop from the airport at La Ceiba out to the island of Utila took less than 30 minutes, but it seemed much longer as I worked to quell my case of the jitters. I’ve been in some small planes in my lifetime, including a Volkswagen Beetle-sized kit plane that my father built when I was a teen. But, I don’t think I’ve been in a plane quite as small AND old and tired and rusted and, well, iffy as the one we took out to Utila.
Robin before boarding plane to Utila, Honduras.
Tiny, old prop plane to Utila, Honduras.
The sight of the island and its attendant group of little cays did little to relieve my tension, beyond signaling that perhaps soon we would re-join terra-firma: which we did, with a thump and a bump of shifting luggage from the head-high pile teetering behind our cramped bench seat.
We really weren’t surprised at being greeted by the sight of a wrecked 2-engine plane as we landed on the rutted, potholed, and barely-asphalt-covered “tarmac” on Utila. Clearly parts had been scavenged off the wreck but still, the thing looked like its undercarriage had been wrenched off.
Later we learned that the plane had run into a cow upon landing. Apparently, nobody was hurt, besides the cow, which we were told “disintegrated” upon contact.
Utila island aerial, Bay Islands, Honduras.
OK, so Welcome to Utila! Grab your own luggage out of the plane, carry it over to the waiting van, take the short ride through the noisy, narrow, potholed, dusty, steaming and teeming streets of Utila Town to the commercial docks. Get on a 24 foot dory (motorized, at least) for the 30 minute slow cruise through the late afternoon heat and haze down the coast to Utopia Village, situated on a virtually deserted beach and within spitting distance from the living coral reef.
Utopia aerial, Bay Islands, Honduras.
The accessibility of the reef is what brought us to Utila, and the starred Trip Advisor reviews are what brought us to Utopia, whose amiable, genuinely friendly staff made us feel warmly welcomed as we got the run-down on the facilities. The dive shop, spacious dining area and main lodge, handful of rooms and nearby beach side cabanas, all crafted in Honduran hardwoods, nestled in the deep shade of sea grapes, gumba-limba and coconut trees struck us as homey, serene and every bit the tropical getaway we anticipated.
Utopia beach scene, Utila, Bay Islands, Honduras.
Robin on Utopia beach, Utila, Bay Islands, Honduras.
The next 5 days found us snorkeling on the “house reef”, sometimes in the morning and again in the afternoon. We soon familiarized ourselves with the immediate reef area and its denizens as we’d slowly fin over the shallows and out to the wall, which dropped to depths of over 100 feet.
We snorkel just offshore, Utila, Bay Islands, Honduras.
The water temp was warm, the visibility good to excellent, the corals apparently healthy, and the small reef tropical fish abundant. However, there was a decided lack of larger fish. The usual sea turtles, stingrays, cuttlefish, red snappers, groupers, and other species we are accustomed to spotting throughout the Caribbean were simply gone. This was in contrast to our experience in 2007 on the nearby island of Roatan, where we’d snorkeled daily with a diversity of fishes, amphibians, and crustaceans.
The lack of larger species on Utila was disturbing and a topic of speculation among the 8 or so other guests of this small resort, all of whom were well-traveled SCUBA divers. Based on information from the locals, we supposed that Utila was quite simply over-fished; repeating the pattern I’ve witnessed in island travel from the Bahamas to Belize, St. Kitts to the Yucatan. Everywhere we go, we speak to the older folks who make their living from the sea, and everywhere we hear the same examples of the complete collapse of abundance and variety of seafood these people experienced in their youth.
What does set Utila aside from most Caribbean islands is that it is uniquely situated in the path of migrating whale sharks, a fact that the dive operators and resorts on the island promote to SCUBA divers and marine enthusiasts. While we didn’t get to experience a close encounter with one of these awesome fish, a group of divers staying at Utopia had briefly jumped in the water with a whale shark earlier in the week, and although the encounter was brief, it was very much an exciting footnote for some of our fellow guests.
The days flowed all too quickly through our fingers, accented by an afternoon trip that the group took over to nearby Water Cay, a deserted little island that’s as picturesque as it is isolated.
Water Cay, Bay Islands, Honduras.
While the rest of the group walked the beaches and hung out in hammocks in the welcome shade and breeze, Robin and I snorkeled around the island. This turned out to be a lot more work than we’d planned because at the halfway point, over the lovely coral reef on the windward side, we faced the unrelenting current of the outgoing tide, which meant a lot of swimming with few pauses as we made our way to the final obstacle in our path, blocking our access to a long sandbar on the island’s lee.
Our group chills on a sandbar, Water Cay, Bay Islands, Honduras.
The obstacle was the reef itself, forming a steep and apparently impenetrable wall of sharp coral growing up from the sand bottom at about 40 feet to a height that was barely covered by the tidal outflow whipping around the point of the island. Yikes, we were in for it, so we just kept finning against that current while I probed for an opening, only to by stymied by water breaking over the reef top.
Eventually, after swimming half-way to a neighboring cay, we found a break in the wall and thankfully swam over some barely-covered razor-sharp coral to the sandbar.
A yummy beach BBQ (Barracuda, salad, pasta and rice), followed by relaxing in hammocks, helped us to recover from the snorkel workout.
Lynn chills on a tropic isle, Water Cay, Bay Islands, Honduras.
One evening the group decided to take a boat ride over to Pigeon Cay, a neighboring tiny island that hosts some 500 souls who live in stilt houses built on the living reef and the scant remaining “land” that hasn’t been torn away from the islet over the centuries. Most of the island’s residents descend from the first residents, who came to Utila from the Cayman Islands in the 1830s. The fisher-folk of Pigeon Cay provide almost all of the fish consumed on Utila and to this day fish only with hand-lines.
After a brief tour of the island hosted by our most-knowledgeable Utopia staffer, the group settled on the breezy deck of a bayside restaurant owned by “Mr. Herman” and his wife Gladys. Next thing you know we were the attentive (and somewhat captive) audience of Mr. Herman as he regaled us with colorfully-told Tales of the Sea that I found riveting.
Herman holds forth, Pigeon Cay, Bay Islands, Honduras.
Simply put, this was a 2-hour plus display of storytelling prowess. This gent of 66 years or so could talk the ear off a cob of corn, and I found him articulate, entertaining, and believable—clearly a man who can weave tales of magic and wonder with mere words and animated gestures. What a performance!
At one point Robin drug my attention away from a story of how Mr. Herman had caught, boated (in a 24 foot hand-rowed dory), and hauled home a 1,250 pound Blue Marlin using only a hand line and his wits. I guess we were 30 minutes past having eaten a so-so fish dinner and the wind off the dark ocean, the dim lighting of the dock and deck area, and the nearby chatter of folks who’d had a snoot-full were wearing thin for Robin. She commented sotto-voice “If I were Gladys I woulda killed this guy 20 years ago!” after the umpteenth time Mr. Herman mentioned his long-suffering wife of 40 years who had put up with his frequent and lengthy disappearances to chase some gig on a merchant ship sailing off to China or Japan or Peru. The ol’ “Girl in Every Port” was the oft-repeated theme underpinning Mr. Herman’s intro to each Next Story, and I think Gladys came out the Saint. Apparently so did the group, who commanded her presence and awarded her with a standing ovation!
Well, I wasn’t put off and indeed consider the stories and Mr. Herman’s storytelling to be a highlight of the trip! Seriously, if I could afford it, I’d return to Pigeon Cay to capture this animated and gifted Teller of (Tall?) Tales on media, before he’s gone.
Beach sunset, Utopia, Utila Island, Bay Islands, Honduras.
All too soon it was time to figure out how to cram all our dirty laundry and snorkel gear back into our carry-ons and backpacks and catch a slightly larger plane to the horrific noise inside San Pedro Sula airport terminal and the thankfully direct flight back to Atlanta—where we once again found our tans languishing under layers of clothing in uncharacteristically chilly late Spring temps.
Our Surf and Turf Honduras adventure is sadly behind us, but thanks to photographs, videos and windy blog entries, we can return to relive special moments of our vacation, however fleeting.
Video Snippets:
Pico Bonito lodge pool pan http://youtu.be/L2KXcg3wtRE
Unbelievable Falls pan: http://youtu.be/6MJeDyL4AKU
Honduras River Gorge pan: http://youtu.be/25kOMcuSgyM
Utopia Village Utila beach pan: http://youtu.be/68uO6ld8hJw
