In Quest of the Elusive Quetzal

It's 6 in the morning.

The first rays of sun stream through the trees, falling on pink bougainvillea, exotic orchids, and soft ferns.

Suddenly all slumber is shattered by the piercing shriek of a scarlet macaw. Assorted birds join the chorus, awakening a bevy of furry critters who, like myself, open a reluctant eye and begin to stir.

Costa Rica? So soon?

Uh, no. I haven't left home yet.

My house, you see, is a sort of jungle annex, a Cypress Gardens North, if you will, near Boston, festooned with flora and an ever-growing menagerie of fauna (including that raucous macaw).

So it was with much excitement that I packed my binoculars, and a six-pack of industrial-strength bug spray, and headed south for a bird-and-botany adventure in the tangled, tropical wilds of Costa Rica.

On the way, a layover at Miami Airport was time for a crash course in intensive Spanish. As everyone knows who's been there, the airport contains the largest Spanish-speaking population outside Guadalajara.

In a matter of hours, I was trotting along behind Arturo Jarqun, a Costa Rican guide, in the 25,000-acre Monteverde Cloud Forest Preserve with five fellow nature lovers from the States.

The forest here, high in the central mountains, is cool and verdant, shrouded in a scrim-like mist that bathes and nurtures it. Every branch drips with arboreal orchids, bromeliads, and ferns. "One tree is like a botanical garden; as many as 30 different plants on one tree," he said, identifying a particular specimen by its Latin name.

Hundreds of bird species either migrate between the two continents or are permanent residents here.

But more than any bird (or creature), it is the resplendent quetzal that is the drawing card.

"Did you see a quetzal?" is a question you'll be asked time and again by fellow quetzal questers.

A negative response is nothing less than humiliation.

"No, but I saw a sloth, and a..."

Forget it. It doesn't matter if you saw King Kong. You didn't see a quetzal. Shame on you. Go to your room.

Arturo was somewhat optimistic. Our chance for spotting the elusive quetzal was "about 50-50" he said.

Then one morning, things began to feel different. The sun appeared, dissipating the mist and stretching narrow shafts of light through the trees.

Shedding our ponchos, we entered the emerald forest in single file, looking a bit like ants in a caesar salad (sans anchovies).

A variety of greens enveloped us as we were dwarfed by giant ferns and 150-foot trees. A carpet of moss blanketed the ground, while vines dangled from the canopy like streamers on a departing ocean liner.

The air, cool and oxygen-charged, honed our senses.

There were birds everywhere; orange-chinned parakeets, woodpeckers, magpies, warblers, and hummingbirds - the Faberg jewels of the forest. A magnificent hummingbird sat on its thimble-sized nest woven of moss and lichen. Some 50 species of hummingbirds can be found in the Monteverde area.

A coati (a sort of stretched-out raccoon), foraged in the bush. We saw two-toed sloths and a Mexican porcupine in the area.

Finally we stopped along the path. "We'll wait here," Arturo said softly.

This was quetzal country.

We waited...

Other quetzal-seekers joined us.

We watched, scanning the forest canopy. Nothing.

Then, out of a cloudless sky it appeared.

"There," Arturo whispered, motioning to the top of a fig tree, quickly mounting his bazooka-sized telescope on a tripod.

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