(From the continuing Bizarre Costa Rican Death and Reincarnation of the Fearless Puppy)

by Doug “Ten” Rose

My father died at the age of 89. This happened a little less than two years ago. I had not seen him during the last ten years of his life. No one notified me at the time of his death.

Several months after the fact, my estranged brother, the executor of Morris Rose’s estate, contacted me due to his obligation to comply with the terms of our father’s will. Much to my surprise, the old man had left a considerable amount of money to me.

Up until that point, I had been a homeless person living in poverty for the better part of 40 years. I didn’t inherit a retirement-on-the-beach amount of money, but it was enough to get a new mouth full of teeth and have some free time to finish a second book. I am grateful to my father. It was a rarity if we agreed on anything (except that life on Earth requires a solid strip of duct tape over your ass), but in the end he allowed me a share of what he had worked all his life to accumulate. My brother tried to convince him that I was not competent enough to receive all the money at once. This “brother” advised dad to leave my share in his trust, to be doled out as this younger sibling saw fit. Dad told him to f-ck off. That, to my mind, was enough to erase any negative history that had existed between my father and myself.

It was specified that I get a share of the money, but all my father’s physical possessions were sold at the discretion of the executor. My brother saw fit to give me one piece of memorabilia. It was my father’s badge. He wasn’t a policeman. He was a New York City electrical inspector for most of his life. For the last five years of his career, he was the Borough Superintendent for Public Buildings in Brooklyn. There are disadvantages to being honest and working your way up slowly and legally through the system. He could have risen through the ranks a lot more quickly by turning an occasional blind eye. Although not a cop, he did have certain police-like powers. He could enter, evacuate, and close any public building in Brooklyn that he felt was unsafe or violated any part of the electrical code.

I am in Costa Rica today on Morris’s money, and on what would have been his ninety-first birthday. My friend Pat has asked me if I wanted to take a ride this morning to see the active volcano and geyser at Poas. The sight is a few hours out of San Jose, where we are getting our dental work done--and where I am also enjoying my withdrawal symptoms. (See Article 1 of this series for withdrawal details. Meet Patrick in more detail in Article 4, the next article of this series, Pulling Teeth—The Continuing Bizarre Death and Reincarnation of the Fearless Puppy. It will be posted here and available on the Facebook Page of Fearless Puppy on American Road)

Pat told me, “There was an earthquake there that killed a half dozen people and did a lot of damage some months ago, but if the volcano doesn’t blow and another earthquake doesn’t happen, it’ll be a great day!”

For the first time since his death I tacked my father’s badge to a shirt. “Sounds like a great place for a birthday party, brother! Let’s go.”

Rejeannne (Reggi) from southern Maine, a fellow dental patient and apartment complex resident, joined us for the trip.

None of us had been out of the city yet. We were all very much looking forward to enjoying the scenery that rural Costa Rica is famous for. We weren’t disappointed. It was a magnificent ride.

There was a half hour of sheer uphill beauty from the base of the mountain to the entrance of the Parque Nacional that contained the crater of the volcano and its geyser. A long series of switchback, horseshoe turns through wild jungle as well as cultivated strawberry, coffee, and ornamental flower plantations lined the not-quite two-lane road. Occasional small villages, fruit stands, infrequent lodges, and restaurants did nothing to detract from the majesty of our climb toward this authentic death-trap/scenic paradise. Exotic orchids hung proudly from unfamiliar branches resembling rare ornaments on some otherworldly type of Christmas tree. Plants resembling rhubarb sported leaves as large as elephant ears.

We drove below the clouds, then through the clouds, then above the clouds while skirting smiling locals and happy cows. Even the vegetation seemed to be laughing. (It has certainly seen enough rain to make it happy!) We finally reached the park entrance.

Perhaps 100 yards from the very small parking lot was a building that housed a museum explaining the geographical nuances of the area, the active crater, and the geyser. Upstairs in the cafeteria, samples of a Costa Rican version of coffee liquor were being offered free of charge. I fell off the wagon long enough to toast my father’s birthday with one, and then quickly got back on it. The taste was indescribable. That may have been due to the returning taste buds that my recently deceased cigarette habit afforded me. Fresh taste buds notwithstanding, I’m sure the combination of fine Costa Rican coffee and rum would kick Kahlua’s ass in any taste or quality contest.

Reggi seemed fitter, but Pat and I hadn’t adapted to the altitude and humidity of the mountain yet. We’d all had recent major surgery on our faces and were feeling the aftermath of that as well. Even San Jose had proven difficulty for us. The additional several thousand feet of altitude and severe drop in temperature coupled with the near-100% humidity provided disadvantages for the two oxygen-challenged aging Americans that we are. There were about 200 yards of bizarre foliage between the cafeteria and the crater sight. We huffed and puffed through the frigid rain forest as clouds rolled in and out of it, covering us in quickly alternating moments of thick blinding fog and blue-skied sunshine. It was an eerie spectacle that left me wondering whether Gandalf or Gollum might be popping out of the dense jungle mist.

We finally arrived at our incredible destination. We gaped like baffled children into a giant steaming cone so large and ominous that it frightened eagles to its perimeter. It contained a steaming sulphurous lake in its center. The crater was surrounded by the result of its violent history. Barren moonscape covered acres of scorched rock and earth that had long ago given up the idea of life, much less growth.

And then it all disappeared! Within 90 seconds a cloud rolled in and covered the entire sight. Perhaps 30 tourists from several countries, and many Ticos as well, ooohed and aaahed in the chilling mist. A sight that had seemed as big as all nature itself was suddenly swallowed up! Everything stopped as an international group of strangers was suddenly galvanized into an awe-stricken unit by the incredible common experience.

In about five minutes the cloud drifted away again. More ooohs and aaahs were followed by jokes about whether Frodo had made it to the sulphurous lake with the ring or not. It seems I wasn’t the only one picking up the Mirkwood feeling.

Within five minutes, crowd silence accompanied the reappearance of the cloud cover, and another disappearance of the crater. The pattern reoccurred three times within a half hour.

The volcano didn’t blow its cork, and the earthquake didn’t happen—today. We left the Parque Nacional for a ride down the other side of the mountain. It was as beautiful as the original ride up had been.

About half way back to San Jose we stopped in the town of Grecia for lunch. The owners of the restaurant were a Mexican woman and her Costa Rican husband. The combination of flavors was as wonderful as the people who ran the place. (I’m getting used to that. Everyone in this country seems friendly and almost no one seems stressed.) There was a small collection of books on a counter against the far wall. Several were Costa Rican guidebooks, the only thing I had forgotten to bring from America. I asked if they were for sale. She said no. Someone had moved out of her rental house and left the books behind. Since she didn’t pay for them, the lovely lady from Guadalajara said she would feel bad if someone else had to. “Just take them Senor, no charge.”

I bought lunch for our group with Morris’s money.

He would have done that if he were here. He loved to give other people gifts on his own birthdays. He had certainly given me one.

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