I think the river is finished rising. I certainly hope it is. Right now I have to wade through neck-deep water just to get to the other side, and if it rises much more than a meter more, this lab is going to flood.
Last night the rains fell hard and steady. Rumbling, rolling like too many lemmings on a see-saw, drops of water cascaded down from the sky. They poured like atmospheric maple syrup, thick and heavy, coating everything in sticky, slippery wet. They fell until the swamps overflowed and the trails flooded. They fell until masses of epiphytes, heavy with moisture, careened down out of the canopy, smacking into the ground with noises like a tomatoes hitting a concrete wall. Wrecks of bromeliads and orchids litter the ground now, at least in places where they have not already been washed away. The rains fell, and they fell, and they fell, and all the while the river kept rising. When I went to bed at eleven the drops pitter-pattered like pussy willows falling on sand. At midnight I woke up to the tremendous, violent roar of a tropical rainstorm. By one in the morning the downpour had only increased its ferocity. That was when the creeks must have started to back up.
All through the night, big things were happening. When the river hit twenty feet above normal, trees on the banks started giving up their branches to the current. Creaks and snaps could be heard from inside my room in the river station. The massive mudflow outside slid smoothly by, hiding below its opaque brown surface a turbulent whirlpool maze of currents and eddies, uprooted trees and rolling boulders, only barely visible as oddly-shaped ripples on the deceptively flat surface.
When the water rose to thirty feet above normal, the creeks started flowing backwards. Water from the mountains flowed up into our lowland watershed. The walkway in the swamp hid under a full meter of murk. Animals headed for high ground, concentrating on relatively dry land that would otherwise have to be considered totally saturated. At eight in the morning the roar had not abated. When the river hit forty feet above normal, the human evacuations began. I awoke to the sound of urgent knocking. My host, Wayne, answered the door and found a La Selva employee who stated that he had to pack and get out. The river was threatening to flood the river station. Water was already overflowing the trail when I left. My socks got soaked when I sloshed through two feet of river flowing up from a ravine.
I have been trapped in the lab clearing all day. I have not braved the neck-deep water trap on the other side of the bridge. I haven’t ventured out much at all except to take some photos. Here’s a pan shot from the bridge around noon. For reference, I’ve put up a different shot of the same river at normal flow.
Tomorrow the river will probably be lower. Perhaps we will climb a tree. Right now I am tired and am going to bed. Happy mother’s day!
Last night the rains fell hard and steady. Rumbling, rolling like too many lemmings on a see-saw, drops of water cascaded down from the sky. They poured like atmospheric maple syrup, thick and heavy, coating everything in sticky, slippery wet. They fell until the swamps overflowed and the trails flooded. They fell until masses of epiphytes, heavy with moisture, careened down out of the canopy, smacking into the ground with noises like a tomatoes hitting a concrete wall. Wrecks of bromeliads and orchids litter the ground now, at least in places where they have not already been washed away. The rains fell, and they fell, and they fell, and all the while the river kept rising. When I went to bed at eleven the drops pitter-pattered like pussy willows falling on sand. At midnight I woke up to the tremendous, violent roar of a tropical rainstorm. By one in the morning the downpour had only increased its ferocity. That was when the creeks must have started to back up.
All through the night, big things were happening. When the river hit twenty feet above normal, trees on the banks started giving up their branches to the current. Creaks and snaps could be heard from inside my room in the river station. The massive mudflow outside slid smoothly by, hiding below its opaque brown surface a turbulent whirlpool maze of currents and eddies, uprooted trees and rolling boulders, only barely visible as oddly-shaped ripples on the deceptively flat surface.
When the water rose to thirty feet above normal, the creeks started flowing backwards. Water from the mountains flowed up into our lowland watershed. The walkway in the swamp hid under a full meter of murk. Animals headed for high ground, concentrating on relatively dry land that would otherwise have to be considered totally saturated. At eight in the morning the roar had not abated. When the river hit forty feet above normal, the human evacuations began. I awoke to the sound of urgent knocking. My host, Wayne, answered the door and found a La Selva employee who stated that he had to pack and get out. The river was threatening to flood the river station. Water was already overflowing the trail when I left. My socks got soaked when I sloshed through two feet of river flowing up from a ravine.
Tomorrow the river will probably be lower. Perhaps we will climb a tree. Right now I am tired and am going to bed. Happy mother’s day!
posted by cody @ 11:39 PM
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