Rosary beads swing
rhythmically from the rear view mirror as bus number 811 climbs the
Sierra Apaneca-Ilamatepec in Western El Salvador. It is Friday
afternoon and spirits are high aboard the recommissioned school bus.
Salvadoran cowboys flash smiles decorated with gold, matriarchs
search for places to store their basins of tortilla dough, and
children fix curious stares on me. This is the trail to Parque
Nacional El Imposible.
El Imposible
encompasses 9,000 acres of endangered mountainous habitat. It was
established in 1989, and is operated by Salvanatura, a
non-governmental organization based in San Salvador. Their staff is
visibly surprised by my arrival. I pay the six dollar entrance fee
and become the sole inhabitant of El Salvador's premier tropical dry
forest. While setting up camp, I can see past the foothills to the
mighty Pacific. The Earth's only sun is melting in to the ocean,
throwing the full spectrum of orange across the evening sky. Night
falls and I sleep beneath a moonless canvas brushed thick with stars.
I rise at first light and hike to the park's highest point, Cerro El Leon. Along the well-maintained trail I encounter armadillos, coatis, and agoutis. Soaring vultures circle above and hummingbirds dart between trees. From the summit I can see the southwestern peaks of Guatemala and the rivers that run westerly from the mountain to the nearby coast, forming the Barra de Santiago estuary.
The next morning,
roadside roosters trumpet my departure from El Imposible. The bus
driver navigates the careening descent down the cobblestone road,
greeting each passenger by name. I soon arrive in the village of
Barra de Santiago, which connects the Pacific Ocean to the mangrove
forest of the estuary.
Mangrove is the common
name given to any species of tree able to survive in salt water.
These halophytic marvels create an excellent habitat for juvenile
wildlife. A local fisherman agrees to rent his hand made canoe and I
paddle through the shallow water to explore the towering nursery.
As I creep through the
Western Hemisphere's most important waterfowl nesting ground, the
plentiful bird calls mix with the steady crash of the nearby Pacific.
Beyond the treetops are the misty peaks of the Apaneca-Ilamatepec.
Amongst the roots of the Red Mangroves, baby crocodiles are
propelling themselves through the water, hunting sardines that stray
too close to the surface. The apex predator's strong population
signifies a healthy ecosystem.
With my exploring
spirit satisfied, I return to the village and hang my hammock beneath
the shady palm thatch. In view of the estuary and the ocean, I reflect
on the solitude I have enjoyed in Western El Salvador. It is an
adventurer's paradise, and a well positioned port of call on the
trail between Antigua and Leon. The travellers will soon come.
While the sun once
again fulfils its obligation to the west, a passing flock of white
egrets flirt with a breaking wave. I leave here, hopeful that the
Salvadorans navigate their oncoming wave with a similar grace.
