After photographing the red-eyed tree frog, I stayed still for a while—kneeling in the damp undergrowth, camera resting on my lap, listening. The rain had slowed to a mist. The jungle, as always, was awake.

From somewhere above, the low, hooting call of a howler monkey rolled through the canopy like distant thunder. Moments later, the shrill cry of a toucan cut across the soundscape, sharp and sudden. The leaves around me rustled—some unseen insect or lizard slipping back into the green.

This is what it’s like in Costa Rica. You don’t just see wildlife—you’re immersed in it. It surrounds you. Watches you. Moves just out of reach. You learn quickly that the jungle has layers: what you notice at first glance, and what slowly reveals itself the longer you stay still.

In a single afternoon, I spotted three species of frog, a sloth camouflaged in the crook of a cecropia tree, and a flash of iridescent blue as a morpho butterfly fluttered past like a wandering piece of sky. Tiny leafcutter ants marched across the trail, each carrying a green flag of leaf in their jaws. Above them, a hummingbird hovered beside a flower, wings moving faster than thought.

Each encounter felt personal—like the forest was letting me in, just a little.