Chapter 9: 5000 Trees
From pineapple fields to the rain-soaked forests of Costa Rica, this was the turning point: a dream rooted, a mission fulfilled, and the ride renewed.
The ride from Chiles had been short but symbolic: past pineapple monocultures and displaced forests, through a corridor where tropical wilderness had once reigned. The road itself was gravel, cratered with potholes and hemmed in by dust and heat. A crop duster flew overhead, briefly pulling my thoughts from the vigilance required in this agricultural landscape to the anticipation of reaching La Suerte. I stopped at a small tienda for water and a snack. Before I could leave, the owners surprised me with a hot lunch of boiled yuca and other local foods—free of charge. They asked me to return before I left Costa Rica. These were strangers, yet they saw something in the journey worth nourishing.
At La Suerte Biological Field Station, Ernesto met me at the gate. He straddled his bike and pedaled beside me down a narrow dirt track to the "big house," a towering wooden structure that housed the kitchen, dining hall, and bunk rooms for the students and researchers who visit throughout the year. There, I met Erica and many others who had been preparing for weeks for the project ahead. The welcome was exceptionally warm—smiles, encouragement, and shared excitement for launching something we’d each envisioned in our own way.
La Suerte protects approximately 1,000 acres of forest and recovering pastureland. Once cattle ranches operated by the father of the station’s founder, these lands are now managed by Maderas Rainforest Conservancy, an organization created by his daughter to steward both La Suerte and a sister site on Ometepe Island in Nicaragua. La Suerte includes large tracts of intact native forest, with massive mountain almendros and three of Costa Rica’s four monkey species—howler monkeys, white-faced capuchins, and Geoffroy’s spider monkeys—often visible from the big house in the mornings, feeding in the towering trees at the forest edge.
The property harbors a remarkable variety of life—mammals, birds, insects, amphibians—and plays a critical role in an ongoing ecological corridor project that, when complete, will connect Braulio Carrillo National Park to the south-southwest and Tortuguero National Park to the north-northeast. This corridor is a large-scale collaborative initiative involving both governmental agencies and non-governmental organizations. Its mission: reconnect fragmented habitats across a landscape increasingly dominated by pineapple plantations, extensive drainage systems, and intensive agrochemical use. La Suerte not only lies within this emerging corridor but is also an active participant in the planning and conservation dialogues shaping its future. As an anchor point for rewilding in northeastern Costa Rica, the station offers proof that biodiversity can return when forests are protected and reconnected.
My Climate Zero project aimed to fill in persistent gaps—former pastures that remained open despite decades without cattle—and to add tree biodiversity to the forest interior and edges. While La Suerte had already made great strides in conservation, our project brought renewed focus to reforestation within this extraordinary refuge.
Early in the process, shortly after I arrived at La Suerte, I clarified one core priority: that whenever possible—and there would of course be exceptions—I would personally plant each tree. The mission was intimate and physical, not symbolic. But time was limited. To reach Ushuaia by bicycle before winter, we had to be efficient. We found creative ways to accelerate the work without compromising intent. Small crews tackled separate tasks: clearing pastures with the tractor, digging holes along carefully spaced transects, relocating seedlings, and marking planting sites. I joined in all of it—every job except driving the tractor. Still, I planted the vast majority of the trees myself—close to 90 percent of the final 5,000.
Exceptions were meaningful, too. On one planting day, the kitchen staff and their children asked to help, and we welcomed their energy. Together, we planted trees that would one day sustain the station’s ecosystem. What began as a personal goal to zero out my 52-year carbon footprint had evolved into something much richer: a shared act of restoration by people from across the Americas, reinforcing the integrity of a forest in recovery, and standing against the steady encroachment of agriculture and development.
The days of planting were brutal—far more difficult than most people accustomed to temperate climates could imagine. This was the tropics—where heat and humidity were constant. Heavy rains transformed trails into muck. We moved through the same mud, watched constantly for bullet ants, and fought off mosquitoes despite repellents. I was never bitten by the ants, but I was visited by two botflies, their larvae later extracted by a pharmacist’s assistant in Colombia. Rubber boots, drenched with sweat, had to be peeled off daily—pints of perspiration poured from them. This was no meditative walk in the woods. And yet, we planted with conviction. One YouTube follower criticized our pace, comparing it to machine-assisted planting in mid-latitude clear-cuts—perfect soil, easy terrain, tools optimized for speed. But this was the jungle. Every tree was earned.
The planting effort unfolded like a wave. On January 29, a day before my 53rd birthday and 141 days since leaving Cartwright, Labrador, the first 200 trees went in. By January 31, that number had risen to over 1,000. February 2 saw a surge—600 trees in one day. We crossed 3,200 by February 5, the halfway mark. From there, momentum carried us. Teams refined their methods, spacing rows, delivering saplings, and marking holes. As I moved between crews—sweating, hauling, digging—I felt the rhythm take hold. It was hard, honest labor and deeply satisfying despite discomfort from festering insect bites, muscle fatigue, and the relentlessness of equatorial conditions.
The trees—native species selected for ecological function—were chosen to reinforce and restore forest connectivity across the fragmented lowlands between Braulio Carrillo and Tortuguero National Parks. Among the most commonly planted were guachipelin, almendro, and corteza amarillo—species valued for their growth speed, durability, and ability to support wildlife. Many provided fruit or shelter to animals including toucans, agoutis, and the three monkey species that were resident at La Suerte. Jaguars, though elusive, still traverse this region, navigating a mosaic of remaining habitat. Our efforts contributed to a broader network of governmental and grassroots initiatives working to stitch these fragments into a continuous ecological fabric.
By February 15, we hit the number: 5,000 trees.
There was no fanfare—just a sudden downpour of rain, almost on cue. No balloons, no headlines. Just the people who made it possible, and an unwavering belief that something important had taken root. With their support, I had done what I set out to do. But more importantly, we had created a story greater than its parts. A shared commitment to climate action, embodied in sweat, soil, and saplings.
After the final tree was planted, Ernesto returned to the big house to resume his law school commitments, encouraged and supported by his sister Erica—two remarkable people whose quiet dedication stood out, even among a community filled with a handful of heroes who helped make this project possible. I owe a debt to them all. After planting nearly 200 more trees with Macho—another quiet hero in this story—I walked alone to a patch of forest, listened to the birds, and let it all sink in.
This had started as a whisper of an idea—in woods near the coast of Maine—and now it had form. Life. Legacy. Climate Zero was no longer theoretical. It was forest.
Three days later, I rolled away.
My legs protested. After two weeks off the bike, I cramped hard. By mile 45, I questioned the wisdom of resuming so abruptly. But I kept going. One hundred five miles later, I reached a modest tourist destination on the Caribbean coast—waves breaking under stars.
Beyond the small room that I rented—where I crawled inside and tried to recover—lay the second half of the ride. The first half was about proving something. This half was about honoring it. The trees were in the ground. My debt to the planet—at least in theory—was paid.
But the journey wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
The journey ahead would carry me all the way south, to the very end of the road in the Americas, through the final reaches of Mesoamerica and into the immensity of South America. Awaiting me were landscapes both feared and revered: the tangled wilds of the Darién Gap, the vast sprawl of the Amazon Basin, the high passes and thin air of the Andes, the remote grandeur of Patagonia—and countless unknowns that had stirred both wonder and apprehension in my imagination for months.
At La Suerte Biological Field Station, Ernesto met me at the gate. He straddled his bike and pedaled beside me down a narrow dirt track to the "big house," a towering wooden structure that housed the kitchen, dining hall, and bunk rooms for the students and researchers who visit throughout the year. There, I met Erica and many others who had been preparing for weeks for the project ahead. The welcome was exceptionally warm—smiles, encouragement, and shared excitement for launching something we’d each envisioned in our own way.
La Suerte protects approximately 1,000 acres of forest and recovering pastureland. Once cattle ranches operated by the father of the station’s founder, these lands are now managed by Maderas Rainforest Conservancy, an organization created by his daughter to steward both La Suerte and a sister site on Ometepe Island in Nicaragua. La Suerte includes large tracts of intact native forest, with massive mountain almendros and three of Costa Rica’s four monkey species—howler monkeys, white-faced capuchins, and Geoffroy’s spider monkeys—often visible from the big house in the mornings, feeding in the towering trees at the forest edge.
The property harbors a remarkable variety of life—mammals, birds, insects, amphibians—and plays a critical role in an ongoing ecological corridor project that, when complete, will connect Braulio Carrillo National Park to the south-southwest and Tortuguero National Park to the north-northeast. This corridor is a large-scale collaborative initiative involving both governmental agencies and non-governmental organizations. Its mission: reconnect fragmented habitats across a landscape increasingly dominated by pineapple plantations, extensive drainage systems, and intensive agrochemical use. La Suerte not only lies within this emerging corridor but is also an active participant in the planning and conservation dialogues shaping its future. As an anchor point for rewilding in northeastern Costa Rica, the station offers proof that biodiversity can return when forests are protected and reconnected.
My Climate Zero project aimed to fill in persistent gaps—former pastures that remained open despite decades without cattle—and to add tree biodiversity to the forest interior and edges. While La Suerte had already made great strides in conservation, our project brought renewed focus to reforestation within this extraordinary refuge.
Early in the process, shortly after I arrived at La Suerte, I clarified one core priority: that whenever possible—and there would of course be exceptions—I would personally plant each tree. The mission was intimate and physical, not symbolic. But time was limited. To reach Ushuaia by bicycle before winter, we had to be efficient. We found creative ways to accelerate the work without compromising intent. Small crews tackled separate tasks: clearing pastures with the tractor, digging holes along carefully spaced transects, relocating seedlings, and marking planting sites. I joined in all of it—every job except driving the tractor. Still, I planted the vast majority of the trees myself—close to 90 percent of the final 5,000.
Exceptions were meaningful, too. On one planting day, the kitchen staff and their children asked to help, and we welcomed their energy. Together, we planted trees that would one day sustain the station’s ecosystem. What began as a personal goal to zero out my 52-year carbon footprint had evolved into something much richer: a shared act of restoration by people from across the Americas, reinforcing the integrity of a forest in recovery, and standing against the steady encroachment of agriculture and development.
The days of planting were brutal—far more difficult than most people accustomed to temperate climates could imagine. This was the tropics—where heat and humidity were constant. Heavy rains transformed trails into muck. We moved through the same mud, watched constantly for bullet ants, and fought off mosquitoes despite repellents. I was never bitten by the ants, but I was visited by two botflies, their larvae later extracted by a pharmacist’s assistant in Colombia. Rubber boots, drenched with sweat, had to be peeled off daily—pints of perspiration poured from them. This was no meditative walk in the woods. And yet, we planted with conviction. One YouTube follower criticized our pace, comparing it to machine-assisted planting in mid-latitude clear-cuts—perfect soil, easy terrain, tools optimized for speed. But this was the jungle. Every tree was earned.
The planting effort unfolded like a wave. On January 29, a day before my 53rd birthday and 141 days since leaving Cartwright, Labrador, the first 200 trees went in. By January 31, that number had risen to over 1,000. February 2 saw a surge—600 trees in one day. We crossed 3,200 by February 5, the halfway mark. From there, momentum carried us. Teams refined their methods, spacing rows, delivering saplings, and marking holes. As I moved between crews—sweating, hauling, digging—I felt the rhythm take hold. It was hard, honest labor and deeply satisfying despite discomfort from festering insect bites, muscle fatigue, and the relentlessness of equatorial conditions.
The trees—native species selected for ecological function—were chosen to reinforce and restore forest connectivity across the fragmented lowlands between Braulio Carrillo and Tortuguero National Parks. Among the most commonly planted were guachipelin, almendro, and corteza amarillo—species valued for their growth speed, durability, and ability to support wildlife. Many provided fruit or shelter to animals including toucans, agoutis, and the three monkey species that were resident at La Suerte. Jaguars, though elusive, still traverse this region, navigating a mosaic of remaining habitat. Our efforts contributed to a broader network of governmental and grassroots initiatives working to stitch these fragments into a continuous ecological fabric.
By February 15, we hit the number: 5,000 trees.
There was no fanfare—just a sudden downpour of rain, almost on cue. No balloons, no headlines. Just the people who made it possible, and an unwavering belief that something important had taken root. With their support, I had done what I set out to do. But more importantly, we had created a story greater than its parts. A shared commitment to climate action, embodied in sweat, soil, and saplings.
After the final tree was planted, Ernesto returned to the big house to resume his law school commitments, encouraged and supported by his sister Erica—two remarkable people whose quiet dedication stood out, even among a community filled with a handful of heroes who helped make this project possible. I owe a debt to them all. After planting nearly 200 more trees with Macho—another quiet hero in this story—I walked alone to a patch of forest, listened to the birds, and let it all sink in.
This had started as a whisper of an idea—in woods near the coast of Maine—and now it had form. Life. Legacy. Climate Zero was no longer theoretical. It was forest.
Three days later, I rolled away.
My legs protested. After two weeks off the bike, I cramped hard. By mile 45, I questioned the wisdom of resuming so abruptly. But I kept going. One hundred five miles later, I reached a modest tourist destination on the Caribbean coast—waves breaking under stars.
Beyond the small room that I rented—where I crawled inside and tried to recover—lay the second half of the ride. The first half was about proving something. This half was about honoring it. The trees were in the ground. My debt to the planet—at least in theory—was paid.
But the journey wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
The journey ahead would carry me all the way south, to the very end of the road in the Americas, through the final reaches of Mesoamerica and into the immensity of South America. Awaiting me were landscapes both feared and revered: the tangled wilds of the Darién Gap, the vast sprawl of the Amazon Basin, the high passes and thin air of the Andes, the remote grandeur of Patagonia—and countless unknowns that had stirred both wonder and apprehension in my imagination for months.