This place is like a mini Yellowstone. Here, the intrepid, the shy
and the stupid can gaze upon mud vents and sulphur pots called
fumaroles and a baby volcano called a volcanito. The baby volcano
cries and squeals alot and screams "conserve me! Conserve me!
Ahhhhhhhhh!" Its quit a sight. Over three decades ago (a relatively
short time, geologically speaking) the volcanito spewed forth from the
earth in a furry of ash and molten smegma, proving once again that
volcanoes do not need human beings more than human beings need them.

Park flora includes centuries old guanacaste (for which the province
is named)and ceiba trees towering thousands of meters above the
Colorado River, their tap roots stepping onto the trail like
giants’feet, their branches twined and entagled in mirad sepentine
forms that defy the essence of every storybook imgined Deep Dark
Wood. Multicolored squrrels dart to and fro white monkeys prowl the
treetops in search of a furtive glimpse of their primary prey:
gringos’handbags.

The servicios sanitarios, as they are called here include toilets that
flush by pulling a rope that sticks out of a hole where the handle
ought to be. Giant, deadly human hating poisonous spiders creep in
the corners, waiting to commit acts of unspeakable degradation and
cruelty upon any who venture too near their evil, thread woven lairs
of death. One of the bathrooms featured a hand drawn picture of a
toilet with the word "malo!" (bad!) screaming its monosyllabic warning
at the weak, weary and innocent. Why "Malo!"? Don’t know… The
toilet flushed, there were no spiders, it looked clean. Maybe a clown
put a spell on thaty stall and infused it with evil clown mojo. That
might be hard to detect without infared or ultraviolet.

– Justin Teerlinck