"Four Seasons of Winter" - From National Geographic Traveler Nov/Dec 2002

By Carrie Miller, National Geographic Traveler Staff

Every winter, pasty skinned and wound tight in the post-holiday, pre-tax season, I'm overpowered with a strong desire to dust off my passport, hit the road, and feel the sun warm the backs of my legs. This year, my escape is Costa Rica-not the island's legendary rain forests but the overlooked string of beaches that make up the northwest coast. And what better way to see beaches-lots of beaches-than on a six-day horseback riding trek.

I am gratified immediately. Within minutes of mounting, I'm cantering along the sandy white crescents that scallop the coastline, flanked by a blue ocean and glimpses of fuchsia bougainvillea. Tina Rahm, the leader of our small group of riders, is a bronzed, blond Swede. Little Man, my horse, is a typical Costa Rican criollo: chiseled into sharp angles and bred to endure hot weather.

"How far will we be riding today?" I ask Rahm.

"Six beaches," she replies. "Everything around here is measured in beaches. There are six of them from Playa Portrero to our hotel at Bahia de los Piratas-about 13 miles."

Four beaches into the ride, we find some shade and hitch the horses to trees with the bright yellow rope halters they wear under their bridles. The ocean is calm and warm.

"You're picking up that Costa Rican color," the manager of Bahia de los Piratas, our first overnight stop, says to me. "There's supposed to be hidden treasures here still," he adds, pointing to the caves that dot the coastline. "Everyone's looking, but no one's found anything. Yet."

Most of Costa Rica's treasures aren't hidden, we discover, as we ride south over black sand beaches, beaches studded with sand dollars and rimmed with colorful fishing boats, beaches composed of dunes of sand as soft as superfine sugar.

Over a lunch of spicy rice and beer at a tiny tin shack with wooden tables and a floor of crushed seashells, I stretch out, enjoying the view of the sea and the dozing horses.

"How did you find these places?" Maria, a group member, asks Rahm. In a country that seems to have been overtaken by tourism, these cantinas and beaches come as welcome surprises.

"I just started riding south, and discovered the trails as I went along," Rahm says.

Trotting through a dry tropical forest, we ride overland from pasture to pasture, past herds of huge Brahma bulls with skin like suede, past noble guanacaste trees with seed pods shaped like tiny elephant ears, under trees groaning with the weight of scolding howler monkeys.

I take a deep swig from a water bottle and douse Little Man's neck with the rest. The ground is red and cracked. I can almost feel the thirst of the land, reaching the end of its patience with the dry season.

"In a month it will rain," Tina says. "Then everyone will be in a good mood. Even the horses wait for the rain."

They may be waiting for the rain, but as a four-mile stretch of white sand, hazy and shimmering in the heat, unfolds in front of me, I realize this is what I was waiting for. We break into a full gallop. My horse's stride is strong and plunging, and the ocean spray cools my sunburned skin. Skimming down the beach, I let go, utterly, and feel myself unfurl like a ribbon. The smells of salt and saddle fill my senses, the coastline stretches beyond my imagination, and I can hear-and feel-hooves striking a perfect cadence on the tide-soaked sand.