Monteverde is a ridge in Costa Rica that sits inside the cloud rather than under it, and it does not wait for rain. Moss, ferns and hanging epiphytes comb droplets out of the passing wind, and the water drips off them to the ground. The fine, wind-driven mist has a local name, pelo de gato, cat's hair, and this horizontal rain keeps the streams running through months when nothing falls from the sky. The trail carries you onto a suspension bridge slung across a ravine, and the canopy arrives at eye level. Orchids, bromeliads and mosses grow on bare branches that normally sit far above your head. That rigging has a history. In 1979 a biologist strung cables between rainforest trees so ecologists could work in a canopy they could barely reach; in the 1990s it became a paying ride. The reserve on the far flank of these mountains was paid for by schoolchildren and is now bigger than Monteverde itself, the country's largest private reserve.
Guides find the resplendent quetzal by call, then swing a scope onto a branch: a male, iridescent green, two tail streamers trailing past his body. The place to look is around fruiting wild avocado: the small green aguacatillo they pluck in mid-hover and swallow whole is the reason they are here at all. On the same trails a collared redstart flits a metre ahead of you, using you as a beater to kick insects out of the leaf litter. Costa Ricans call it the friend of man. At the feeders by the gate a dozen hummingbird species fight over sugar water at arm's length, and you hear the wingbeats first. An hour of climbing ends on the continental divide. The Caribbean wind comes over the ridge carrying its cloud and hits you full in the face, the trees stunted and bent downwind, one slope draining to the Pacific and the other back east. The golden toad lived in this forest and nowhere else. It was last seen in 1989, and has been the emblem for what happens when the cloud lifts ever since.