No sooner had my husband and I left Juan Santamaría International Airport than we almost ran over a family crossing the Pan-American Highway.

“Look out!” I screeched as he stomped on the brakes and swerved into the right lane.

The four Ticos dropped their shopping bags in the middle of the road and ran back to the safety of the median. When we checked the rearview mirror, we saw them laughing good-naturedly, seemingly unaware they had almost been squashed by our two-door Suzuki. It wasn’t an auspicious start to a road trip around the country.

We were headed for the Monteverde Cloud Forest Biological Reserve, a three-hour drive northwest of San José via notoriously bad access roads. (“Only four-wheel drive,” said the agent at Dollar Rent a Car when we asked what type of vehicle to rent for the trip.)

While most communities in Costa Rica welcome paving, the isolated towns of Monteverde and Santa Elena lobbied hard to keep their winding dirt roads, riddled with potholes, in an effort to avoid overdevelopment. It seems to have worked: As my husband maneuvered the last 20 miles of steep, rocky road, I admired the rolling green hills unblemished by condominiums and resort complexes.

Our first stop was El Sol, a duo of log cabins built by a German family on a 30-acre farm outside Santa Elena. We were staying for two nights in the smaller of the two structures, tucked away down a grassy path on the secluded hillside. Walking into the rustic, one-room cabin filled with rough-hewn furniture, we felt a little like the Quakers who settled Monteverde in the 1950s.

Drawn by the area’s ideal climate for cattle grazing and the Costa Rican government’s abolishment of its military (Quakers are devoted pacifists), 11 Quaker families emigrated from the United States during the Korean War. They founded a quiet community of dairy farmers around the “Green Mountain” and, in order to protect their watershed, preserved the mountaintop rainforests above the 3,000-acre plot. Despite the regular stream of tourists headed for the hills with telephoto lenses, the two towns remain close-knit communities of artisans and cheesemakers.

Since the cabin came equipped with a kitchen, we decided to drive 10 minutes into Santa Elena to pick up supplies at the local grocery store. Exiting with our arms laden with tortillas, cilantro, goat cheese and chicken, we realized we had parked the miniature SUV on an incline that dropped off into a small ravine. We gunned the engine, but the 2,000-pound Suzuki spun its wheels, unable to gain traction on the slope

Luckily, a group of Ticos sitting outside the grocery store saw our predicament and immediately rushed to our aid, pushing the front end of the tiny car as we reversed up the hill. Feeling both relieved and embarrassed, we thanked them. They laughed. “¡Pura vida! ,” said one man, with a grin.

That evening, we watched the sun set over the valley while enjoying tacos and Imperial beer on our porch. On every side of the cabin the sounds of tree frogs, rustling bushes and other unidentifiable nighttime noises reached a deafening crescendo as the darkness thickened. Enormous moths flapped fruitlessly against the windows until we at last turned out the lights and tried to sleep.

In the morning, we headed for the Cloud Forest Reserve, hoping to see by daylight some of the creatures that assaulted our slumber. Although it attracts almost 200,000 visitors annually, we saw few other people on the park’s forested paths and canopy bridges.

Unfortunately, we also found few animals: The resplendent quetzal, the bird that turned Monteverde into an ecological mega-attraction in the 1980s, was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t until we returned to the visitors center several hours later that we spotted a few monkeys hanging around the park entrance. Despite the lack of visible wildlife, the day wasn’t a total bust, given we had a decidedly un-Quaker comfort — El Sol’s handbuilt sauna — to return to.

The next day we headed back to San José, where we traded the pint-sized Suzuki for a more practical Peugeot before striking out for the Caribbean coast. Not surprisingly, since it was the rainy season, the sky opened up as soon as we left the city, dumping thick sheets of rain onto the road and splattering mud over the windshield. We pulled over to wait out the deluge at a roadside stand, where an elderly Tica was dishing up gallo pinto, Costa Rica’s ubiquitous rice and beans dish.

We arrived in Puerto Viejo de Talamanca, on the southern end of the country’s Caribbean coastline, well after dark. A one-road town that’s getting more popular every year, Puerto Viejo can no longer be called Costa Rica’s best-kept secret, but its beaches are arguably still the country’s most beautiful. The renowned breaks at Salsa Brava and Playa Cocles attract a laid-back crowd of surfers, while a string of half-deserted beaches stretches east all the way to Manzanillo.

Surfers hit the beach © Allison Voigts

We checked in at a forest bungalow far enough from town to muffle the reggaeton beats but close enough to bike to the beach. By the time we finished breakfast the next morning, the wind had whipped up the waves at Playa Cocles, and I spent an hour struggling against the surf before discovering a sheltered break on the west side of town where the locals were paddling out.

After regaining my strength with some fresh ceviche, I cycled east along the palm-lined road toward Manzanillo. The eight-mile stretch is encompassed in part by a wildlife refuge that restricts development, ensuring the sandy paths leading to the beach remain empty save for a few wooden houses and simple soda restaurants.

Each swath of fine white sand looked more deserted and appealing than the last, and I felt compelled to chain the bicycle to a palm tree and test the water at every turnoff. Arriving at last at Punta Uva, I found a steep-banked beach jutting into the clear, deep ocean. A local woman sat picnicking on the sand. While her two little boys dove for shellfish nearby, I bobbed in the warm water and watched an afternoon storm approaching.

Reluctantly, we left a day later for San José, following the coast with the windows rolled down and the floorboards covered in sand. I suddenly felt the urge to drive. As soon as we turned west into the mountains, however, the rain clouds burst, sending steam up from the asphalt and small tributaries of water down from the hillsides.

“Don’t get too close to the edge,” my husband advised.

“Of course,” I said, just before careening around a tight curve and nearly hydroplaning into a logging truck. We agreed I should return to navigating.

Street performer on Avenida Central © Allison Voigts

After dropping the car off in San José, we headed for Avenida Central, the pedestrian-only thoroughfare at the center of the city. We bought ice cream cones and wandered slowly past street performers and women selling churros in the area surrounding the National Theater and the Gran Hotel Costa Rica. As we stretched our legs in the sunshine, a small SUV full of foreigners slowed at a nearby intersection and a blonde woman stuck her head out.

“Hey!” she called. “How do we get to the Pan-American Highway?”

Costa Rica Info to Go

Juan Santamaría International Airport (SJO) is located 12 miles west of San José in the suburb of Alajuela. Half a dozen rental agencies offer cars at the airport; expect to pay about $450 a week, plus a 12 percent fee when renting at the airport, for a four-wheel-drive vehicle with unlimited mileage. Rental agencies require a valid driver’s license or International Driving Permit and basic insurance (an additional $15–20 per day).