The legend

Los Sapos is a sacred place. Photo by Steve Yaccino

By Steve Yaccino

There are some 12 species of toads in the Copán region of Honduras, but ask anyone living in the Copán valley and they’ll tell you Los Sapos, “The Toads,” is a sacred place, not a species of amphibian.

I am wandering the tropical forest around the Hacienda San Lucas seeking the ancient ceremonial site named after this Mayan fertility symbol. According to local tradition, Los Sapos, a possible maternity ward for Mayan woman, still holds special powers relating to fertility, and I rarely pass up an opportunity to rediscover my childhood fantasies of being Juan Ponce de Leon searching for the fountain of youth.

Red three-wheeled TucTucs clutter the streets of nearby Copán Ruinas. For the equivalent of two U.S. dollars, I hired one to take me up the mountain to spend an afternoon exploring the hacienda’s newly renovated, eco-friendly bed and breakfast built on 300 acres of unexcavated Mayan ruins that overlook Honduras’ only Mayan archeological sight.

I’ve heard stories about the rejuvenation retreats hosted at the lodge-the yoga sessions over the valley in the mornings and the spiritual fire sessions that offer communion with the deceased spirits of the Mayan people at night. I’m intrigued by the clay roofed farmhouse and stone walkways that radiate femininity, a country quaintness and serenity. The hacienda’s owner credits Los Sapos as the source of this tranquility.

The truth is, I’ve been in Honduras for almost a week and can’t seem to slow myself down enough to really take it in. If I am going to start over, Los Sapos seems like the place to begin.

A young boy led me to this trail and left me to find my way. I am holding a crude map from the lodge, but I am lost and half convinced my difficulty has something to do with karma and the number of toads I captured in pickle jars as a child.

I step over roots and bridges, up slopes that take me deeper into the trees and higher up the mountain. The map makes less sense as the path jogs and narrows. For a brief moment, I climb a pile of rocks to find my bearings and lay the map down to apply another layer of bug repellent. The insects are ubiquitous here; the afternoon sunlight is wearing me down. I hike until the trail dead-ends and notice a man with a machete walking through the brush. He wears a cowboy hat and speaks in a slurpy Spanish of missing teeth.  I ask him for directions and he waves me to follow him back down the mountain. He clears the way with his machete as we walk, and leads me to the rocks I laid my map upon.

“Los Sapos,” he says pointing with a lopsided grin. I snap a picture for memory’s sake and return to the hacienda to call a TucTuc back to town. As I wait, I think about the other things I might discover if I wasn’t so busy trying to find them, and I wonder if the fountain of youth was under Ponce de Leon’s map the whole time.