2008- "Doc Martens, Howlers, and Teak Consequences: Our Accidental Journey into Land Stewardship"
A misadvised jungle hike—complete with fire ants, howler monkeys, and overheating Doc Martens—led us to an unexpected realization: the land didn’t need design, it needed restoration. This is the story of how a walk gone wrong reshaped our approach to architecture and stewardship.
The trail along the Panamaes river
Staring at the teak
author
KRISTIN MORALES, LEED BD+C
FOUNDER / PRINCIPAL DESIGNER
IVAN MORALES
FOUNDER / PRINCIPAL DESIGNER
A couple of weeks after moving to Panama, we decided to hop the fence and explore the neighboring property, where an eco-resort was supposedly under construction. We had zero hiking experience, no machete, no map, and not even the foresight to bring a guide - we were trespassing after all. But we did bring snacks, water, and wore our “hiking boots”—a pair of shiny black Doc Martens that had never left pavement.
The trail began on the beach, in a grove of towering coconut palms—hundreds of them, at least 30 feet tall. They moved in slow, synchronized arcs, casting flickering patterns of light and shadow across the sand. The air was cool, the breeze salty and soft, and for a moment, we thought we might be on a relaxing stroll. We were enchanted—and completely unprepared.
Hermit crabs scuttled around our feet like tiny commuters, and as we entered a lagoon, snakes and alligators floated silently by, making it abundantly clear this wasn’t a nature walk in Central Park.
As we ventured deeper, the jungle quickly revealed its personality: thorny vines clawed at our legs, fire ants ambushed our ankles, and the trees loomed with prehistoric grandeur. Eventually, the trail vanished entirely—washed out by a recent storm—and the only way forward was to hike directly in the river. Naturally, we kept going. We had granola bars, after all.
Palm grove and Doc martens
Just as we were beginning to feel adventurous, the forest erupted into chaos. Two families of howler monkeys began shrieking across the river in a full-blown territorial dispute that sounded like a mix between a lion’s roar and a broken leaf blower. The sound echoed through the canopy with chest-rattling force. We froze, mid-step, unsure whether to duck, run, or attempt to negotiate. There was no clear protocol.
And then—just as suddenly as it had begun—it stopped.
What followed was a silence so dense it felt physical, like the forest had inhaled and was holding its breath. No wind. No rustling leaves. Just heat, stillness, and the slow return of tiny sounds: a single bird chirping far off, the rustle of something small in the underbrush, the faint tapping of an insect on a leaf. After the howlers’ riot, the quiet was oddly louder.
In that stillness, we saw the forest differently. The longer we stood there, the more it revealed—not just its layers, but its logic. Vines scaled ancient trees in spirals, not by accident but by necessity, seeking light. Fallen fruit was already swarmed by ants and beetles. Leaves decomposed midair, feeding the ground before they even touched it. Every part was part of something else.
It was beautiful, not because it was pristine or curated, but because it worked. The forest was a perfect system—self-repairing, deeply efficient, and wildly alive. There was no waste. No extra. No ornamental flourish. Everything had a role, from the mosquitoes to the fungi, from the tangle of roots to the jagged canopy far above us.
Eventually, the trail reappeared and veered sharply uphill. What began as a humid shuffle turned into a full-on 45-minute climb. With each step, the breeze faded and the air grew hotter, thicker—like walking into the mouth of a blow dryer set on low. Our water supply began to dwindle, and the terrain shifted from muddy to sun-baked. The shade of the palms and dense jungle below was gone. Now it was just heat, incline, and stubborn pride keeping us moving. The hike offered no views, no wildlife, no grand payoff—just the lesson that elevation in the tropics comes with consequences.
By noon, scratched, flushed, and more humbled than heroic, we found ourselves back at the edge of our property. The contrast was stunning—like one of those satellite images of the border between Haiti and the Dominican Republic. On one side: a thriving secondary forest, full of shade, sound, and life. On our side: scorched, silent rows of spindly teak trees baking in the sun.
We crossed back into our land and walked two more hours along the old teak plantation, which felt like crossing a frying pan. The only wildlife we saw was a snake that wisely slithered away from us. Our water was warm, our food was gone, and our Doc Martens had long since turned against us.
But that brutal walk changed everything. The teak plantation didn’t belong. It was choking the land and blocking its potential. These exotic monoculture trees stripped nutrients from the soil, displaced native species, and created hot, dry microclimates where nothing else could thrive. The neighboring forest felt alive—our side felt forgotten. If we were going to build here, we couldn’t just design around it. The land itself had to be restored.
That day—between the monkey brawls, the uphill slog, the fire ant assaults, and the thick, reverent silence of the forest—we stopped thinking like designers and started thinking like stewards. It completely changed our lives, shifted our perspective, and—whether we liked it or not—reset our baseline for what a “site visit” looked like. From then on, architecture wasn’t just about floor plans and rooflines. It was about ecosystems, compromise, and not wearing Doc Martens into the jungle ever again.
