Arenal Rappelling: Extremo! Maximo! Super!

To read my Costa Rica journal from the beginning, click here.

In Monteverde, we had been accosted with huge billboards and countless flyers, hounding us to take extreme, adrenaline-filled adventures through the canopy. Zip-line across yawning chasms! Bungee-jump from high cliffs! Tarzan-swing from dizzying heights!

“EXTREMO! MAXIMO! SUPER!” screamed the signs.

No thank you! We preferred wandering through the quiet cloud forests, listening to the music of tropical birds rather than the shrieks of pumped-up people.

And yet… here we were, in Arenal, signing disclaimer “We won’t sue you if we die” forms in the front office of Pure Trek, a canyoning company that offers adventures for stupid plucky folks like us.

Adventures like, you know, risking your life rappelling down the thundering throat of waterfalls. EXTREMO! MAXIMO! SUPER!

Sounds great, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?

Hello?

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Arenal, Costa Rica: Paradise

To read my Costa Rica journal from the beginning, click here.

We were sitting in rocking chairs on the front porch of our rental house in El Castillo, deep within Costa Rica’s tropical rain forest. It was early morning, and the porch faced Arenal, the iconic cone-shaped volcano which towered over the smooth glassy lake before us. Coffee cups in one hand, binoculars in the other, we scanned the lush foliage for Toucans, one of our elusive must-see birds. It was here, in Arenal, that Toucans lived. It was here that we’d have our best chance of seeing them.

View, across the road from our rental house in El Castillo: Arenal Volcano

No Toucans so far, but then we’d only just arrived. We’d tumbled in the night before, tired from our long drive from Monteverde up in the mountains, to discover a kitchen full of tiny black ants, pots and pans covered with thick furry mold which no amount of scrubbing could entirely remove, an empty propane tank, and a dry swimming pool.

Oh, and a flat tire on our car.

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Monteverde: Close Encounters

To read my Costa Rica journal from the beginning, click here.

We were wandering slowly through the gorgeous cloud forest of Santa Elena’s Hanging Bridges near Monteverde. Today was supposed to be our “relaxing” day. Nothing was scheduled, other than this little trip through Hanging Bridges, and a night hike at 6 PM. Maybe we’d even take a nap this afternoon! So we savored the tangle of greenery, searching for tropical birds, monkeys, and sloths, and rejoicing in the forest’s unbelievable beauty.

The lush cloud forest trail in Santa Elena. How can one see a bird through all that?

Rounding a corner, a long narrow bridge would, unexpectedly and thrillingly, open up before us. We would step onto the bridge as the ground below us plunged away; as we crossed, we would find ourselves suddenly high up in the trees, in the midst of the canopy.

Martin and Dakota cross a hanging bridge, high up in the trees

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Monteverde: Lost

To read my Costa Rica journal from the beginning, click here.

I’m just not sleeping well.

My pillow feels lumpy. The wind roars and gusts loudly, incessantly. A dog barks every night. Is the dog okay? Where is he? Why is he barking?

Lack of sleep is not helping my emotional fragility at all.

And then the alarm clock goes off at 4:50 AM, just as I’m finally, blessedly, drifting off into an exhausted sleep. Too bad, time to get up.

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Monteverde: Struggling to Breathe

To read my Costa Rica journal from the beginning, click here.

We were in the Santa Elena Reserve near Monteverde, a beautiful amazing dense cloud forest of trees covered with mosses covered with epiphytes dangling with vines covered with ferns covered with mosses covered with epiphytes.

A green riot of life. Santa Elena Cloud Forest

Plants grew on top of other plants, vines wound around tree trunks, ferns choked the hillside, mosses sprouted from thin air. Don’t stop walking! A vine might grab you, a moss might take root.

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Monteverde: Feeling the Strain

To read my Costa Rica journal from the beginning, click here.

Not only was Dakota navigating, he was driving.

Martin and I were pretty much at his mercy when he announced, “I think there might be a birding preserve up here somewhere!” and swerved off the highway.

Here we go again.

We were again on dirt roads leading to who-knew-where, jouncing along while Dakota the Navigator monitored his neck hairs and the earth’s magnetic field for which way to turn. The road, wide and well-graded at first, went on and on. It didn’t lead to any birding preserves, of course, but through the Costa Rican backcountry, with funky little houses and fields full of cows or crops, past the occasional little store selling soda. Dakota turned here and there onto secondary roads as his neck hairs dictated, and the road narrowed, the grading worsened.

Truly. Here we go. Again.

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Playa Grande: Navigating Our Way

To read my Costa Rica journal from the beginning, click here.

We needed money for the turtle-viewing tour later that evening, so we were headed to Tamarindo. Martin was driving; Dakota was navigating.

That was the problem, right there.

Dakota prides himself on a special sixth sense, an infamous and supposedly flawless sense of direction. Maps? GPS? Directions from anyone or anything? Dakota eschews them all in favor of the tingling of his neck hairs, a little whispered voice inside that says, “Turn here!” and his alleged ability to tap into the earth’s magnetic field and feel his way.

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Playa Grande: Teeming Life

To read my Costa Rica journal from the beginning, click here.

We had made the long, hot drive from Liberia to Playa Grande, located on Costa Rica’s blistering Pacific coast.

Martin made all arrangements for this trip, and every lodging – every single one – was down a minimum of six miles of dusty, rock-strewn roads. Seriously! A minimum of six miles. No sissy paved roads for him, no sir! No gleaming high-rise hotels, no swanky condominiums. We would turn off the pavement onto bone-rattling, pot-holed roads, kicking up dust, and I’d settle in for six miles – or more, often it was much, much more – of bumping and jouncing.

Martin had it all planned out.

But our small, welcoming hotel in Playa Grande was a little piece of paradise. It had pretty green gardens, a sparkling blue swimming pool, a brightly-painted patio and private hammock for each room, and two sweet and friendly dogs.

We also discovered that paradise comes with ants. As Martin and I dropped our bags in the room, we noticed a scattering of red ants making forays across the bathroom floor. I don’t mind spiders on the wall or a few ants on the counter, as long as they stayed out of our luggage and away from us. I hoped they understood the rules.

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Liberia, Costa Rica: Poised to Explore

Martin and I were standing in the middle of the cavernous, empty San Francisco International Airport terminal, the only people in the vast room, our bags piled around us. It was very early in the morning.

We watched Dakota, Martin’s best friend and our traveling companion to Costa Rica, stumble into the terminal, head down, concentrating on his phone. We waited in the echoing space, grinning at him, waiting to be seen. Dakota sank onto a bench facing us. Martin’s cell phone pinged that a text message had arrived.

I’m in the international terminal, Dakota’s text read.

So are we, moron, was Martin’s reply.

A moment later Dakota looked at his phone. Then he groggily looked to his left… then looked to his right… and finally looked up.

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Poem: My Nice Dry Cabin

The Backstory

Martin and I were literally about to leave on a trip to Alaska when my friend Erica quipped, “I hope you didn’t rent a dry cabin! You’d be in for an unpleasant surprise!”

As we boarded the plane, I was still laughing at the thought of some hapless renter’s honest but disastrous mistake. And that was it. This poem just wrote itself.

In case you were concerned: We stayed in very nice cabins, thank you.

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My Mom: Best Mom Ever.

It was the night before flying to Samoa for a two-year stint in the Peace Corps, and I was freaking out.

Freaking. Out.

I had started this ball rolling eight months earlier. I was a biology major in college, a senior, and wondering what I would do upon graduation. I wanted to travel, but didn’t have the money. I needed a job, but wanted to do something worthwhile. And all my likely career choices– teacher, vet, doctor, nurse– required more schooling, but I needed a break.

What job was available for a new graduate which was meaningful and worthwhile, yet included travel and adventure?

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A Birthday Surprise for Martin: Moaning Cavern

The Backstory

Sometimes it’s worthwhile to take a moment and reflect on how you got into a particular situation.

That’s exactly what I was doing, as I dangled by a thin rope above an enormous cavern, my heart pounding right out of my chest. I looked down, past my feet kicking helplessly at open air, at the tiny grains of sand far below. Those pinpoints of light were the headlamps of people at the bottom of the cave, looking up at me.

Actually, I thought hastily, my heart hammering away, best not to look down.

I had eased myself down through a small hole in the roof of the cave. I stared fixedly at the rope, my only lifeline. It chafed gently against the rough rock.

What, in god’s name, was I doing?

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Poem: Teaching In Samoa

The Backstory

I was a 25-year-old Peace Corps volunteer, teaching human biology and general biology in Samoa, a coconut-tree-fringed, green dot-of-an-island in the middle of the gloriously blue South Pacific ocean.

I loved it there.

I loved the turquoise lagoons and lush vegetation and brilliantly colored flowers. I loved the papaya and mango and banana trees, laden with delicious fruit. I loved all the chickens and pigs wandering freely around, scratching and rooting through people’s yards. One resourceful hen took up happy residence in my bedroom, laid a clutch of eggs, and proudly hatched out ten fluffy chicks. I loved it.

I loved watching Samoan boys shimmy breathtakingly high into coconut trees to pluck its fruit. I loved watching Samoan girls skillfully and artfully weave baskets and placemats from coconut fronds. I loved the food. I loved the people. I loved the languid pace, the warm nights, the silvery-peachy color of the lagoon as the morning sun rose above the water.

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Kauai: Going Home

To read my Kauai journal from the beginning, click here

Every good thing must end, I guess. Especially perfect vacations.

Martin went out to photograph his last Kauai sunrise while I started packing for the trip home. All the recent biking, kayaking, and hiking was making itself known today: Every muscle was sore, every movement induced a wince. We hurt “nose to toes,” as Martin put it. Like a couple of old people, we hobbled around.

We said goodbye to our pretty condo overlooking Wailua Bay and went out to breakfast at the Ono Family Restaurant. The Hawaiian word ono – “oh no!” –  means, counterintuitively, “delicious.” It reminds me of the car “Nova,” marketed to Hispanics, which translates from Spanish, unfortunately, as “Doesn’t go.”

Sounds matter.

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Kauai and the Na Pali Coast: Wow! Crazy! Impossible!

To read my Kauai journal from the beginning, click here

Parking at Ha’ena State Park was a breeze, with none of the chaos and congestion (not to mention $35 parking ticket) we’d encountered last time we were here, when we went snorkeling. We parked right at the edge of Ke’e Beach, at the Kalalau Trailhead.

Scary-looking signs greeted us: “Danger! Falling Rocks!” “Warning! Stream Crossings!” “Alert! Narrow Trail!”

“Careful!”

“Look Out!”

We took a deep breath, bravely tightened our daypack straps, and started up the dangerous-sounding trail.

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Kauai: Superwoman Goes Kayaking

To read my Kauai journal from the beginning, click here

The alarm clock rang, unwelcomingly, at 5:30 AM. When Martin cheerfully tried to roust me from bed, I groaned. I rolled over. I put the pillow over my head. Go away! Go kayak by yourself!

But he was patient and persistent, and once I was up, and showered, and eating a big hearty breakfast burrito outside on the lanai, lovingly prepared by my loving husband, watching the sun stream golden light through dark clouds onto the silvery lagoon below… well, that was okay.

All that weather over the Wailua River, though– the heavy clouds, apparent slashing rain, whipping wind– hmmm, not so inviting. Not what I hope for when I think, “Let’s go kayaking today!”

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Kauai: Way Down Deep. Actually, More Like: Beached.

To read my Kauai journal from the beginning, click here

We were nearing Tunnel’s Beach, and traffic was getting really congested. Cars were lining both sides of the road, parked illegally, according to both our guidebook and all the “No Parking Any Time” road signs. People with beach bags and swim suits were walking along the narrow road; cars going both directions squeezed in the constricted space between parked vehicles and pedestrians. We got worried. It was crowded; parking looked grim. At Ha’ena State Park, the end of the road, a sign declared “Road closed,” and we were turned around. Crews were doing clean-up work after the recent heavy rains. That’s why parking was such a nightmare: all the parking at the state beach was unavailable.

Thinking that maybe the cops (who were also inching along the clogged roadway) were turning a blind eye to the parking situation today because of the parking lot closure, we parked right under one of those ubiquitous “No Parking Any Time” signs, like everyone else.

We were wrong, like everyone else.

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Kauai: Way Up High. Actually, More Like: Flying.

To read my Kauai journal from the beginning, click here

We were standing on the helipad of Jack Harter Helicopters, watching helicopters land and take off.

It wasn’t perfect weather. The sky was full of dark clouds and it seemed awfully windy. Orange airport flags flapped wildly, their slender poles bent over. But the pilot (who’d been flying for something like fifteen years, including two years in the Army) didn’t seem concerned with the weather, so why should I?

Martin and I were ushered into the two front seats, grinning our fool heads off, and strapped down. The propellers roared overhead, competing with the wind.

And then suddenly we lifted smoothly off the ground, sliding sideways. Nose pointed down, we skimmed along the outskirts of the airport, and then rose miraculously and breathlessly up into the sky, where dark mountains and green fields and the blue ocean opened up before us.

Martin and I squeezed hands tightly, grinned wider and wider, pointed here and there. Martin was shooting lots of video footage and lots of photos, although I’m not sure how he did all that composing and metering and camera-fiddling while simultaneously holding my hand, pointing out sights, and hanging out of the helicopter.

Oh, did I mention that there were no doors on the helicopter?

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Kauai: Waimea Canyon and the Kawaikoi Stream Trail

To read my Kauai journal from the beginning, click here.

When I was packing for this trip and eyeing the weather forecast calling for day after day of rain, friends and family kept saying, “It will be a warm rain!” and “You won’t need a rain jacket, you can get wet and still be comfortable,” and “Don’t pack long-sleeved clothes, you won’t need them! Trust me!”

They were all so totally wrong.

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