Life lessons and adventure travel

So…it’s with a heavy heart and a different perspective that I continue this blog today.  For better or for worse, I’ll be looking at photographs and recalling moments from our trip, thinking “am I living this trip to its fullest?” or “did I really see everything I wanted to see and experience all I wanted to experience?”  I would like to use this kind of thinking to guide me on future travel endeavors, and as a perspective on past experiences.  I’ll be thinking also of my friend Glenn, who never passed up an opportunity to see and experience it all.

And so, although this is slightly out of chronological order, I must write the entry about zip-lining.

After our fun, humid, buggy, conversation-filled days with our friends at the house in Manuel Antonio, we drove away from the Pacific coast towards the interior.  We ventured through a small park with swinging bridges and waterfalls called Rainmaker.  I was determined to conquer my fear of heights, or at least not be ruled by it, so I steeled myself to hike up to and across as many of those bridges as possible.  My son swore he would not try to make them swing when I was crossing, and I managed to hold on with a death grip and not look down into the tops of trees.  I survived, sweaty-palmed and hyperventilating, but triumphant as we splashed around in the waterfall pools afterwards.  I actually had gotten to enjoy some of the views from the many crisscrossing bridges.

Friendly waterfall

Our friends taking a photo at the overlook

 

Maybe I wasn't the only one afraid to look down...

The overlook from Rainmaker

As we arrived in La Fortuna, next to the now-dormant Arenal Volcano, the conversation turned to zip-lining.  My son was excited, my friends and their kids were enthusiastic, my husband was curious.  I was 100% uninterested.  Why would you voluntarily swing on a wire, careening without control towards a platform in the canopy that is so far away you can’t even see it when you jump?  No, I told my friends and family, you go ahead.  I have my Kindle and a cabin in the rain.  And if I get bored, there’s a chocolate tour across the road I could join.  Mmm, chocolate.

But our contact and adventure tour guy, Johnny—an outdoorsy Canadian with a decidedly political bent, giving us his speech, complaining that the benefits of tourism were bypassing the Costa Ricans’ pocketbooks—did his best to sell the zip-lining as a “great way to see the rainforest without trampling all over it.”  His tone was friendly but not pushy.  He said if I really wasn’t interested, I could probably “hang out” at the tour headquarters and look at pictures of people zip-lining, or do a quick hike down to the river and waterfall nearby.

Hmm.  I suddenly had a picture in my head: my son, my husband, my friends, all returning from zip-lining, exhilarated, happy, proud.  And probably bonded to one another in a way that I never could be, never having participated in their adventure.  A schoolgirl, knee-jerk response won out:  I simply didn’t want to be left out.  I paid my ticket to do zip-lining; if I backed out now, it would be a heavy forfeit.

For the next 24 hours, I tried to be nonchalant.  I avoided thinking about the actual event, focusing instead on making sure we had the schedule for the next few days worked out, making sure we had enough cash and groceries, finding a place to watch the Netherlands-Argentina game in the World Cup.  I didn’t sleep a wink that night.  Breakfast was bright and early.  We walked up to reception and sat at the tables on the patio.  The señor brought us plates of cut-up fruit, then coffee, then fruit juice, then huge plates of fried eggs, gallo pinto (the ubiquitous pinto bean-rice mixture served with all breakfasts, and often lunch and/or dinner), and toasted Wonder Bread with margarine generously spread on top.  Normally a staunch believer in a sturdy breakfast, I had to swallow hard to get my few bites to go down.  The thought of smelling coffee and greasy eggs, let alone eating them, was making me queasy.  I guess I would rather dangle above the canopy on an empty stomach.  The van to pick us up was late, and I was trying not to run back to the cabin to pee every five minutes from nerves.  Why was I doing this?  I was afraid of everything about it:  heights, falling, pain and discomfort, my own physical strength and balance (or lack thereof), humiliation and public ridicule…and the list kept getting longer in my head.

We finally arrived, and were part of a group of around 50 people being herded into a large shed, issued hard hats and heavy belts, then seated for a lesson on how not to die while zip-lining. There were to be twelve lines in all; the first three were “practice” runs; number seven was the longest, almost a kilometer long.  We would be hanging by a double-hooked cable from the zip-line.  Our “brake” was a strange-looking leather glove with a reinforced channel into which the zip-line fit.  We would slow down by leaning back and squeezing.  Not too much, of course, because if you get stuck on the line, you have to turn yourself around and pull yourself hand-over-hand to the end.  If we went too fast, there was a double-stopping system at the end of the zip-line—essentially a knot at the end of the line—that would prevent us from ramming into the end; however, the system wouldn’t prevent you from the jarring impact of hitting the knot.

My nervousness increased.  My mouth was dry.  I found it hard to concentrate on what the guide was saying.  Then our group—about 25 people, mostly from the U.S.—boarded an old school bus.  The bus never got out of first gear as the driver maneuvered us over rocks and ruts up the side of the mountain.  Being jostled didn’t help my nerves.  Neither did getting out, climbing up the trail to the staging area, and the guides putting our gear on us.  Neither did climbing the 20 minutes (10 minutes of “Tico time) of “stairs” built into the hillside to wait in line at the first platform; I couldn’t figure out if my t-shirt was soaked with sweat or rain.  Someone took a picture of all of us.

I don't remember this photo at all

Finally it was my turn. I tried to just focus on my breathing.  It was raining so hard I couldn’t see the other end.  Fortunately, that also meant I couldn’t see how far up we were.  I clenched my teeth and let go.  And, of course, I made it to the other end.  My son stared at me, then told me my face was covered with mud.  The guide grinned at me.  “Monkey poop,” he said.

Really?  I mean, really?!!

I would like to say that zip-lining was exhilarating.  I would like to say how surprised I was at how much fun I had.  I would like to say how much I’m looking forward to the opportunity to do it again.  But, alas, I would be lying.  I’m not an adrenaline junkie.  I do not enjoy whizzing through the rain at top speeds towards a platform I can’t see, hundreds of feet above the ground.  I did not enjoy the scenery, see exotic animals, or experience the unique sounds of the canopy.  The only sound I remember is the friction on the zip-line, and the sound of my own whimper/moan when I realized I was only halfway through the kilometer-long line and could look left to see the enormous waterfall.  (I recognized that whimper as the main sound I had produced while giving birth 11 years ago).  The view must have been spectacular, but I’m not sure I remember any of it.  I counted down the lines, twelve to zero.  When I got to the last one, my legs almost gave way on the last platform, and I had to be shoved forward out of the way of oncoming zip-liners.

When we got off, we were led through a Maleku village, (one of the groups of indigenous peoples of Costa Rica), given a short lecture of their history, given an opportunity to buy their art (who carries money with them while zip-lining?!), then taken back to the old school bus for the ride back.  

Maleku masks and artwork

We had been zip-lining for two hours; some of the lines gave us the opportunity to fly at speeds of almost 60 miles per hour.  I was sore, exhausted, and grateful to have survived.  My friends were pleased with the experience, my son was thrilled, and my husband was—as usual—unimpressed (I guess when you used to jump out of planes, zip-lining is a bit of a letdown).  It all felt a little like we were the sucker-tourists, taken in by the lure of a cheap thrill.

Would I have missed anything by not going?  I didn’t see anything, as I was concentrating on keeping my balance and using my core strength to brake with a wet glove on wet zip lines.  I didn’t see wild animals in their natural habitats.  I didn’t enjoy the whoosh of air past my ears, or the rush of adrenaline as I realized I was hundreds of feet above land.  But the one thing I would have missed was perhaps the most important of all.

Facing my fear.

Because at the moment I finished, I knew that if I had to do something similarly scary in the future, I could face the challenge head-on.  I would not be intimidated or, worse, paralyzed by my fear.  On the other hand, I also possessed the knowledge that I couldn’t let the schoolgirl worry of being left out direct my choices; sometimes—most times—I should simply follow my instinct, and let it be my guide.  Finding the balance between facing down your fear and following your instinct is one of the toughest lessons of travel.  And, of course, of life in general.  

This time, I’m proud of the choice I made, and having followed through on something incredibly difficult for me.

Yes, that's me

Next time, I’ll sit back in the cabin with the Kindle.