The Montezuma Waterfalls
Stepping out of my comfort zone
I’m in the midst of a lush rainforest, sitting beside a bubbling stream. Surrounded by lush vines, purple and white orchids, I’m on the Montezuma hiking trail in Costa Rica, way off the beaten path.
I’m hot, sweaty … and sad.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself! So what If you can’t keep up with them, if you don’t get to the waterfall? You’ve seen a gazillion waterfalls. Who goes to the remote jungle in a 10-seater plane? You, lucky you!
From the start of this family vacation, the Montezuma waterfalls hike has been on the top of my to-do list. But now, the slippery path terrifies me. What if I trip or fall out here in the jungle?
“Let me help you Mom,” insists Zach, my 51-year old son. He holds out a hand to steady me as I wobble, warily eying the rocky terrain. My daughter, Rachel, grasps my other hand. My three teenage grandsons whiz by, prancing through the stream, shouting,
“You can do it, Black Diamond Nan!” Black Diamond Nana became my nickname after I made it down a difficult ski trail in Utah.
Despite my family’s help and encouragement, the pit in my stomach grows with each slippery step.
I’ve always prided myself on being an adventurer — hiking Machu Pichu, kayaking in Alaska and Antarctica, caving in Northern Thailand — but maybe those days are done. Now, these muddy tidepools and slick rocks are spooking me. Am I I just too old?
“For Christ sale, you are almost 81,” hisses a voice within. “Be realistic — its out of your comfort zone and that’s gotta be ok.”
Finally, I give up.
“I’m fine waiting it out,” I insist, sinking onto a rock by the stream. I hope my voice masks how I feel: getting old sucks.
As my kids go on without me, it hits me: I am no longer getting old, I am old!
The new saying, 80 is the new 60, is not true. Eighty is not 70 or 60.
Most people don’t play golf at 90.
Aging. These days, my inbox is filled with “sad news” announcements. I’m losing contemporaries — and more.
Yet when I read the obituaries, I’m filled with gratitude: I’m blessed, fortunate to be here at my age. But I have to face it: I’m in the eighth — or is it the ninth — inning.
It’s hard to accept that the road ahead is shorter than the road behind. As my brother reminds me often: “Tomorrow is promised to no-one.”
Sitting beneath the thick jungle canopy, with howler monkeys swinging from the vines, croaking frogs singing, loudly , I watch the leaves flutter down at a dizzying pace. I’m in the perfect place to contemplate the lifecycle here, where death and birth are the main messages.
Twenty-five minutes later, my son Zach appears, soaking wet. “The waterfall is so refreshing! Once you get beyond the steep part, it’s actually pretty easy.”
Perhaps the timeout has allowed me to renew my resolve.
Perhaps his confidence energizes me.
“Do you think I can make it, Zach?” I ask.
His face lights up. “I do, mom, “ he says. “There’s one hard part where you have to hold onto ropes as you climb, but you can do it. “
“Ropes? while I climb?” You must be kidding!
“You can do it,” he repeats, “But don’t hold onto me — that weakens your balance. You can turn back if you feel uncomfortable,” he adds.
Inside my heart begins to sing.
“Let’s try it,” I say.
We begin the hike, my confidence grows until …
Until I turn a corner, encounter a particularly steep, slippery part of the climb and see a few ropes dangling from — from where? The overgrowth masks their origin.
“Grab onto these ropes, one after another,” Zach says softly. “I’m right behind you mom. Hold onto one rope, take your time.”
I gulp.
Nervously, I grab the first rope.
“Grab the next one,” he instructs.
As I follow his instructions, a voice inside me whispers, trembling:
“This is not for you.”
“The next rope, Ma,” says Zach
“This is not for you.” The voice is louder.
“But I’m here!” I think as the voice continues:
“And there’s no turning back!”
Suddenly, a long-ago memory springs up.
I am a teenager, stuck in a traffic jam with my Aunt Margo. She is telling me a story of how she and her mother Clementine escaped from Germany in the 1930’s. Fleeing the Nazis, mother and daughter literally climbed over the Alps from Germany, to Switzerland and finally, they made their way to Portugal, a refuge for Jews.
From the safety of my Long Island Jewish enclave, my Aunt’s story impressed and terrified me.
“You did that? “I remember asking. ” Climbed over the Alps? You left everything in Berlin?
“Dear,” she explained, “There was no other way. And, there was no turning back.”
I couldn’t have known that as I hung on to rope after rope, Zach’s gentle voice and my Aunt Margo’s story of her courage and endurance would sustain and support me.
Suddenly there are no more ropes. The trail is flat again.
“You did it, Ma!” says Zach.
“I did!” I grin back.
Moments later, I’m standing in front of the majestic waterfall, watching the water, crashing gloriously. I peel off my sweaty hiking clothes, strip down to my bathing suit and dive in. The cold water is a delicious shocks to my warm skin. I surface, inhaling a lungful of clean air and see my grandsons cheering loudly: “Go, Black Diamond Nanna, go!”
I may be in my 80s — I am definitely “old” — but one thing’s for sure: The lessons of my ancestors fill me with joy and remind me it’s never too late to have another adventure!
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