Look, I rode a donkey up the cliffs of Crete, waterskied down the Colorado River, and hiked the Cinque Terra. I trekked through the Mayan jungle and climbed Tikal. I hiked the pine forest above Rio Caliente, scaled Nevada Falls, and climbed rickety ladders to peer into ancient painted caves in New Mexico. I explored the top of Monte Alban, where I came close to sacrificing my mouthy teenage son to the gods. I did a ropes course, though I only did the morning session. When I found out the afternoon was in the treetops, I bailed. I’m no Julia Butterfly Hill.
I’ve flown in a four-seater out of Belize, the training pilot’s first flight with passengers. I took a plane ride from Schellville Airport in a tin can made of papier mâché and balsa wood that was the same color but smaller than my BMW. I asked David what I should wear. He said a red teddy would be nice. I borrowed Elaina’s and wore it under my jean jacket until it was time to board. There are pictures …
I rode a horse once. When it bucked me, Eric said, “Get back on; if you don’t, you’ll never get on one again.” As if I had any intention of doing that again. Years later, when I found myself on an old packhorse named Ike in Yosemite, it came rushing back to me.
I’ve flown in a typhoon and been lost in a hurricane. (When I was nine, we lived in Hawaii. Hurricane Nina hit and I got lost and couldn’t find my way home from school. The hills where we lived were like a jungle. I hate the jungle.) I find the wilderness overrated. I read Wild and thought that woman was a total lunatic. She slogged across a thousand miles of the Pacific Coast Trail, grieving the death of her mother. She could have skipped the trip for godsakes and just gotten some therapy. Or at least had hiking shoes that fit.
Trapped in the Tropical Butterfly House in Seattle, I ducked and covered whenever one silently hovered anywhere near me. In Florida, I sat cheek-to-jowl on a live alligator. I got seasick snorkeling off Ixtapa, all the while petrified an eel would slither by. (I scream the same way whether I’m about to be attacked by a great white shark or a piece of seaweed touches my leg.) And I’ve slid down more damn black diamond ski slopes than I care to remember.
I’ve whitewater rafted both forks of the American River (There are actually three – Ed.). When I flipped out at Troublemaker and got caught in a whirlpool, time slowed and I thought, so this is how I’m going to die. When I popped back up, I frantically paddled to shore. They said I had to get back in the raft. I said pffft, I’m walking back to camp. They said you can’t, there are bears in the woods. I said I’ll take my chances. Bats and biting flies were the high points of beach-camping at the Salton Sea.
Today, when I’m invited camping, I make a list of what I need:
- New friends
Have I enjoyed any of it? No. I was usually terrified. Would I do any of it again? Nope. I don’t have to, I don’t want to, and you can’t make me. None of it was my idea in the first place and, clearly, I didn’t think things through. I just wanted to do stuff with my kids and hang out with friends.
With utter disdain, my sister Liz once asked me if I was born in a box. I said, “Yes, and I rather fancy it in here, so leave me alone.” I’m an indoor girl, and I like it that way. I favor places where my chances of getting stung, bitten, kicked, gored, attacked, pecked to death or eaten alive are at a minimum. Where it’s warm and safe. Where the playing field is level, like, you know, a dance floor.
Hilarious reflections of a life well lived but not boring.