climbing trees

The last tree I climbed was a cas tree on the banks of the Rio Chachagua in Costa Rica. My friend Grace and I had been bathing in our favorite swimming hole all morning. After a few hours we got hungry and began walking toward town, water dripping from our glistening bodies onto the thick carpet of leaves, roots, and grasses beneath us. As we walked, she pointed to a wirery tree in the distance. “Has comido cas, amiga?” she asked as she began walking toward the tree. Yes, I’d eaten cas, I replied. It’s my new favorite fruit. She smiled and I followed her to the base of the tree.

A sticky-sweet stench rose from the circle of rotting green and golden spheres that speckled the ground around the tree. Strips of red and golden bark hung to the otherwise smooth trunk and branches. Grace wrapped her bronze hand around a branch and in a single motion pulled herself up into the tree’s bosom, about seven feet from the ground. She climbed higher, hopping from branch to branch without a flinch of fear or hesitation. She reached a cluster of round, green balls and plucked two of them before turning her head in my direction. “Venga,” she said as she brought the fruit to her mouth and bit into it.

I am not technically afraid of heights. I have never vomited or fainted or broken into an uncontrollable sweat because my feet are a bit too far from the ground. But I don’t exactly like heights nor the tingling feeling in my stomach and head that comes with them as I vividly imagine myself falling to a painful death. So I am not technically afraid of climbing trees. I’m just a lot more comfortable plucking fruit from the top of the mound at the grocery store than scampering up a slick tree in the middle of the jungle to get some.

We were, however, miles from the grocery store. And, like so many other occasions during my stay in Costa Rica, the opportunity to do something that nearly scared the shit out of me seemed more compelling and important than sticking to the safe stuff. I grabbed a branch and pulled myself up. The exhilaration (along with the inevitable barrage of images of my death) was palpable. Without looking below me, I scaled the tree, reached out for a cluster of fruit and plucked a single shimmering cas. As I sank my teeth into its sour juicy yellow meat, Grace called out from her perch a few feet above me, “Vamos mas arriba.” We climbed until we could get no higher and then descended with swimsuits full of fruit. I walked home with a full belly and the satisfaction of having done something that scared me.

I try to remember that day and that cas tree often, especially when I feel myself wanting the safety of the ground rather than risking the sweet juices of heights. So, as I embark upon something else that scares me a bit (yes, I am kind of blogaphobic) I figure I need a reminder that I’d rather be climbingtrees than merely standing on the ground.