Not everyone on the trip wanted to ride horses, but six of us ladies headed out in the morning and met our trail guide by the side of the main highway that went into town. The horses were lined up behind him. We got out and walked up to meet him while eyeing the horses and deciding which one to ride. We spoke of our experience, if any, riding. Stephanie had grown up with horses, and even though I could close my eyes and picture my Kodak disaster in Guatemala, I considered myself pretty good, and at the least, comfortable on a horse. Stephanie and I even rode on occasion in LA.
After each of us got our horse, we ventured off into the jungle. We followed our guide, who didn’t speak English very well, down the trail paths and across three rivers, until we arrived at his family home’s coffee orchard. After serving us a delicious home-cooked lunch, he gave a tour of their coffee-growing and -making operations. He explained the process and then served us coffee. It was like no coffee I had ever tasted: thick, aromatic, strong, and with a flavor that wafted up from the steam coming from the cup, exploding on my taste buds.
My thank-you to him and his family was profuse and heartfelt. Sitting there was like having stepped into a real-life storybook. The beautiful, exotic nature of the setting was a vacation wrapped inside our retreat. It reminded me of my time in the Australian rainforest, like the present was deeper, more vivid, and richer for the experience, almost hyperreal.
I got a hug from Stephanie, who felt the same. But I was feeling a sense of liberation unlike any time before. I had been invited to many events and retreats over the years but never gone. I was too caught up in what I figured my image needed to be. It was difficult to feel like I might be recognized by people who knew me when I didn’t know them. It was weird to catch people staring at me and sometimes hear them talking about me. Even if they weren’t, it was easy to imagine they were, and of course I imagined whatever they were saying was judgmental. So why be in that position on a retreat that was supposed to be a relaxing escape?
Although I had agreed to the retreat as soon as I heard about it, I had to talk myself past the fact I would be with other women and feel vulnerable in such proximity. My issues around trust (or lack of it) and insecurity fed into my sense that no one really cared for me, and all that was amplified by the feeling that I would be on display. If not for the fondness I had for the community at YAS, I probably would have talked myself out of going to Costa Rica and missed out.
After we got back on our horses, I was feeling rather proud of myself and confident for not missing out, for being on the jungle trail in the open air atop this magnificent animal, for being connected to nature and myself. I took a deep breath and felt my lungs expand with the enervating thrill of being alive and in the moment. Past the guide’s home, as we headed back, we went up the embankment and over to a waterfall, where we stopped to take a swim, sit below the falls, and enjoy the scenery.
Having been told the day before we were going to make this scenic stop, all of us had brought or worn a bathing suit. I had my bikini on underneath my deerskin riding pants and a long-sleeve hooded T-shirt that said YAS. I also had my riding gloves with me but not my helmet. I didn’t think I’d need one.
After we finished enjoying the falls, we got back on our horses and headed back up another embankment to the next river to cross. This time, I led the group. The ride was transcendental, a total release where I was free and in nature, seeing and feeling a part of everything, grateful and exhilarated for being present and alive. The wind was in my face and my skin tingled; every nerve wired into the moment and danced with electricity.
My horse and I hit the river and trudged through cold water. Then we popped out and both of us shook and flung water everywhere.
Every cell in my body was screaming go! Go! Go!
I kicked my horse into a gallop as I had done all day, which I knew was pushing it as far as my riding ability went. I couldn’t help myself. Even as we galloped and I heard a voice in my head warn, “You’re pushing it,” I didn’t listen. I wanted to taste, see, and feel every drop of existence here, the quiet and stillness of the morning and night and the thrills of being outdoors. Every so often I turned to look back at our guide and Stephanie and the others. I flashed them a smile.
I was still leading the group when we came up onto the second embankment. I kicked my horse and let loose the same adrenaline-filled cry of enthusiasm I had done all day at moments like this. It was a sound that both humans and horses understood, a sound that said, “Let’s go! Let’s charge into the fun.” The group behind me echoed my soaring spirit, and we were all a cohesive unit of souls flying over the ground in tune with the driving rhythm of horse hooves pummeling the ground.
And that’s when, for a brief second, I saw it.
The trail was about ten to twelve feet wide, but there was a small hole, about half a foot across, toward the middle, and my horse’s front left hoof went straight into it, causing him to lose his balance. He fell to the left and both of us went down. I hit the ground first and all sixteen hundred pounds of horse followed on top of me. My left leg bore the brunt of it as we slid about twelve feet in deceleration.
When it happened, Stephanie was behind me. She jerked her horse to the right and watched horrified as it happened, actually flipping off her own horse and turning back to watch since she didn’t have enough time to rein her horse to a halt. The woman behind her had to swerve and jump over us, as well. Others also stopped or managed to get around us before stopping without getting hurt. There could have been quite a serious pileup and chain-reaction disaster, but remarkably and thankfully, no one else was hurt.
I was on the ground in a twisted heap, looking up toward the sky. My neck was bent all the way to the side, almost touching my shoulder, and I was listening to the leaves rustle above me. For a moment, everyone’s voices and all the other sounds of the world around me seemed to disappear except for the rustling. It was so quiet and peaceful for a split second, and then the chaos came flooding in.
Am I paralyzed? I wondered.
My brain, fueled by adrenaline and shock, raced. I was terrified. And scared. I was astounded to even be alive, since I wasn’t wearing a helmet. It was an absolute fucking miracle, no doubt about it. But was I paralyzed? I was afraid to find out. Then I realized I could try to wiggle my toes. I had no real idea what state my neck or back were in and I knew it was best to not move much of anything in case I was in a fragile state and the slightest twinge might produce serious, lasting damage. But I figured I could at least wiggle my toes and not make the situation worse.
I took a deep breath and tried. And they wiggled. Barely. But it was proof enough that I would be able to still walk.
I don’t know what I have done to deserve this favor, but thank you, God, I thought.
Then, I knew the horse’s weight had been massive on me, and I worried that I could have some sort of internal damage that I couldn’t readily see.
I had no idea how we were going to get out of there. We were completely in the middle of the jungle. Me, with five other women and a guide who spoke no English. No road nearby, no cell phone, and even if we’d had a phone, no one knew the retreat’s number.
Then, pain hit, and it was excruciating. It was most intense in my left hip, and I was convinced it was broken. Between that and my fear of internal bleeding, I wasn’t sure whether I should move from where I had fallen. Neither were my companions. The women were frantic and unsure about what to do. We were in the jungle, with three rivers to cross and three more trails to travel along before we got to a road.
I called over Stephanie and two others, who knelt down next to me. For some reason, I felt as if the pain had shocked me into a hyperclarity.
“Don’t move me,” I said. “I don’t know if it’s safe yet.”
“Okay,” Stephanie said.
Then I had an idea. I said, “Take your water bottles to the river and fill them up. The water is ice cold. If we can soak my leg in the cold, maybe the swelling will stop and maybe go down.” I was desperate to try anything as soon as possible, as I knew I had incurred a lot of trauma to my body and it would, most likely, be reacting soon.
A few of the women went down to get the water while the others tried to talk with our guide. His young daughter, who had come along with us after lunch, rode back to their home to gather materials that would help them build a stretcher that would enable them to carry me out of there. My brain was going one hundred miles per hour. There was nothing I could do except analyze the situation and my place in it. This was my nightmare of participating in a group. I was helpless, vulnerable, and reliant on others. I was fully exposed and couldn’t pretend otherwise.
I hadn’t been showboating, but I had been pushing myself and my horse to the limit. My inner voice had warned me, along the way, saying, “You’re pushing it.” And now this outrageous situation. Had I gotten what I deserved? Was this payback from the Universe? A message or lesson? And if so, what was it?