I love adventure travel. And my favorite trips are those that include my family. Together, we’ve hiked through jungles, rafted wild rivers and skied the steeps.
But lately, I have been thinking about and discussing with friends and family, the delicate balance we seek when managing risk, fear, preparation, wisdom, loss, knowledge and exploration. Perhaps our formula is different when the situation involves our children. Perhaps not.
In the process I was reminded of an experience shared with my sons, Alex and Ted, during and soon after a trip to the Peruvian Amazon.
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I saw sadness streaked across her face. Then our guide told us the story and I understood.
We had come to her home on the secluded banks of the Peruvian Amazon to search for the elusive poison dart frog in the adjacent jungle. The woman before me, her husband and four children cooked, dined and slept beneath a thatched roof covering a raised platform. There were no walls.
No doubt they received a small fee from our guide's lodge to allow us to slide our canoes on to their riverside beach and to welcome us for a short visit in their home.
But it was not our presence that veiled her eyes. It was this: A few weeks prior, the couple’s oldest son was sent 100 yards down to the river to collect water for their cooking. He did not return. Soon they went searching for him and discovered he had been struck by the deadly fer-de-lance snake. This creature, deeply feared by the river people, is sometimes called the “three step snake” - so deadly you can only walk three steps after its bite.
The family had no way to get their son to modern medical treatment. The local shaman was called, but the boy did not survive.
~ ~ ~
With this story thickening the already hot and humid air, we wandered into the jungle and located many small colorful frogs. We were told their poison is still applied to the tips of darts used for hunting within the region. We then returned on the path crossing near the family’s home, climbed into our canoes and paddled back to our home base.
During our stay at the jungle lodge my sons and their friends were asked to join the local villagers in their soccer matches. The games took place at sunset, and I felt compelled to warn my sons not to venture into the jungle for the ball. We were told this was prime time for the deadly snakes to hunt. With the mother’s pained expression still haunting me, I studied the natural floor during our jungle hikes, determined to spot the mottled skin of the exotic, mysterious snake.
Soon, after fishing for piranha, visiting a native village and zip lining through the canopy, we returned home.
~ ~ ~
Within weeks after our return to our Scottsdale, Ariz., home, we were enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon. Teddy was watching a movie in the study. I was finishing some work at my desk. As my husband walked toward the hall powder room, he stopped to chat with me for just a moment. Fortunately, as he spoke, he put his hand on the door, moving it in slowly. In doing so, a loud noise erupted. Was it a water pipe? Some sort of electrical malfunction?
No. It was the rapid tail movement of an angry diamondback rattlesnake. Stunned, we realized that the rattler had done his part. He had warned us with a surprisingly vigorous alarm, one designed to be heard in the desert. It now echoed strangely off thick, slate floors.
My husband and son wisely stuffed towels under the bathroom door so the snake would not disappear into the house. I called the fire department.
The firefighters arrived quickly, amazed that the snake had slithered into our home. Using their cleverly designed extraction tool, they removed the diamondback to the natural desert beyond our patio.
Later, we discussed how easy it would have been to have an unpleasant encounter with the poisonous rattler as he meandered within a few feet of each of us.
And we spoke of our rigorous planning and preparation and concern for safety in some of the wild places we had explored ... and how ironic it was that our closest call came within the “safety” of our own home.
