Where the Air is Thin

I’ve completed the Bataan Memorial Death March three times, twice in the Civilian Light category and once in the Civilian Heavy category (with 35 pounds in my pack).  Not running, mind you, because this girl don’t run.  But rucking.  (What the Ruck)


I’ve been mostly out of the game for the last couple of years. 

Sure … I’d go on a ruck with my friends occasionally.  And even do just enough to earn a patch or two.

But when one of my friends mentioned a trail run in Colorado (that he planned to ruck), my interest was peaked (pun TOTALLY intended).  

By all accounts, the Leadville Trail Marathon is meant for only the elitist of runners.  There are qualifying events and everything!  And there is a “Heavy Half” (marathon) component which my friend was eyeballing. 

I tried to get out more, rucking with a mere 10 pounds in my pack.  Toying with the idea.

So what could possibly make my body practically go into convulsions?  I committed to doing the Leadville Heavy Half yesterday.

You might be wondering why I, a 3x Bataan (full marathon) finisher, would be so shook.  I mean … it’s only a half-marathon, right?  In a word …

Elevation.

You see, the Heavy Half, which doesn’t have a weight requirement (as in … the amount you carry in your pack), begins at roughly 10,000 feet and tops out at 13,000 feet. 

And it’s a little more than a half marathon, spanning 15.5 miles (rather than 13.1).  Do they even make a 15.5 mile sticker for your car?

I realize the thought of being at that elevation sends a shockwave through the merest of mortals who don’t have a chronic medical condition.  But as a lifelong asthmatic, well … that's a whole ‘nother ballgame.

Yes, that's me!

When I was born, it wasn’t possible for my mom to put me to bed in my crib.  Because every time she did so, I’d stop breathing and turn blue.  In fact, she spent the first six months of my life sleeping upright in a rocking chair as she held me upright so that I wouldn’t go and die.

The woman should be nominated for sainthood.

A friend of my grandmother’s suggested she take me to a specialist.  Something called a pediatrician.  I was diagnosed with asthma.  Often triggered by various food items and certainly seasonal allergens, resulting in multiple cases of asthmatic bronchitis.
  

How about those matching outfits?

Thus began my life of being a sickly child, one my parents fretted over (my sister often being held responsible for not getting me wet when we went out to play), and one who visited the doctor’s office weekly for shots until the age of 18.

Fast forward several years.  I outgrew my food allergies, thank goodness, because I do love oranges and chocolate and eggs (not all together, mind you!)  And I suffered only the occasional asthma attack.  Usually only two-three per year when the seasons changed (it’s Texas, we only have three seasons:  Spring, Summer, and Fall) or when I get overheated.  Something that could be managed with an over-the-counter inhaler.  Thank You, Primatene Mist.

When I began CrossFitting (yeah … that’s a verb), I regularly had cardio days that left me hacking until bedtime.  The burning in my bronchial tubes, a rather unpleasant feeling.  A discussion with one of my coaches (also an asthma sufferer) and then my doctor, resulted in me going on a maintenance inhaler.  Two puffs, twice daily.  Even my coach only takes one puff per day, if that tells you anything about the state of my lung capacity.

The last time I completed Bataan, the temps were unusually high.  And though I was well-trained for the event, I suffered mightily during a stretch in which the elevation went from 1,300 feet to 1,650 feet.  Stopping every 100 yards or so, leaning over to catch my breath, trying to get my heartrate to decrease to something close to normal.  

At the peak (and roughly halfway point of the race), one of my teammates saw my distress and handed me her own emergency inhaler, thereby saving the day and allowing me to finish.  In fact, even beating my previous course record by a few minutes. 

I know what you’re thinking.  Why in the actual hell would I even consider doing the Leadville Heavy Half?

Because I have certain fitness goals for 2020 (and training for Leadville will be a part of that).

Because friends (who will be there right alongside of me). 

Because Colorado (and all of its beauty).

Because I. Love. A. Challenge.

And so begins my training for the Leadville Heavy Half.  Lots of time on my feet.  Lots of extra cardio.  From now until June.  With an emergency Inhaler in my pack.

Because the air is thin in Leadville.

Welcome to the Jungle

Late last year, Keith and I took a cruise through Central America and the Panama Canal.  A full transit worthy of a certificate and everything!

My friend Ana is from Panama.  After passing through the first set of locks, formally known as the Gatun Locks, and gliding along Lake Gatun, I remembered Ana saying she used to waterski here.  The beauty of Lake Gatun was surprising.  Surrounded by jungle, the waters peaceful and calm.  She says she can “smell” the pictures I’ve posted.

After we crossed through the third and final set of locks (the Miraflores Locks) on our day-long, western-bound passage, Ana calls (you gotta love WhatsApp!).  She has the spontaneous idea of me joining her in early December when she is going home for her niece’s wedding.

And while I wasn’t necessarily invited to the wedding (it was an intimate affair, but I have to think, now that said niece and mother of the bride have met me, surely they would’ve invited me, given how nice of a person I am and all), I could arrive afterwards, staying through (Panama’s) Mother’s Day.  But will there be sloths, I ask?  She promises.  There will be sloths.  

Throw in a couple of our other friends and Voila!  We have a Girls Trip!

Panama is known for a few things (jungles, tropical rainforests, beautiful flora … or is it fauna?).  Oh, and a little engineering marvel known as the Panama Canal or Canal de Panama’ (emphasis on the last ‘a’, if you want to pronounce it like a local).  I searched Trip Advisor for things to see and do and handed that list to Ana.  From there, the only thing left to do was buy my plane ticket and pack.

Photo Credit:  Linda Aiken

I can’t say that Panama City was ever on my “list of places I absolutely must visit before I die”, but Ana loves her hometown and country, so I knew there must be something to it.  Something wonderful.  And beautiful.



You might recall I have a thing about terrible drivers (Life in the Fast Lane).  They irritate the living dog out of me!  Upon reading that article, Ana simply laughed.  In a single drive through the city, I suddenly understood why.  Apparently, in Panama, stop signs are merely a suggestion and a vehicle’s horn is man’s best friend.  There was one poor soul, who among 532 others who we witnessed blowing through stop signs, did the same, and was rewarded with a red and blue lightshow in his rearview mirror.

We were treated to typical Panamanian breakfasts, complete with tortillas and empanadas (no tilde on the ‘n’!).  And the tortillas … they’re not what you and I are used to, oh no!  They’re small, round, mounds of fried cheesy deliciousness.  I still have no idea what the other ingredients are.  I don’t need to.  I just need to eat them!  And did I mention the fresh-squeezed orange juice?  To.  Die.  For.

Ana’s mom, who everyone calls “Mama”, prides herself on being the consummate host.  She has opened her home to us and filled her fridge and pantry with copious amounts of food and drink.  Sitting with her over coffee felt like home. 

Likewise, Ana’s family and friends are welcoming and generous.  Having provided more food than we could possibly eat, more drink alcohol than we can possibly drink. And lodging!

One family friend let us stay in her weekend home in a little town known as El Valle.  Ana’s niece tells me that she spotted a sloth in a tree on the property (fairly?) recently.  And I am excited beyond belief.

On the way to El Valle, we encounter what Panamanians call a rain shower.  In Texas, it would be something just short of a class 3 hurricane.  Ana’s sister navigates the “rain shower” like a boss.

Upon our arrival in El Valle, and after stocking up on way too much food (including the most delicious ceviche – and I’m not one to like ceviche – and Panamanian coffee), we head into the yard, our first foray into sloth hunting.  Our efforts are unsuccessful, but we do find some of the most unique flowering plants I do believe I’ve ever seen.

El Valle is also host to an open-air market where many of the vendors are Cuna Indians selling their handmade wares. One of the vendors is so enamored with Melissa (and likely her strawberry-blonde hair and ultra-fair skin), that she is stroking her arm like a pet or something. 

We also take in a canopy walk through the jungle.  The sounds of the jungle so calming.  The foliage, thick and green.  And a luminescent butterfly gave us an audience (or as much of an audience as a flittering butterfly will give).



We bid El Valle adios and make the tedious trek back to the highway.  Determined to find a sloth on one of the several thousand trees along the long and winding road, I keep my eyes open.  By the time we reach the highway, they tell me my face is an interesting shade of green and I’m having a hard time keeping the scrumptious breakfast which Ana cooked, down. 

That, my friends, is how you’re given the honor of riding front seat the rest of the trip.

The Pacific Ocean was calling us and another family friend welcomes us to her home, where we eat, drink, be merry, and dip our toes in the delightful waters of the Pacific.


Back at Mama’s, we adjourn to the balcony, where happy hour lasts until midnight. 

December 8^th is Mother’s Day in Panama.  Ana’s family celebrates together and we are honored to join them.  After having known Mama for just a few days (that’s not entirely true – we’ve met before when she visited Ana), it is our pleasure to share this day with her.

Once celebrations are complete, we walked through the streets of Casco Antiguo (formerly Casco Viejo).  A beautiful historic area of Panama City established in the 1600’s.  The Spanish Colonial architecture on full display.  The area having fallen into disrepair in years’ past, now being revitalized.  The rustic nature of the historical area yielding a certain amount of charm.

We are more than halfway through our trip and still, there has not been a single sloth sighting.  But that’s all about to change.

The Gamboa Resort is home to a sloth sanctuary and hosts other tours.  The sloth sanctuary is, in my opinion, worth the cost of the whole trip.  Here we see five sloths that are in varying degrees of rehabilitation.  And two more who are preparing to be released back into the wild.  The slow-moving, peaceful, cute and cuddly-looking tree huggers.  My spirit animal.  Did I mention my day was made?

Afterwards, we catch a boat to Monkey Island where we are technically sailing on the Panama Canal.  As we make our way to several islands in search of monkeys (they’re cute too, yes?), I can smell it.  I can smell the lake, the jungle, the smell Ana referenced when Keith and I were on our cruise.  It smells amazingly similar to the Flight of Passage attraction at Walt Disney World.  I repeatedly inhale deeply, my head on a swivel, taking in the sights of the jungle, the sweet fragrance of the flora.

As our boat noses into the trees of the islands, Tamarinds and Capuchins climb down from the trees and onto our boat, the captain enticing them with bananas.  The Howler Monkeys were hard to see, but to hear them was quite comical, their howling prompted by the revving of the boat motor.

It was during our visit to the Gamboa Resort where we met a solo traveler who Ana named Brazil (can you guess where she’s from?).  We were headed to the Miraflores Locks and gave Brazil a ride back into the city.  We thought we might see her the next day, as she planned the same adventure we had.

At Miraflores, we watched as cargo ships came through the locks.  The mules (locomotives) dutifully pulling the massive ships, ensuring the ship’s four-foot clearance (two on each side of the ship) was not a problem.  This all seems so familiar. 

We have two days left.  And more adventure awaits.

At the suggestion of one of Ana’s nieces, we booked one night on the San Blas Islands.  I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that no one reading this right this very moment has ever heard of San Blas.  We sure hadn’t!  San Blas is located in the Atlantic.  Or is it the Caribbean?  Wherever the heck it is, it’s easy to summarize the islands in one word:  BEAUTIFUL!

An overnight on one of the San Blas Islands (we were on Chichime) is not for the pampered.  It is rustic (with its questionable and some would say, rather nasty, bathrooms, practically non-existent showers, and clapboard huts – some with floors, some without).

But its beauty.  It’s picture-perfect, remarkable beauty.  THIS is why one goes to San Blas.

As we approached the island, our jaws fall open and oohs and aahs escape our collective mouths.  The splendor of the island is postcard-worthy, with its palm trees swaying in the breeze, surrounded by water that is multiple shades of the most beautiful shades of blue.  

I dare say I had a Trapper Keeper binder) with a picture of this very island on it when I was in middle school.  Don’t know what a Trapper Keeper is?  Google is your friend.




And there’s coconut rice!  In a word, YUM. MO.

After a day of soaking up the beauty of the island, the ocean breeze along with the gentle lapping of the water onto the beach a mere 10 feet from our cabin, lulled us to a most restful night’s sleep.  Save the necessity to wrap yourself up burrito-style in your sheet lest the geckos scamper across you in the middle of the night.

We returned to the city, our souls refreshed, our hair filled with salt, and our bodies covered in the remnants of sunblock and sand.

We didn’t come across “Brazil” while in San Blas and wondered how the rest of her journey was going.  After shopping at a local market (for more wares sold by the Cuna and Embera Indians), we were exiting the parking lot, when who do we see waiting for their Uber, but “Brazil”!  Small world, smaller country.

Our trip began the way it started:  visiting with family, while enjoying ceviche and cold ones.

It was more than I could have ever imagined (especially when you consider I never really imagined going to Panama and have now been twice in one year!) 

And so … in order that we can savor the sights, the sounds, the smells of Panama, I created my first photobook of 2020.  And the cherished memories came flooding back.