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Humbled by Costa Rica |
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Team Bikeman -
Race Reports
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Written by Lisle Gilbert
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Monday, 12 March 2007 |
Humbled by Costa Rica
La Ruta de los Conquistadores
 When I thought to write about my race and trip to Costa Rica, it was mainly going to focus on the event. But as you read, something more profound than a race was born and changed me forever. I’ve lived in Vermont all my life, except for a year out west and a couple semesters at college in Missouri. This was the first time out of the country and my initial introduction into a third world lifestyle.
It was about a year ago when I heard there was this race in Costa Rica called La Ruta De Los Conquistadores; it’s said to be the toughest adventure race on the planet. After participating in it, there are not enough words to describe the voyage. I’ll begin with the race experience, but as you read the real journey began after the hardest and most rewarding three days of my biking career.
It started in the small ocean side town of Jaco. Sunrise on the morning of the first stage was a blood red sky. What is the saying, “Red skies in the morning, sailors take warning.” That was fitting knowing the 14500 ft. of vertical climbing and over 50% mud myself and 1020 anxious eyes were about to embark on.
The gun goes off and I see the front start to move. I’m about halfway back of 510 starters, so I sit for which seems like minutes. We finally begin to move, I throw it in big chain ring and start to go through the field quickly. It’s about a 5k flat start before the first ascent. I settled into a nice spin and waited to go up. The first climb was long and steep. It had this slick surface resembling a clay peanut butter texture to it with sweating, glistening rocks.
Most had to dismount, but being from good old VT, I’m used to the wet trails year after year. I stayed seated and let Tomac’s mud tire do the rest. For the next ninety minutes my common phrase was “rider.” The other competitors so kindly moved to the side, or gave me a push on the ass and said some word of encouragement.
You’d think with 510 riders there would be someone around at all times, but to my surprise I was alone quick. When I got to the top of the first grueling climb, I looked back down to see many switchbacks and a line of bikers into the red horizon of the sunrise. At least I got the picture in my head.
I continued on with good legs and confident after my climb. The first checkpoint came up quick; I needed no fuel, said my number and begin to descend.
I’m usually comfortable going down, but due to the “peanut butter mud” attached to my tires the tread was non-existent. It felt like using all season tires in a Vermont winter trying to grip on the 45-50 degree pitch. Some of the descents had holes and ruts up to my bars and that sounds easier than it was. I opted to dismount on a couple of these death traps, ski down next to my bike and use it as a life preserver.
I read this back and it sounds far fetched. I ask you, “ Have you ever been to Costa Rica?” I continued on. Up and down with many sections requiring my nemesis, the hike a bike technique. At this point I’ve been on my bike for roughly 3 ½ - 4 hours. Things feel good but I know the toughest part is in the near future according to the race bible.
Then it happens. POP! There goes my chain. When it happened I was coming to a hike a bike section, so I grabbed the chain, put it in my jersey pocket and ran/jogged to the top. The terrain was so drastic I could coast down the steep descents and hike up the muddy climbs. I lost no places during this time and actually gained a few spots. I did this for about an hour before trying to repair it.
When I went to fix it, the links started to come out and fall in the mixture of mud and wet grass. I was trying to keep my composure, but it was all I could do not to break down and whimper like a kid refusing to finish their vegetables.
You have to remember; at this point I’ve been on my bike for 5 hours, climbed roughly 7000 vertical muddy feet, with 7500 to go. If you’ve ever pushed your mind and body to that point, you know what I’m talking about, if not, get off your ass! Just kidding, but if you haven’t the feeling is like no other. It’s all about your will.
As I sat there telling myself “Fix it and move on.” a guy pulls up (Tim) on a single speed. (Badass!!!) He was so calm and composed. Sacrificing his own race, he put my chain back together with 5 links missing, but it was rideable. His kindness was the beginning of the many humanity lessons I learned in the coming weeks.
After I got back on my bike the next checkpoint couldn’t have come sooner. My legs went from feeling loose and flowing, too tight and binding. When I arrived at the checkpoint the course workers said, “That was the last muddy section.” Sounded great to me, as my chamois felt like a wet diaper. If you’re a biker, you can presume the worst. If you’re not a biker, I’ll spare the details. But when you have mud, you have shelter from the sun. “Great.” I think to myself, no more mud. Then the portion they call the gravel section of the stage. In Vermont and anywhere I have ridden, the gravel is somewhat smooth with spots you can avoid having good bike handling skills.
Well, we don’t have volcanoes, do we? The pitch is either flat or steep down, if I ever wanted a dual suspension or to climb, this would be the occasion. My fingers and hands were numb, not to mention my cramping calve muscles due to all the standing. The lava rocks were loose, sharp, big, small and abundant. The good thing was it was dry as the ninety-degree sun was baking the earth. Heat waves were evident making the already hazy view even more distorted.
When I finally arrived at the next to last checkpoint, I felt hyperbolic (Tom Ritchey’s saying, I’ll explain later). I gazed up at the sign for kilometers to go and saw 18. I thought to myself, “No problem, I can push on for 18km.” To my shock that was the next checkpoint. Under the 18km sign, the repulsive number, 45km to finish. “Holy shit, I’m only halfway!!!”
Granted the second half was a lot faster, but I knew the next ascent was the highest point of the stage. By this time the sun was directly overhead and the heat was as though it were coming from below. My breath felt hot like somebody was holding a blow dryer to my skin every time exhales would hit my arms. I climbed up for the next 1200 meters (3600 ft. three app gaps) in the blistering sun, loose rocks and quickly hardening “peanut butter mud” on my skin and Bikeman outfit. I was somewhat able to enjoy the view through the sweat mixed with mud burning my eyes, but I think without the approximately 14000 vertical feet climbed, it would’ve been clearer.
Volcanoes and jungle mixed together is a phenomenon matched only by the child listening to a fairy tale read in the comfort of their mother’s arms, as far as your thoughts can take you, it goes to the next level of surreal.
Due to the heat my head felt like it was going to pop. Training in VT had hills, but not heat. My legs and cardio were fine; I couldn’t push hard enough to make them work. The heat took its toll!
I slowly rolled up to the final checkpoint. By this time I was ready for an ice bath, cold Imperial, followed by a sweet Tica massage that could last weeks. I wasn’t hungry, more like a sharp, sick, empty feeling. I turned around and to my surprise and elation there stood Tom Ritchey (Mountain Bike legend/founder) eating whatever he could hold down. We had similar problems when it came to digestion. I started ahead of Tom on the final 26km. The heat increased as the afternoon went on, so the first water fall I came across, I ditched my bike and stood under it, washing everything including my chamois. Tom passed me at this point and said something, but I couldn’t hear because of the rushing water.
After I was done cooling down, more climbing! At one point I had to remind myself one foot in front of the other, as I slowly walked up the mountains. Pushing my 23lb bike that seemed like it weighed 500, my mind was blown and I kept saying “Will it!”
Soon after that I came upon this guy lying in the grass under the shade of a tree. It was Tom! I asked, “Are you ok?” he gave me thumbs up. I continued on at a snails pace. The serious climbing and loose rocks ended and we got to enjoy some pavement. I said the serious climbing ended and that it did. The pavement ascent was only three miles at 12%. After those muddy hikes, a pavement climb was a welcome sight. At the peak of the last volcano, it was all down and steep!!! Changing to dirt around half way, then flat with a gradual up to the finish.
To my surprise and elation I looked back to see the green jersey of Tom Ritchey! He caught up and we rode the last 15k together. On the flats he was super strong, but the hills I would pull a bit. We talked as we rode about all sorts of stuff. He asked were I was from, what I did etc… and of course if you know me, I wasn’t short on questions myself. I mean its TOM RITCHEY!
As we made our way to the long awaited finish line, a few Ticos said, “2k left.” It could have been 50ft the way I felt. The 2k actually turned out to be 10!! They are not very precise when it comes to measuring distance in third world countries.
After 9 hours and 29 minutes, we made our way across the finish line. I grabbed Tom’s hand and held our arms together overhead. I got to cross the finish line with one of the most legendary influential people in our sport, with hands together. WOW!!!! It was by far the single best mountain bike moment of my life.
After the stage was over hanging out in the finish area, eating anything and everything. I asked Tom what he was doing on the side of the trail. He said “I was hyperbolic.” and that’s were I got the saying.
Inhaling any food or water, I’m sitting there looking at my trashed bike. My friend Brooke Scatchard and his girlfriend Hillary from VT were already in the finish area. I was explaining my chain problems and how I was going clean my bike, replace the chain, cassette and brake pads. The race offered a cleaning/mechanic service, but I missed the deadline to sign up. This kid probably in his teens came up to me after he overheard us. He said he could fix and clean my bike. With my head slumped between my legs I mumbled “gracias.” He grabbed it and came back in minutes all done; clean with my new cassette, chain and those important brake pads replaced. I asked him how much, he answered 5000 colonies. That’s $10.00 bucks U.S. Yeah, it sure is a different world here. The priorities come back to humanity not money. I gave him $20.00 U.S. and told him how grateful I was.
On our way back to the bus after the first stage, this beautiful native Costa Rican girl with long flowing jet-black hair and eyes that looked right through me approached. She gave me a flier for a race being held one week before next years La Ruta. It was at the ranch she worked and offered me to bring my biking buddies and check it out. I agreed, but still had two days of racing left, so I didn’t give it much thought. I honestly thought I would never see her again.
After the first day ¾ of the field did not make it under the twelve-hour time limit. Therefore they don’t count in the overall. But in the spirit of the event if they choose, they can race the following days.
The next two days were not as hard, but without the first day would have been the number one hardest days on my bike. Hot and dry, with railroad tracks and an abundance of dust. No mud, but dust mixed with sweat soon turns into that familiar “peanut butter.” I have permanent stains throughout my jerseys to remind me of those three magical days.
As for results I was 27th after the first day, DNF the 2nd, bad crash with 15k to go, I thought I broke my thumb. Third day I rode in the support bus because of day two. That means I have to do it next year when they add another stage. The total ascent goes up over 40,000ft and 235 miles!
When you read this it sounds like a nightmare that will never end. The nightmare cannot compare to the feeling of perseverance. The only thing I would change is my acclimation to the heat. The final thing I have to say about the race is “strength does not come from physical capacity, it comes from an indomitable will!”
That was my race experience. The rest has nothing to do with racing, but everything to do with growing. The real journey began as I started to travel throughout the country, riding and meeting people with priorities far different than I’m accustomed too.
It started as soon as I stepped off the plane. At first it seemed like chaos, the cab drivers throwing out numbers in colonies (the currency there) I had no idea what any of it meant. “2000 colonies to San Jose!” they yelled. Sounded like so much, but in colonies 2000 comes to four bucks. After getting a cab, I soon found out the driving is much more like being on an amusement park ride. Your stomach goes out around every bend and your muscles are clinched to exhaustion.
There are no passing lanes, double lanes, or any lanes, they pass were they want, when they want and anytime they want. Over blind hills and corners, with a friendly beep of the horn to let you know they are coming, not an angry horn followed by that finger we’ve grown so accustomed to seeing here in the U.S.
The people of Costa Rica have the laid back attitude of what they refer to as “Pura Vida” (pure life). They live in a society were that finger goes so against what life stands for. Things that normally will stress out most people, they take in stride and except it for what it is, go on with the job at hand and things will get done eventually, if not today, there is tomorrow, followed by the next and the next day after that. Without that unnecessary pressure the job will definitely turn out better.
I suppose that’s why most have a youthful, healthy and vibrant look in their eyes that some have lost in the modern world. The goals and priorities focused upon are that of family, community and treating all with respect, no matter what the income, race and status, all are treated as equals. I know for a fact that is long gone in other parts of the world.
On that subject I went on a ride up this volcano called Poas. From San Jose the assent was 50 kilometers. That’s right 50!!!!! As I climbed the endless switchbacks, I noticed something out of the ordinary. I hate to use the words all or every, but in this case it is 100% true. Every house, whether it is a shack or mansion built into the hillside was opened up, the beautiful people were out playing soccer, shooting hoops, listening to music or simply being together. Rich or poor, there was no evidence on who lived where. It was the most enlightening four hours of my life. They were one, with no sign of a class system. That is what a community stands for.
As I continued to climb the most amazing natural wonder I’ve ever experienced, I stopped and communicated with a number of families. I say communicated because I know very little Spanish and they know little if not any English. However I could communicate with a smile and a few words I had picked up. We shared moments of understanding that we call priceless.
Like I said before if not today, tomorrow, patience no stress. “Pura Vida.” Imagine only making $3500 per year. That is the average income in Costa Rica. I ask you, how can someone with so little have so much? The cliché saying “health and happiness” rings clear.
That brings me to the man in the park with the cut eye and bloodstained shirt. My friend Jake and I were sitting on a park bench in the middle of San Jose (capital), waiting for Walt and Jenna to get some money. As we watched the bluest bird I’ve seen scavenge for food, this man came up to us.
First thing we both observed was the big gash on the side of his eye, with bloodstains down his sleeve. He smelled like piss and by the looks of it had been in the same clothes for probably months. You would think that someone in this condition would have no spirit or life left in him. But to both of our delight he greeted us with a smile and warm, honest eyes. Not begging for money or wanting anything, but a smile back and a simple handshake. “Hola, Como Estas?” he said (hello, how are you in Spanish)
This man was around 60 – 70, although it was hard to tell with the blood and dirt stains across his face. But unlike most people his age, his step had a certain youthful hop. I know after spending nights in a box on the side of the street were his bloody eye most likely occurred, my step would not have that hop.
Life was happy to him for the simple fact of being able to say hello and take another breath. I need to learn from that man’s spirit. When something in my life goes wrong, I will reflect back on the moment I looked into those eyes and remember this lesson in life. That’s why the question comes “How can someone with so little have so much?”
I traveled from coast to coast with my new found friends I met at the race Lina and Megan, (who by the way finished the La Ruta), visiting beaches, small towns and interacting with the friendliest people I’ve come in contact with. Language barrier or not, I learned to communicate no matter what the situation. With some patience and wanting to learn their way, they shared dance, smiles, games, laughter, shots (tequila) and the backbone to their society, family. I was honored and brought to tears then and now as I write and remember.
This reminds me of the night in San Jose with Michael and his lovely girlfriend Michaela, who was native Costa Rican and spoke no English. Michael was born in Miami and lived there until he was ten before moving to San Jose, so his English was perfect. I was in the pub just one block from my hotel and planned to have an early night due to the Volcanoes I intended to ascend the next morning.
As I took a bite of the freshest fish you’ll ever have for a mere $1.50, in walks this well groomed, dark skinned Tico. Dressed in a black wife beater (as we call a tank top in the U.S.) with black jeans, black belt and black shoes. His hair slicked with perfect side burns and just enough scruff to make him look tough, but at the same time clean. At his side holding tight to his arm and also wearing black on black, was his striking girlfriend. They obviously were local due to the response of the other regulars.
The bartender walked over and gave both a kiss on the cheek, he poured them shots of Tequila and left the bottle with a plate of limes sliced into perfect wedges. I said left the bottle. I can’t remember seeing a bartender leave the whole bottle. I watched as they poured another shot and showed the innocent affection of your first High school love. Michael noticed me looking in their direction and said “gringo want a shot?” Since I was the only one in the bar fitting that description I answered “Absolutely.”
One led to two, three, four etc… We shared stories of the U.S, Costa Rica, my race and growing up. We seemed to have known each other for years in only about an hour. Michael asked if I would like to come with them into downtown San Jose and see the real Costa Rican culture. He did not have to ask twice and before I new it, were traveling downtown going in and out of traffic similar to my crazy cab rides.
I’ve told people this story before I decided writing about it and most had the same reaction, which is, “Are you nuts? You don’t even know those people.” My reply to that is, “Are you nuts? Get to know those people and all people.” We arrive at the first club/bar in record time. I immediately become aware of how different I look. Big blond, nappy hair, dressed in a Bikeman t-shirt, surf shorts and sandals. The dress code is black on black and most have suits with stunning women on their arms. I say to Michael “Shit, I’m not getting in that place.” He smiles, grabs my hand and we walk to the front of the line. He says a few Spanish words, kisses the stacked doorman on the cheek and we walk in.
We proceed to go through two sets of doors before you begin to hear the rhythm of Salsa dance. The third door opens and were flooded by the smell that I have only experienced in Costa Rica. It’s the fragrance most Tica’s wear, unfortunately I don’t know the name. The fresh smell reminds me after a rainstorm when the sun is making steam rise from the ground. That’s the only way I can describe it. All I can say, is I need to find out the name of that fragrance.
When we first entered, I felt like that recurring dream of being naked in school. All in black and I mean all!! The entrance was at the top of the club, with 10 levels in a stadium design. The bar was positioned in the middle located on the bottom floor. We proceeded to make our way down, but were stopped countless times for Michael to introduce me as his new amigo. It soon became apparent my silly looking outfit in comparison to theirs, had no effect on these engaging people. They greeted me with a kiss and made me KNOW I was welcome.
We continued on the tequila kick. After competing and weighing less than I ever have as an adult, it went to my head and my inhibitions quick. Usually I’m not one for dancing, but this is downtown San Jose were dancing is one of the staples with the people of Costa Rica.
Most knew no English, but some situations language is not a requirement. It became clear I was unfamiliar with their complex dances, but they were patient and led me through the steps. I’m no Fred Astare, but with the help of some of the most exotic people on the planet, I relaxed and settled right in.
We stayed there for a couple hours, then off to the next local hotspot. In all we went to eight different bars/clubs. The people at each said the same of me, “You eye”(your eye). Michael later told that what they meant was that my eyes were genuine, respectful and wanting to engage in the their way of life. This was not the first or last I would hear the phrase “You eye.” The funny thing is I usually don’t like cities, but to this point that night was the most cultural and authentic so far.
The next day I jumped out of bed with no hangover! It must be the air or something. After all those shots I usually would be in bed till noon. I got on my bike dodging traffic like a video game. In San Jose the rules are a bit different. There are no rules. Jumping sidewalks and curbs, nobody seemed to mind. Instead I would get the customary thumbs up, a big smile or the saying “loco gringo” I’ve heard that somewhere before. Hmm.
I climbed the dozens of switchbacks to the foot of the Iruzu volcano. Not racing I could take in the breathtaking views. There’s something special about climbing miles above a massive city that makes it resemble a child’s toy. The scenery looked like a canvas painting and was hard to believe that it was real. I had four of these experiences while in the volcanic regions, I only regret not having a camera.
I got back to the hotel after witnessing another astonishing sunset and met this couple from Alberta Canada, Brett and Kristen. They were traveling for three months and had just got back from the airport. After talking a bit we decided to go out for a bite to eat. While we ate they invited me to join them on their trip to visit a town that had an active volcano.Unfortunately I was scheduled to leave the next day because it sounded amazing. When we got back to the hotel, I pulled it up on the computer. The next day I changed my flight and extended my trip.
Out of my memories in Costa Rica, the next five days are my fondest. We traveled to this town called La Fortuna up north of San Jose, approximately 110 mountainous kilometers away. It lies beneath an active Volcano called Arenal. Most nights red lava flows down its massive surface area. Equal on all sides connecting at the top 10,000 feet above the jungle below. On most days, like an eagle ready to attack its prey, a mysterious cloud hovers over it. If there were a stereotypical look to a Volcano, Arenal is it.
With tourist activity increasing in recent years, money has brought some modern conveniences we have grown accustomed to here back home. No big chain stores or strip malls, but clean streets, new pavement, nice restaurants and little crime. You have to remember this is a third world country. Potholes, pick pocketing and bars on doors and windows are normalcy in less fortunate areas by our standards.
We arrived around four in the afternoon. As were waiting for the driver to open the doors on the bottom of the bus to get my bike, these two young Ticos came up to us. They asked if we needed a place to stay. In the guides and manuals this is one of the warnings they tell you about and not to except anything from locals. Instead go to a reliable travel agent or the many hotels lining the streets. I’ve never been one for guides and manuals so we gave them a chance. They helped with our bags and we followed them down the street.
It went from pavement, to the common black volcano dirt, mixed with those always-present lava rocks. The place was a little off the beaten path, but hell I rode across the country, what’s a couple more feet. We asked how much and they said 10000 colonies per night. $20.00 bucks, split between three. As we entered their mother was making the final touchups to the bathroom. With a sincere smile on her face she said, “Hola.” Perfect, a family run place, the backbone of their society.
We unpacked and decided to go into town and grab a bite to eat. The bus ride made us tired, so we went and found the nearest pizza place. It was open 24 hours a day and the cab drivers parked their cars there. These cars would definitely not be legal in the states, but were the pride of their owner. The racing stripes, wings on the back, loud or no exhaust, fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror and don’t forget the shiny mag wheels. It was AWESOME!!
Across the street with a fountain directly in the middle spraying high into the night, surrounded by marble benches, paved pathways and lined with tropical flowers was the community park. A gazebo tucked neatly on the right edge for people to take cover when one of the many welcome afternoon thunderstorms arrived. In front of the gazebo were the line of public phones and bus stop benches. At the edge of each walkway, entering onto the surrounding street, stood trellises built out of flowering vines and the greenest foliage possible.
As darkness began to set in, the many streetlights resembling antiques arranged in perfect order came on and the park gradually filled up with locals. The parents sitting on the benches enjoying a beverage and watching their kids play soccer or some other childhood game. For the next few days I observed this was a daily occurrence. Most of the town would gather in the evening to be together and share life with one another. Perfect!
My new friends Brett and Kristen were on a hot springs tour. I decided to go into the park alone on my bike, have a few beers and observe the wonderful people of La Fortuna. As I sat on one of the benches, my bike leaning on a light pole, these kids were kicking around a soccer ball. Their parents looking on smiling with pride only a parent can feel. The kids were around eight to twelve years old and had precision and skills way beyond their years. They used the marble benches as their goals, which were roughly three feet wide and a foot and a half high.
They noticed me watching. The oldest kicked the ball in my direction I kicked it back. With a slight nod of his head, it was clear he wanted me to join the game. I’ve played some soccer, but these kids were good! I’ll be honest I got schooled often. Then it happened. One of the kids pulled out a baseball! Maybe I’m not much of a soccer player, but baseball on the other hand, that’s another story. I knew this was going to be the connection I’d remember forever. They spoke little English, but again sometimes language is not a requirement.
After they tossed it around a bit, I joined in. They could see right away that I’ve spent more time on a baseball field rather than playing soccer. During our toss and catch I went over to Luis the oldest brother (they were all brothers) Since I used to be a pitcher I showed him a few grips and how it made the ball do different things. The others wanted to see and some nearby kids observed the gathering. Before I knew it literally 10 were around me and I was teaching without even speaking, only communicating in a way I have never witnessed. The main thing I realized is that kids in the states or Costa Rica have the same look of admiration in their eyes.
We went over to my bike, which is fitting since it has a Spanish name, Salsa Moto-Rapido. It’s Rasta black with the patented red, yellow and green pin stripes. In Costa Rica they don’t have bicycles like ours in the U.S. The bikes I observed were either old wicked witch bikes, like out of The Wizard of Oz or cheap copies resembling Trek and Cannondale, weighing 50 or more pounds.
That was the first thing I showed them, how light a bike can be after spending thousands of dollars. I never revealed the true cost because I didn’t want them to think I had money (which I don’t, but when the average income is $3000 per year, I’m rich in their eyes) I wanted money to have nothing to do with my interaction. I went through the whole bike, teaching them how the shock, disc brakes and clipless pedals work. I had my 5 mm Allen wrench to adjust the seat in my tool bag, so I lowered it and let them take a spin around the park. Jumping the curbs, going down the cement stairs of the gazebo and having that smile I’ll never forget.
The feeling I got to witness their joy, I can only compare to skiing with my group from GMVS in the winter. That look will make me teach for as long as I continue to receive it. I tell people my passion daily and most say the same thing “Do it while your young.” I’ll be young forever. After a couple hours letting each one take a turn, we went to the local hangout and grabbed some pizza together (on me). It was amazing! Again the language barrier had no effect to communicate. They laughed at my pronunciations when ordering and gave me some Spanish lessons as we ate. Perfect. When they were leaving Luis said, “You eye.” There it was again.
For the next four nights, I went to the park and met more of their friends. Each night the numbers grew and some even brought baseball gloves. The kids referred to me as Bikeman. If you’ve ever seen the Bikeman stickers, socks or jerseys, he has big crazy hair like mine; I think they assumed I was the real Bikeman. I’ll be Bikeman any day!
I stated before these are my fondest memories I have of Costa Rica. The families in the park are an enormous reason for that, but this was only the beginning of what I was about to encounter.
The next morning I awoke to the sun shining through a corner in the shades. The tiled floors glistened with a sharp crisp light only the morning can bring. I reached out and pulled the shade open. To my marvel, there in its full presence with smoke billowing out the top, Arenal. I knew Brett and Kristen would appreciate it; I woke them up to enjoy something that words cannot replace. We watched as the sun rose and formed a red flaming ball rising from behind the mountains. The light reflecting off the massive Arenal, only a red that reflection could produce. This was the proper beginning of a day that would change my life forever.
Lisle Gilbert
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