The clouds move through the trees and mountains, breathtaking, as we make our way through the jungle on a rock road in a sprinter van.  How we decided to take a trip together to Mexico, when we barely talk is beginning to be questioned now.  The gravel road is so bumpy that I ask the driver to stop so I can throw up.  “Why can’t you not get motion sickness?” my sister asks, shaming me.  I do my best to enjoy all the natural beauty while I feel the entire bus stares or smells me.  I am grateful when we arrive, as the volcano is breathtaking.  To appease her, we immediately sign up for ziplining, but it takes some convincing for the whitewater rafting I want to try.  Why is she always the golden child, the one who gets her way and I doubt myself, my worth?  I start brooding with over a decade of resentment to fuel the fire. 

After we change in the room, we make our way down the to the white-water rafting area to congregate, and the anxiety kicks in, what if I can’t do this?  What if the boat is full of people that have never done any real physical activity and we get stranded?  Lifejackets in hand, I notice that the boat will be a boat full of women.  A woman myself, but I’m questioning whether we will all be able to keep up, judgmentally questioning others’ ability to push through.  I already have my sister in tow, I can’t take care of anyone else.  As we get closer though, I notice that this group of women appear strong.  “Hello, we are from Arkansas, where are you from?”  The leader, “We are from California.”  “Are you all together?  We are sisters.”  They answer, “we are all college softball coaches.”  A smile crossed my face.

In the boat, we all had our places, I sat across from my sister, and we made our way out.  The river water is a little murky, but the river meanders through canyons with lush green trees and bushes.  The tropical flowers are sprinkled about.  The rafting itself is glorious, getting sprayed with water, running into rapids with everyone padding furiously.  “Paddle to the left,” or “here comes a rock,” are yelled back and forth. 

Feeling rather pleased with myself and the group, we make our way to a picnic spot after pulling the raft on the shore.  “Foreigners build fences,” the guide tells us after we mention a fence up to the shore that appears new.  “Costa Ricans believe the water is for everyone.”  “Let the fish eat it, there are piranha-like fish in this river,” the guide says as he throws his watermelon rind into the river.  I’m silently relieved that no one fell out and landed on a non-Costa Rican’s shore or met this piranha-fish. 

The softball ladies then mention that they are going to a cavern hot spring later that evening.  My sister and I mention that we could join.  After dinner, we pack up and my sister says, “I don’t have cash.”  I think toxically that my sister often is looking for others to pay her way, so I am going to make a stand and refuse to give her money.  “I helped you when you got Montezuma’s revenge when we arrived here, why can’t you help me now?  I have credit cards just no cash,” she says.  We leave for the hot springs without a resolution.  There are swim up bars in a cave and pools with tropical trees over them outside.  A real experience, but our resentment towards each other, stemming from wounds created years before, are clouding over. 

Back at the hotel, the softball ladies and I break into the hot tub at the hotel and watch the volcano’s magma pour over the side.  That afternoon, the volcano had a small eruption and the lava had demolished a portion of the mountain’s tree line, still steaming even now.  The remnants of all the eruptions and accomplishments of the day and the volcano are red hot amongst the dark sky and stars as I see the steam pouring around and take a sip of another drink.  This will be the last trip with my sister, but one of the best trips of my lifetime.