My name is Sage Way (hence the insanely creative blog title) and I am a college student pursuing my long-procrastinated dream to start a personal blog. I am planning to focus mainly on personal insights, outdoor experiences, and hidden gems I encounter in my life. Follow along if you’d like!
a story of travel, a Nicaraguan volcano, a motorcycle accident, a creepy hostel, and the powerful friendship between five friends
December 30, 2022
There are so many levels removing us from home, thought Louie as he lay on the top bunk of a creaky hostel bed, feeling pain shooting from his shoulder with each minuscule movement.
I heard him toss and turn restlessly across the room. His ruminating continued:
We flew to Costa Rica, took buses and walked across the border to Nicaragua, taxied to a hostel, rented motorcycles, took them an hour to a ferry, the ferry took us to an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua, and I had a crash on the other side of the island, where we are staying the night in a creepy, vacant hostel.
My passport and all my belongings are in another city, my crashed motorcycle is at a random person’s house, and we have nothing but the clothes on our backs and some Nicaraguan cash to get home.
Louie went through the last few amazing days in his head, hoping that the past few hours were just a terrible figment of his imagination.
***
Two days earlier, Louie, Julia, and I flew to Costa Rica to visit our good friend, Cameron Bogard, who had been backpacking solo through Central America for three months.
Lovingly known as “Bogey,” the vagabond was wrapped in a grimy, sweaty group hug as soon as we saw him.
Our buddy, who left the state of Idaho that past October pale and cold, was now a tan, fauxhawked wayfarer with a surfboard under one arm and a fresh tattoo on the other.
The next few days were picturesque: from the airport, the four of us bussed up to the Nicaraguan border, crossing it on foot.
There, we bargained with a local taxi driver who agreed to drive us an hour to our destination: San Juan del Sur, a town on the southwest coast of Nicaragua, known for its bustling little city life and beautiful bay.
When we arrived in the town, we met Bogey’s Australian friend, Georgina, whom he met while traveling; she would also spend the week with us. We ate delicious local food, caught waves on Hermosa Beach, and met travelers from all over the world who also planned to spend the fun New Year in the vibrant setting.
On the third day in paradise, we rented some scooters and planned to take a day trip to Ometepe Island.
Formed by two giant volcanoes and centered in the middle of the largest lake in Central America, Ometepe Island is known for its tropical rainforests and diverse flora and fauna.
We sped through farmlands and little towns for an hour and caught the ferry at San Jorge.
As the ferry docked at 1:30 in the afternoon, we traced our eyes up the striking image before us: Volcano Conceptión covered in a velvety green blanket, wearing a cottony lenticular cloud like a Santa hat.
Nestled at the base, the small port town of Moyogalpa was dwarfed by the sheer size of the volcano.
We hopped on our bikes, and Bogey led the way on his olive green scooter.
As our caravan exited the buzz of the little city, the scene around us changed immediately. Brightly colored block buildings gave way to lush farmlands with modest homesteads. Sheep, spotted cows, and plantain farms peppered the landscape.
Every once in a while, we saw a stray dog on the side of the road. Nicaragua is crawling in “nica dogs”—skinny and mangy but never aggressive as they trot along their merry way.
We snaked along the gentle cobblestone curves. Louie gunned the throttle, feeling the warm wind dance through his hair.
“The only word I could use to describe the smell of the air was fresh. All the vegetation and no industry made the atmosphere humid and crisp simultaneously,” he mused.
“I felt so relaxed and at peace in a different country with my friends, riding through the countryside by ourselves like locals.”
The mid-afternoon sun was illuminating Volcano Conceptión like it was an ethereal image. Louie was mesmerized by its sovereign beauty. It was one of the most surreal moments of his—
Louie was out of control.
He wasn’t looking at the road.
The next few seconds passed like lightning, but he remembered it all in slow motion.
“I was going too fast, and we were entering a small village,” he said.
He peeled his eyes off the volcano just in time to see his motorcycle approaching the back of Jules’ bike like a bullet zeroing in on an oblivious deer.
To avoid a catastrophe involving his friend, he hit the brakes—hard. The bike started fishtailing:
“I could feel myself actively crashing. I almost got control again, but I swerved into oncoming traffic.”
The bike slammed down hard on the cobblestone, with Louie still trying to wrangle it.
He and the bike skidded for a while—all the weight of the crash falling on his right shoulder. He left some of the skin from his arm and hip a few feet behind him: forever embedded in the abrasive rocks of the now-infamous site.
The rest of us snapped our heads back when we heard the screeching of the tires, just in time to see our friend smash into the unforgiving road.
We immediately pulled over and ran to Louie’s aid. He was on his feet, holding his shoulder gingerly as blood started to seep through his shirt.
He was in shock; everything happened so fast that he couldn’t wrap his head around the last thirty seconds.
Everyone sprung into action: I checked Louie’s injuries and assessed the damage to his shoulder. It looked a little out of place.
Bogey assessed the bike—it was leaking fluid. Jules watched the other bikes on the road while Georgina helped Bogey.
The smell of burned rubber and gasoline lingered in the air.
Because Louie crashed outside of someone’s house, the homeowner came to check on the scene playing out on her driveway. She was concerned about Louie’s well-being and asked if she could help.
We didn’t know the extent of the bike damage, and we didn’t want to keep using it if we didn’t have to. Bogey conversed with the woman in Spanish and asked if we could keep the bike at her place until we returned that direction, thinking that it would be just a few hours.
The gracious woman agreed, and Bogey went to store the bike near the house.
I figured out how to make a sling out of a t-shirt for Louie, and we decided that he would ride on the back of my motorcycle until we returned to get his bike.
We continued on our quest to Ojo de Agua, a natural volcanic spring, hoping it would lift our spirits and take our minds off the looming situation.
When we arrived, we went for a dip in the crystal blue water, rinsing off the sweat and grime that had accumulated over the past few hours.
It became evident that trying to return to San Juan del Sur that day was out of the question.
As night quickly approached, we knew that trying to get the unreliable bike back with us in the dark was highly unsafe.
Bogey pulled up Hostelworld.com on his phone and tried to find a cheap hostel to keep us for the night: the only vacancy was at the Lazy Crab.
As we pulled up to the hostel, our hopes were high. The excitement of changing plans and adapting to adverse situations buzzed in the group’s energy.
However, as we walked into the empty, quiet, Rastafarian-themed establishment, the vibe quickly changed to unease. The place was pretty much vacant.
After a quick scan of the reviews under the hostel listing, he realized there was no one there for a reason—the place was weird.
We swallowed our anxiety and tried to get a few hours of sleep and leave early in the morning to catch the 9:30 ferry.
A long, restless night ensued as we tossed and turned, losing precious hours of sleep because of the pounding music from the club next door. Quite the juxtaposition.
***
We woke at 5:45 with a pep in our step, eager to exit the “Twilight Zone.”
As soon as we set off on the bikes, the unsettling vibe quickly changed to wonderment as we rode through the early morning light. Everything from the little farmhouses to the vast fields was highlighted in a pastel glow.
Colors were softer—tension in our shoulders eased as we inhaled the dewy morning air, feeling the warm breeze tease our second-day outfits.
We pulled up to the house where we had left the bike. In the back of our minds, we wondered if someone had stolen the bike—we DID trust a stranger with an expensive machine.
However, we were pleasantly surprised when Bogey wheeled the orange and black bike around the side of the house. Even better: it ran!
Louie gave the homeowner some Nicaraguan córdobas for her kindness, and we set off to catch the ferry. We were one step closer to pulling this off!
We were exhausted. The trip from here should be easy, I thought. If the bike didn’t break down and we didn’t encounter any other problems, we should be home before the late fee is added to our rental payment. Ah, how naive was I to think Ometepe was done with us.
***
Despite missing the first ferry to get off of Ometepe Island and running out of gas on the stretch back to town, one valuable thing kept us all (mostly) sane when things just didn’t seem to go right: we were all in it together.
Ironic humor surrounds difficult situations when you’re with people you love and trust.
“It’s good to have your friends to rely on,” said Louie after reflecting on the crazy day on Ometepe.
“Many unforeseen things happen, and you realize you can’t do everything alone. I realized that I didn’t have to feel guilty about accepting help, because that’s what friendship is.
“I felt fortunate to have a group whose overall well-being came from everyone’s individual well-being,” he added.
The most remarkable thing we took away from the trip wasn’t learning how to make an arm sling out of a t-shirt or learning how to siphon gasoline with our mouths, even though those things were pretty neat (and gross—just ask Louie how gasoline tastes). It wasn’t even learning that we could rely on our reasoning and resourcefulness to keep ourselves safe.
Most importantly, the trip became an anecdote for friendship—a friendship that can withstand the distance across continents, the strains of travel, and the uncertainty of a foreign accident.
Louie said it best: “The trip to Ometepe Island became a valuable lesson on interdependence.”
July 13th, 2022
“Dude … where is the summit?!”
I croak out a desperate plea, breathing laboriously. I think my heart is going to jump out of my throat. My body is utilizing every minute of the single hour of sleep I got before Dani and I decided to hike this behemoth: Mount Borah.
The tallest mountain in Idaho, it towers at a hefty 12,662 feet—looming over the large plains that house the quaint towns of Challis and Mackay.
While the total elevation of this mountain isn’t astronomical compared to other famous peaks in the United States, its 5,200-foot ascent in four miles makes Mount Borah uniquely strenuous.
This moment, about a quarter of a mile away from the summit, is the culmination of my two quarreling instincts: rest for my struggling body and a hunger for the extraordinary.
***
Dani and I had this day marked on our calendars for a few months.
I almost backed out: I committed to attending The Lumineers concert with my mom the night before the hike, not realizing that we would begin the four-hour drive to the trailhead at midnight. I thought it would be sensible to reschedule, but Dani had different plans.
I feel in my gut that we have to do it now, texted Dani—my short, brunette, easygoing best friend who manages to balance nursing school and instructing hot yoga like it’s nothing.
That obscure message is all it takes to shove my logic behind me and let my youthful fondness for unfavorable odds assume the driver’s seat of my 2006 sage-green Subaru Outback.
We arrive at the trailhead at 4:30 in the morning, running on watered-down gas station coffee, Clif bars, and the kind of sleep deprivation that makes one oddly energetic before “crashing.” I back the car into a space of dead grass.
“Is this even a camping spot?” Dani asks.
“I’m not sure, but I’m going to sleep.”
We climb into the back of the Subie, jump in our sleeping bags, and try to catch some “z”s before the day of reckoning.
At 5:30, we are rudely awakened by my obnoxiously cheerful alarm. My throat hurts, and I’m parched. Condensation from our breath had accumulated on the windows while we slept.
I squint, watching a drop of water run down the glass. The sleep (or the contacts I had accidentally left in) sticks in my eyes as I slowly blink into the pastel morning light.
There is a soft lemon-colored halo cresting over what I assume is the summit. Mount Borah doesn’t have a pointy, spired peak; quite honestly, it looks underwhelming with its rounded bumpy edges, like a heap of buttery mashed potatoes.
While the summit’s splendor isn’t found in its ambiguous shape, its sheer height is enough to elicit great reverence.
It towers behind multiple other ridges, like layers of paint. Above all this, the sky becomes a deep lavender ocean. Sitting up in my sleeping bag, I look at Dani.
“This is gonna suck,” I announce with a smirk and a flicker of mischief in my eyes.
***
We take our first crisp steps on the frosted trailhead at 6:00.
Despite the dewy morning chill, we are in shorts; the rest of our outfits consist of hiking socks, boots, and multiple top layers to shed during the ascent. We are equipped with hiking packs, hats, sunglasses, and trekking poles.
It doesn’t take long for me to realize that we will shed those top layers sooner than expected.
The trail to Borah Peak wastes no time with a gentle introduction. Immediately, we find ourselves moving like a locomotive of arms and legs; we stab the earth with our trekking poles, heaving our bodies up the treacherous incline.
It’s a sacred morning, as there are no other souls on the popular trail, which is known to gather upwards of 5,000 climbers a year.
As we ascend, all we hear is the slipping of rocks and dirt beneath our feet, the jabs of our poles, and our rhythmic breathing. Other than our trivial sounds, a tranquil silence nestles into the crevices of the creek beds and small valleys.
A mile or so passes, and I see the landscape around us change from canopies of scrawny foliage to barren, exposed shale rock. The sun begins to beam over the peaks ahead, bathing the moon-like terrain in an optimistic orange hue.
A striking scene is ahead: sheer rock faces jutting out from the top of the mountain like razor blades.
On the side we’re approaching, an unforgiving cliff face bottoms out hundreds of feet below, where snowpack still melts in the heat of July. Dani and I look at each other, thinking the same thing: That must be Chicken-Out Ridge.
As we approach, we mull over navigating the rocky mess.
A significant percentage of people hoping to stand on the roof of Idaho turn around at this point, hence its daunting name. The hiking forums we read before the trip attempted to describe the route of this crux, but we both realize we will need to find our own way up due to the complexity of the terrain.
As we progress into an almost-vertical rock climb rather than a scramble on the back side of the ridge, I realize that we chose the most dangerous and technical route. Sketchy rock chutes, disintegrating footholds, and steep drop-offs leave no margin for error.
Putting our thin cold-weather gloves on to protect our hands from the sharp holds, we immerse ourselves in the precarity of the situation, avoid looking down, and climb onward.
Lowering ourselves down a slippery-smooth black rock chute to complete the notorious quarter-mile section, adrenaline raises every hair on my body.
Our boots crunch into the snow bridge that connects us to the rest of the trail, and we silently acknowledge that one misstep on Chicken-Out could have resulted in very real consequences.
Nevertheless, we suppress thoughts of our mortality and look ahead to the peak. The rocky summit is in sight!
There’s under a mile left to go. I look up at the peak—its rolling incline taunts us. We read about this trail’s false summits in the hiking forums, but if we learn anything from today, it’s that climbing this giant is an extremely individual experience.
Still scrambling, I see the top above us. Looking down, I try to catch my breath, hunching over to settle my mind and address the tunnel vision and altitude exhaustion.
I take a few more steps. Any forward progress is progress, I think. I look up. It seems we have reached what we thought was the top, but there is another “top” behind this one. Ah, we realize simultaneously. The dreaded false summits.
“It’s like running on a treadmill of rocks,” Dani squeaks out exasperatedly.
At this point, every ten steps require at least thirty seconds of recuperation. The false summits don’t let up.
The lack of altitude acclimation, deprivation of sleep, and overall exhaustion make me feel delirious—like I’m stuck in a wormhole.
My ears are pounding, my heart is pounding, and I vow not to look up until my hands are done clawing at the rocks above my head.
Finally, I take one last grab at the mountain, pulling myself up the 12,662nd foot of Mount Borah.
We’ve made it to the summit.
Dani and I blink our eyes and gradually take in the glorious view before us. On the back side of the peak, a spectacular image rewards us—its beauty reserved only for those who make it to the top.
Pristine blue alpine lakes, striking rock formations, and infinite mountain ranges delight our tired eyes.
We turn to ogle the vast plain that lies at the base of this mountain. Our eyes trail each ridge and valley, etching the path we just conquered. Far below, I recognize something familiar.
At first, I can barely decipher the object I am looking at, with its hard edges and metallic shine. My car, Walter, the sage green Subaru Outback—parked at the trailhead, just how I left it, unchanged, unbothered.
Seeing what an ironic contrast my car’s state was to the intense emotional and physical transformation Dani and I had just experienced was enough to make me laugh.
***
It’s a cliche, but Dani and I are changed after this experience.
It wasn’t particularly the hike itself that felt unique because many hikers traverse the same trail. We walk in each other’s footsteps but experience different journeys. Dani and I have found that our journey was committing to an idea and making it happen.
Later, I asked Dani what she took away from the experience on Mount Borah.
“That we’re strong,” she says. “We had so many things going against us; if we didn’t really want to summit, we wouldn’t have. We both had to be on the same page.”
I’ll fondly remember this experience with Dani for the rest of my life.
Feeling the crunch of the dirt beneath our boots, our ragged breath in the crisp mountain air. The sound of nervous laughter as we approach the unknown. The sporadic gusts of wind screaming over the ridges, playing with our hair and peeling our eyelashes back.
I’ll remember what it felt like to truly, wholeheartedly pour myself into a moment, immersing myself in the truly uncomfortable.
We may have stood on the top of the world there for a moment, but at the same time, we bowed humbly to the feet of a beautiful earth.
Today, a special seat was reserved for me at the table of heaven As I rapidly descended the shadowed cape, the sun was gently grazing Earth’s infinite mirror I glimpsed the rolling hills of water through flashes of tall conifers My feet, surrendering to the gravity of the trail, fled the clinging foliage Rounding the bend, the treeline severed Delicate clouds seasoned the sky Ethereal pink and yellow brushstrokes — exhibitions from an artist’s deliberate hand The ocean was everything and nothing Waves birthed from physics and chance — partners in an intimate struggle My bare feet pounded the firm sand, flirting with the hungry shoreline If there’s a God, he saved that seat just for me So I could scream out that I love my life in solitude Alone, just me and the universe
Quite the hiatus I’ve been on here. I’ll do a lil’ update on my life and my very odd, grueling job for the summer.
I am currently sitting in an artsy little coffee shop in downtown Kansas City, Missouri. How did I get here, might you ask? Well, the story begins in November 2020. I reconnected with my childhood best friend via a very long, rambling, “everything under the sun” type of phone call. She is one of those friends who you could lose connection with for a few years and pick up right where you left off, no matter how much each person has changed and grown. I am endlessly grateful for the deep-rooted friendship we have been able to sustain despite distance and our different paths in life.
Anyway, the phone call. She told me she had taken a job selling pest control door-to-door and had sold in Detroit, Michigan all summer and became one of the top “rookie” (first-year) reps in the region that year. Basically, the girl is an absolute badass woman who deals with muggy hot summer days, angry homeowners, and the mental and emotional rollercoaster of facing rejection 99% of the day. She was telling me about it and I was like, “geez, someone would have to be insane to willingly put themselves through such a hellish experience.” I signed my papers to join her in Michigan the following summer a few weeks later.
Lots of preparation and work goes into getting ready for summer sales. You have to commit a pitch to memory so well you could recite it in your sleep. You have to be prepared to think quickly to address customer objections, build value, and close them. I think door-to-door is one of the weirdest jobs because you literally walk up to a random person’s door, introduce yourself and your product quickly but clearly, and attempt to convince them to purchase a service that they likely haven’t given any consideration just a few minutes before they met you. Sometimes when I’m signing someone up at their door, I have a moment of realization that this stranger just met me five minutes ago and is handing me their credit card. Sales is a job like no other — the majority of it is a psychological game between yourself and the potential customer. It’s really interesting to witness how the fundamentals of persuasion, trust, and communication skills are at play during every interaction.
Even though I started training months prior to getting out to Michigan, I felt like a socially incapable buffoon who had no business knocking on strangers’ doors when I finally got out there. I vividly remember my first neighborhood. After shadowing my friend for a few hours that day, she gave me my own neighborhood and told me to go knock it. I remember feeling an all-consuming wave of anxiety that she was throwing me into the deep end and expected me to swim. I realize now that tough love is the only way to truly grow in this field because you must be immersed in it to figure out how to survive. Anyway, the first day looked like this: I go up and knock on a door. The homeowner answers, usually annoyed that there is a random person trying to talk to them about bugs at 8 o’clock at night. I shakily introduce myself, they show hesitation or a hint of disinterest, and I quickly say ‘no worries have a great night” and awkwardly leave their doorstep. Quite the salesperson right there, wow.
It took me a while to learn the tactics of hurdling objections, maintaining interest, and being a little “sharky” in brushing past smokescreens and actually confidently making a sale. People can sense hesitation or nervousness and will never buy from someone they don’t trust. Even if I feel like I am a nervous wreck internally, the key is looking cool as a cucumber. Truly a “fake it ’til you make it” type gig. I still have a TON to work on, but now I feel a lot more confident in what I do.
Well, why the hell am I in Missouri? We ran out of area to knock in the Detroit region and would have to re-knock a ton of areas by the end of the summer, so we hightailed it to KC and joined with a smaller Aptive sales team down here. Honestly, I have never given the state of Missouri much of a thought until I found myself living here. For about a week when I first got here, I couldn’t even remember the name of the state I was living in. I am definitely impressed with the area — it’s quite beautiful here. The rolling hills of green, lush foliage surprised me because I thought it was going to be flat and dry like Kansas. One thing that I don’t enjoy is the suffocating humidity. I am a dry-heat Idaho gal, so I still have yet to adjust to feeling like I went for a swim whenever I go outside. Sometimes, when I am knocking and people open up their door to a glistening, grungy-looking young woman trying to speak to them about their bugs, they look a little horrified and ask if I need water or something. I’ll take what I can get out here I guess.
The job’s not glamorous and I would be lying if I said didn’t miss the freedom of being able to go on spontaneous camping trips and even have the luxury of having more than one day off the entire week. We usually work from 11 in the morning to 9 at night, work half days Saturdays, and get Sundays off. It’s entirely commission-based, so there are a few days when I have worked for free because I made no sales and that’s kind of the worst feeling ever. I miss having mountains to retreat to, I miss the assurance of having a constant, steady flow of income if I just show up to work, and I really miss my family.
Door-to-door has taught me a lot — in more ways than I thought it could. I have learned (and am still continuing to learn) how to push forward through constant rejection, move past an unpleasant encounter, keep a level-head after securing a sale, and celebrate the small victories every once in a while. I have learned how to maintain my self-confidence after feeling dehumanized by a stranger. I have met so many incredible people, both on my team and on the doors. I have learned that if I consistently work hard, the opportunities for financial freedom abound. Sometimes when a day is especially difficult, I just have a conversation with someone on the doors to feel human again and reset. My social skills have grown immensely through the exposure of knocking on hundreds of doors a day. The things I have learned so far will only help me in my future career as a nurse because I have learned how to speak to people from different backgrounds, ages, and everything in between.
I don’t regret coming out here, even though I complain about it more than I probably should. Even if it’s just for a summer, I have seen a lot of the real world that I never would have touched had I not left my safe little nook nestled in the mountains of Idaho.
Next time someone knocks on your door and tries to sell a product, give my anecdote a little thought. Give them some compassion, treat them like a human, and geez grab ’em a water because they’re probably severely dehydrated.
I know I’ve been M.I.A. since school started back up again… No, I haven’t given up writing — I have been super busy with college and a side job writing for the Northwest Nazarene University Athletics webpage.
Here’s something I’ve been working on lately! Featured in this article is a women’s basketball player who grew up doing water ski shows.
This is next-level stuff, people. If picturing yourself balancing on a human pyramid of waterskiers behind a boat sounds wild, you should take a gander at this article…
Give it some love! Link here! https://nnusports.com/news/2020/11/12/womens-basketball-from-the-top-of-the-pyramid-to-the-top-of-the-key.aspx
You know those days when everything seems to be going right? You have things planned all day that are so fun and exciting, and in the midst of the joy you stop and think:
Wow, I am having a really, really good day.
I had one of those a few days ago.
One of my best friends and I had planned a paddleboard float trip down the flat stretch of the Cabarton river with some good friends. About 10 miles and three and a half hours of paddling, relaxing, and soaking up the late summer sun were in store for us. We got off work, met up with our crew, and transported the paddleboards to the put-in near Fischer’s Pond. I got to meet some pretty rad people and spend some quality time with old friends — the perfect duo.
After we set off on our slow journey, we laughed, joked, reminisced, and learned new things about each other. There were some notable moments, including finding river booty (a kayak paddle) at the most perfect time, attempting backflips (more like backslaps) off the boards into the river, and holding races to see which method of paddling was most efficient (the double-person-kayak-method only added comedic value). The landmark that indicates the end of the trip is the Cabarton bridge, which a few of us jumped off of. There is a special “sweet spot” that you must jump in, or else you will hit sand or old wooden posts. It sounds sketchy, but it’s really a damn good time.
Alas, we were not done yet! After we dropped the boards off in town, we loaded up some new ones. This time, surfboards. We headed over to Kelly’s Whitewater Park in Cascade to do some late afternoon river surfing. Most of us were pretty familiar with the sport, so we were able to get in the wave, shred a bit, try some new tricks, fall, and go right back in again. While we were dying laughing at each other’s … expressive … fails, the late evening sky morphed from a pink and yellow sherbert to a deep purple and grey veil. Many times I found myself standing in the water, leaning on my board, taking in the moment.
Eventually, it got too dark to surf and we headed back to a friend’s house. After being on the water all day, our teenage hunger took over and we decided to make grilled cheese and tomato soup to soothe our cravings. For those who seek a moment of pure glee, definitely try putting on some oldies and crazy dancing while a grilled cheese cooks in a panini press.
My day wasn’t extravagant or expensive. It was all things that I had done before. I don’t know what made it one of my favorite days this summer — whether it was the company, timing, weather, or a mix of it all. But one thing I know is to cherish those “really, really good days.” I remember turning to my friends multiple times and telling them, “today is a good day.” I think it’s important to recognize those moments and take a second to appreciate that life, in the midst of the routine or misfortune, is always saving up some really, really good days for you.
Whether it’s stress, trauma, or sadness, everyone needs an outlet to process, relax, or “let off some steam.” Some people choose alcohol or drugs, some people binge Netflix, and some people even use shopping or partying to distract from the pain that they are experiencing. For me though, when I just need to get out of my head, I rely on nature.
During quarantine and virtual learning, I had one thing to always look forward to — to ground me and relieve my stress: my daily walk. A measly one or two-mile walk in the woods could make me feel like I had accomplished so much that day, solely because I had taken the time to care for my body. Of course, my grades, my job, and other things were extremely important. But those things are, dare I say, superficial compared to the health of the body and mind? Many people neglect the thing that gets all the things done!
I have always wished more people could experience the addictive serenity that nature provides for the body and mind. I wish a doctor could prescribe the sound of a river or the smell of the forest for depression. I wish that when people decide that they can’t bear the pain of life anymore, that they just step outside and look. I wish every argument could be settled with a long afternoon walk down a dirt road — a pink and orange splendor above. I wish the confusing pain of losing someone could always become clearer with a crisp gasp of fresh mountain air. I wish that everyone had the strength to put down their phones, go outside, and truly understand what humans are meant to “like.”
Through the entirety of our lives, our bodies will be the only constant thing — not a job, or class, or relationship, but the vessel that carries our souls. It should be nurtured with the universe.
Nature does not always heal, but it sure as hell brings us back to an organic understanding of our existence.
I wrote this essay for a college credit class my senior year of high school as a “profile” assignment. I feel like the best hidden gem in Cascade is this tiny airport and the selfless people behind it.
26 November 2018
Most eighty-one-year-olds would be going home and relaxing after church on a Sunday morning, but Ray Arnold’s mode of relaxation is flying a small single-engine airplane into the Idaho mountains to deliver mail to the backcountry residents who rely solely on him. I got the chance to fly with this man who has flown for over fifty years and who has logged over 30,000 hours in the air. I not only found that his passion for flying is immense, but that the friendships and connections that he has made along the way continuously fuel his desire to serve the people in the backcountry.
Going up in a small airplane into the “land of no cell service” with a man I had never met before was definitely not how I was planning on spending my Sunday. I sent an email to Arnold Aviation thinking I’d have a few days to get ready for my field research, but an email was sent back in a matter of minutes telling me to come ASAP: Ray Arnold was going on his mail route and I could come with him.
I dropped everything I was doing and frantically searched around for my black windbreaker. I yelled at my dad that I was going flying and rushed out the door. Driving to the small airport at the end of town, I was imagining all the places and things I would see today; I had never been in a small airplane before. At the airport, I saw the older looking yellow-brown building with the letters ARNOLD AVIATION on it, unaware that this place would become very close to me in the next few weeks. I entered the building, and a warm gust of air greeted my chilled cheeks. My eyes were met with a comfortable room: couches, a coffee maker, and a few posters of maps and planes were placed around the area. Inside were Ray and Carol Arnold, sweet folks who are the owners of the airport. Ray was wearing khakis, a navy blue shirt, a red Carhartt jacket, and a blue baseball cap: everything you would imagine an eighty-one year old pilot to be wearing before braving the Idaho backcountry. Both greeted me and Ray offered me a snickerdoodle. “I never met a cookie I didn’t like,” Ray said with a grin. His welcoming demeanor settled my nerves, and I was excited to get an opportunity to fly; I didn’t quite know what to expect.
The pilot that was about to take me on this last-minute trip has had quite an interesting life considering how he ended up in Cascade, Idaho. Ray Arnold moved from Minneapolis, Minnesota to Idaho in 1955 and married Carol in 1959. He and Carol both went to Northwest Nazarene College to become teachers. Ray taught chemistry, physics, and mathematics, while Carol taught home economics and physical education. When the only two job openings at Cascade High School were for each of their majors, they knew that their destiny lay in Cascade. Making a good salary at $4,000 a year, they decided to build a house and Ray used the leftover money for flying lessons in McCall, Idaho.
Ray signed with a mail contract and he and Carol founded Arnold Aviation in 1972. Carol is the office manager at the airport. She is the “Gramma” of the whole local flying community — following and scheduling flights, ordering groceries for backcountry residents, doing paperwork, and making sure everything and everyone is taken care of, on the grid or off the grid. When they founded the airport, Carol mentioned that — with no previous business training — the two had to “fly by the seat of their pants” in order to create a thriving business.
Imagining how hard it would be to run a whole airport, I walked out onto the tarmac (the runway) with Ray. My eyes feasted upon the quaint little blue plane: the 185 Cessna. Another lady was flying with us that day. Her name was Julie and she had short brown hair, sunglasses, a puffy jacket, jeans, and blue tennis shoes. Since there was only one seat in front, we decided to switch from the co-pilot seat to the back seat at every stop we made.
I was surprised at how agile Ray was to be able to climb over the seats and crouch into the cramped pilot space in his venerable age. I was up front first, and Ray told me to plug in the headphones and speaker into the control board so that we could talk over the loud drone of the plane. I looked around the cockpit and I noticed how Ray pushed every button and flipped every switch with ease like it was second nature. He took the small plane around the runway, and then he started gaining speed. Soon enough, I was seeing my own town above the birds for the first time in my life. Everything looked different from an aerial view; I could recognize each road and each body of water, but each feature had its own unique appearance from the air as opposed to the ground. My nose was glued to the window as I saw tiny cows dotting the landscape below me.
I asked Ray, “How often do you fly?”
“Oh, about twice a month now. They say, ”You know how a person feels when they haven’t had their snuff for a while? That’s how Ray feels when he hasn’t been flying.” Carol says it’s good to get out and fly once in a while.”
I agreed with this statement with some laughter and we continued soaring over the mountains. It is evident that flying has been a part of Ray’s life for a long time. He received a certificate from the Idaho Transportation Department Division of Aeronautics, recognizing him for fifty years of dedicated service in Idaho aviation. He even received a letter of appreciation from former Governor Butch Otter!
We flew over numerous mountain lakes near my house that I didn’t even know existed. Ray pointed all around us and said, “There’s the south fork of the Salmon River, and over there is Seven Devils peak. If you look over there, you’ll also see the mountains over in Oregon.” All of these landmarks that seemed so far away traveling on the ground were brought into such a close perspective, it was definitely eye-opening. Ray told me our first stop was Mackay Bar.
“We are bar-hoppin’ today Sage!”
Mackay Bar is a river-side resort that “offers the perfect venue for all-inclusive vacation packages as well as exciting hunting and fishing adventures in a beautiful, private backcountry setting” (Mackay Bar Outfitters 2018). We circled over the resort, and I saw a small grassy landing strip that seemed quite sketchy. I watched in amazement as Ray descended closer and closer to the ground, and I could tell when we touched land by the jostling and rambling of the tiny plane on the uneven grass and dirt clumps. Later, Ray told me that he has damaged a wheel because of the hidden gopher holes in the landing strips. He steered the plane with ease right up to the ranch, and we crawled out and walked to one of the buildings. As I entered the building, I saw a beautiful rustic dining room that was so inviting and warm. This was something I didn’t expect for being 54 miles away from the closest town. We were loaded with a few packages, and Julie and I gave the people in the kitchen some tools from Home Depot and a box of cheese.
Regarding cheese, Carol and I had an interesting conversation about the food during one of the two interviews I had with her at the airport. She told me that — when grocery orders used to come through the fuzzy radio — she once misinterpreted an order for five pounds of cheese as an order for five pounds of tea. The customers assured Carol that they did drink every cup of that tea. A few other misunderstood orders include “brown gloves” and “ground cloves”, “corn” and “Coors”, and even “Kotex” and “toothpicks”. Needless to say, I know that Carol is thankful for the technological advances of email orders nowadays.
Back at Mackay Bar, everyone knew Ray and welcomed him with open arms, and he knew them all by name as well. I could sense the love these people had for Ray, and I knew that it wasn’t the mail that Ray loved about his job, but the people.
Later, I asked him, “What have you learned flying that you wouldn’t have otherwise known?”
“I would’ve never known the people. All the people who I visit and deliver mail to — not to mention all the hunters and workers who I have transported — have really made flying worth it all.”
Ray told me that lifelong friendships have sprouted and flourished through his social job. He receives countless Christmas cards from people he has met, and will usually be found having a conversation with someone who stopped by the airport to catch up on things. He even told me about a recent time when he talked with a lady who worked at D&B who he knew as a fourth-grader that used to live on one of the backcountry ranches. I know that if I were Ray’s age, I would be grateful to have had the opportunity to make such a positive impact on so many lives.
I gradually started to understand how important Ray was to these people who live so far away from civilization as we loaded back up in the plane. I was in the back this time, so I took the opportunity to capture some of the flight with pictures. We took off again on the grassy landing strip — the bumps and jumbles I would get used to by the end of the day — and Ray said we were headed for Yellow Pine Bar. This trip was much shorter than the last, and we circled above the property and landed on another little airstrip. Immediately, we were greeted by a medium sized dog with red-brown and white hair. Ray got out of the plane and exclaimed, “Woodrow! Did you know I flew him in as a puppy?” Later, I would learn that a puppy isn’t the most unique thing Ray has flown before. He has transported a woman in labor, a prisoner with two life sentences, and even a 1 ¾ pound premature baby. While the image of flying with a cute little puppy ran through my mind, the ranch caretaker, Sue, made her way up from the beautiful log home below and greeted us. She had on jeans, a camo sweatshirt and vest, and a straw cowboy hat. I was told that Sue is the party planner of the backcountry people and even creates a calendar every year with pictures from the highlights of the year for the whole backcountry community. She hugged Ray and he introduced me.
“The boys are in there watching the Seattle Seahawks after one of them shot their deer this morning.” She points up the hill to the deer hanging in the shed. “Want to come in for some fresh-baked chocolate cake?”
Ray politely declined, because we had quite a few more stops and he didn’t want to get caught in the dark or in a snowstorm.
Later, I would ask Ray, “What are some important things to know about flying safety?”
“Pre-planning is extremely important, and the weather is a BIG factor. My rule of thumb is: if I have to circle a landing zone three times to get a position in order to land, then I’m going home.”
Ray told me about a time that he was circling a landing. Each time he circled, the windsock on the ground was limp, meaning there was no wind. Right before touching the ground, he noticed the windsock was rigid, right before his plane was lodged between two trees.
We gave Sue the five-gallon bucket of paint she ordered and a small package, said our goodbyes, and we were on our way again. Ray told me about the time that a deer jumped in front of the plane while attempting to make a landing on this airstrip. The propeller cut the deer clean into four pieces. As we ascended, I realized how dangerous flying in the backcountry could be — between hitting birds and deer, to getting caught in a snowstorm, or even having engine failure. When Ray used to fly the air-ambulance before the age of Life Flight, he told me he encountered many dangerous situations, one of which included flying into Yellowpine one night with EMTs on board to transport a man who was in a snowmobile crash.
Ray told me, “Snowmobiling and alcohol do not mix well together.” There was a man who hit a blind corner and was launched fifty-three feet off the road, hitting a tree still sixteen feet in the air. His helmet was split by the impact. The EMT crew recovered the man and loaded him up in the plane. Since Ray was flying in the dark, he could not see the end of the runway and knew a mountain loomed beyond it. Thankfully, fellow snowmobilers rode up the mountain to create a light path for him to take off. He reassured himself, “Stay over those lights, and I won’t hit that mountain.”
Another time, he was transporting an urgent patient to the Boise Airport and got priority over a commercial airliner to land first.
After saying goodbye to Sue and Woodrow on Yellow Pine Bar, our next stop on the mail route was Taylor Ranch, a University of Idaho field station, where students stay there for a semester with a host family. When we were there, Ray said, “Take a mental snapshot of that mountain range, I have the same picture hanging in my office.” Sure enough, he did. Our last stop was windy Mahoney airstrip, a grassy plateau above the river where Ray had a friend who was on a hunting trip. We couldn’t find him in his tent, and the other hunters on Mahoney said he might be out hunting. Ray’s friend had been contacting Carol and telling her that he wanted to see Ray, but since he wasn’t there, we had to continue on. That situation showed me how important friendships and connections are when living off the grid, and how hit-or-miss it is to see people who only travel by plane.
After Mahoney, we were on our way back to Cascade.
We were nearing Yellowpine when Ray said, “See those mountains over there? Those are the Sawtooth Mountains and that’s Stanley Valley!”
I was in disbelief.
“No way, what? That’s crazy that I can see those when it’s usually a four hour drive from here!”
Again, the perspective up in the air was astounding. We flew on in silence for a while over the mountains, and then Ray told me to grab the co-pilot steering mechanism in front of me. Internally, I was panicking because I didn’t know what his motives were. Then, he told me to rest my feet on the foot pedals on the floor — they move the rudder flap on the tail of the plane while you steer a certain direction with the steering mechanism. Ray looked at me with a smile and said, “Just don’t make any violent maneuvers,” and let go of his steering.
The feeling of being responsible for a ton-and-a-half flying piece of metal with three lives on it was a bit unnerving, but I actually really enjoyed it. I made minuscule movements because I didn’t want to make any actions that would end in our immediate demise. Then, Ray grabbed the steering mechanism.
“Now this is how you go up…”
He pulled the steering toward his chest and the plane jutted upward into the sky. Blue sky was the only thing that filled the window.
“And then this is how you go down!”
He pushed the steering in and we took a short nosedive.
Julie in the back exclaimed, “AHH! Are you letting Sage drive?!” It was like a rollercoaster. I loved it. Ray told me to take the steering and head for the recognizable mountains by Cascade. When we flew closer, Ray took hold of the steering and I directed him to where I live and we flew over my house and the town of Cascade. I realized that seeing my house from this perspective — and everything else that I saw today — would not have been possible if I had not met Ray Arnold.
When we returned back to the ground, we helped Ray push his plane into its hangar. I reflected on how grateful I was to have been able to fly with the legendary Ray Arnold and to have met the people who work at the airport that I have overlooked for so many years. The Arnolds run an honest business and continually make sacrifices to care for the people that live in the backcountry. I learned that Ray’s job is his passion, and it isn’t just delivering mail that he lives for, but the friendships and comradery that he makes along the way.
~ Even years later, Ray and I are still quite close and make sure to meet for lunch every so often at the North Fork Cafe in Cascade to catch up on our recent antics ~
Okay, the title has more of a dramatic undertone than intended, but it’s true, isn’t it?
I think we can all agree that so far 2020 has proven to be one of the most unexpected, uncomfortable, frustrating, and hellish years of our lives. I have been pondering if, in my nineteen years of life, this is just a really bad year or if this is actual adulthood, and I don’t think I’m ready for that answer….
Even at first glance, I could describe the events — globally, nationally, and personally — with one word. Shitty. We have all had a lot of crap served to us this year — some I share with you, but some that was served to me on a silver platter with my name on it. I experienced an injury that prematurely ended my indoor track season, the cancellation of my outdoor track season and last half of freshman spring semester, a challenging remote learning experience as a nursing major, and the loss of very valuable relationships with people who had been my sole confidants for so long.
Now, of course, the whole global pandemic and quarantine thing I couldn’t really control, so the change was easier to swallow because I knew everyone else was experiencing the same things that I was. I found peace in knowing that eventually, EVENTUALLY, the waves and dips in craziness would level out and we, as a world, could scrounge up some fragments of our old routine and piece together a new sense of “normal.”
However, the shift that challenged me emotionally, more than ever before, was the loss of those irreplaceable relationships. I say irreplaceable, because they are. Even after I eventually move on, there are no other human beings in the entire world that can entirely duplicate the memories, special moments, and level of understanding that I had with those people. And that’s okay! It took me a while to realize, and I still entirely don’t, that the people put in your life shape you in SO many ways and contribute so much to your life, no matter how long they play a role in it. I can name hundreds of new passions, inherited quirks, priceless experiences, and shaping of my character that I can owe to those people who are so full of life. I have found that every person adds some sort of value to your life, regardless if its short-lived, long-term, unhealthy, full of happiness, or just not meant to be. It’s essential to remember this fact to find peace in every relationship that you encounter in your lifetime.
These past few months have also forced me to start slowly chipping away a future I had envisioned for myself for so long. You don’t realize how hard it is to actually do that until you are forced into it by your own circumstance and self-respect. Lately, however, I have been able to witness new opportunities for myself and am gradually starting to piece together an image of a life that I never could have imagined — had it not been for that massive shift in ‘the comfortable.’ I wouldn’t call myself a particularly religious person, but I think I am finally seeing the bigger plan that the universe has for me — at least for the time being. I know she’ll put me through the wringer again and again, but this time I can find more comfort in knowing that there will be a moment after every struggle that I will realize: everything happens for a reason.
Okay, so yes, this year has been our own series of unfortunate events. I think we can collectively agree that the next event (we know it’s coming, whether it’s aliens or some murder-butterfly) will be welcomed with pained laughter because we’ve become numb to the shock of the unbelievable. However, I think it will spare our mental health and quality of life if we remember that in some screwed up, crazy way, everything really does happen for a reason. Say that again.
This was kind of a brain dump for everything I’ve been thinking about and manifesting over all summer, so it may mean more to me than it does to you. However, I think anyone could resonate with my emotional journey in some way.
I’ll leave you with the wise words of Semisonic’s “Closing Time:”
“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”