stories of travel, medical missions, and more
Step onto the path
of sad snow, broken and watered down,
nearly gone.
Old tufts of old grass push through.
It’s their time soon.
My steps are not the first.
So I follow on along the path laid
down by the wild things—
the toes of turkeys and finely cut
prints of squirrels, newly awakened.
anthony forrest
Our tiny plane hummed and groaned and shook and rattled as we coursed through the Mexican sky, into the Sierra Madre Mountains. Below, I peer into the Copper Canyon, home of the famed “running tribe,” the Tarahumara. Our destination lay not far ahead. In fact, the people we were visiting are missionaries to the Tarahumara people. Canyon after peak after sheer-falling cliff passed by in that slow-but-really-actually-fast way that things seem to pass beneath you when you are flying. We typically fly commercially. But not here. Commercial flights don’t go where we were going. It takes 12 hours by 4×4 vehicle on laughable roads to get to this part of Mexico.
“Is that the strip?” I ask, in a semi-confused tone. The questionably short, dirt landing strip was perched on a plateau at nearly 9,000 feet above sea level. What made it slightly terrifying was that it was on a hill. An actual hill. When the plane lands, it lands up hill. When the plane takes off, it takes off down the hill. With expert skill, our pilot adjusted flaps, airspeed, and altitude and gently lighted us back to earth.
Stumbling out of the plane, we took a deep breath. This whole trip had been nonstop hustle. From Minneapolis to Salt Lake to El Paso we flew. Then we drove the five hours from the boarder to Chihuahua City. We ate late night dinners in friendly homes. Rose early to go here and see that. Greet this person and go to that meeting. Spend unexpected two hours on phone. And then jump on 4-seat Cessna 206 to fly two more hours. It was absolutely worth it. But it was also terrifically exhausting.
And yet, here we stood—taking in this view, this mountain air. This excursion to the mountains was exactly what we needed.
We went on a hike before supper. What could be better? But as we trotted along the edge of the plateau, we were getting more and more tired. Perhaps the long week was catching up with us. Our hike was getting brutal, despite the easy trail. We were sucking wind hard by the time we got back to the house.
We both felt terrible. Dizziness, slight headaches, and on top of it, we were both very pale.
Technology is great. So is medical knowledge. I have an app on my phone that will measure oxygen saturation (spO2) in the blood. And as a paramedic, I kind of already knew what was going on. And the 90% spO2 reading on my phone confirmed.
Altitude sickness.
In Minnesota, we live at 1,100 feet. And this day we had flown directly to 9,000 feet and went for a hike. Fortunately, our symptoms were not life threatening. But that night we laid there in bed, literally struggling to breath. That being said, our trip to the mountains was indeed wonderful.
One could say that it took our breath away.
anthony forrest
One day upon stone road in Spring
Walked I beside stream
And bank
Passing currents of people and water
Fathers and daughters
And boats
They take not notice of my laughing heart
Smiling at their truest art
Hanging on the walls of the world
Crossing river upon bridge I turn
Walking along the other side to learn
More of this people and place
anthony forrest
The Sierra Madre Mountains are stunning: pines, cliffs, rolling hills, and alp-like mountains as far as the eye can see. After our plane landed, we stood there amazed. Our hosts greeted us happily and showed us around their mountain home. After we got settled, we toured the local area. The mission hospital, the local church, many warm-hearted people, then we made a quick stop for some fresh blue corn tortillas.
Later that afternoon, we tucked into some of the local fare (including those fabulous tortillas). Also included in the meal was a bowl full of tiny peppers.
“Would you like some Chile Pequin?” our gracious hosts ask.
Are Mexican mountain tortillas blue? Of course I want Chile Pequin.
“Sure!” I bluffed.
Actually, I had no idea what they were. But they were about the size of a pea and dry. The host handed me a little wooded pestle and I went to work on the pepper. After a few flicks of the wrist, I dumped the contents onto my beans and rice.
Wide eyes flicked back and forth. Everybody waited in silence as I took my first bite.
Lava-firebrand-acid-rain fell onto my tongue. Great sweat drops beaded up and rolled down my jaw. It took a couple of tortillas, but the Chile apocalypse subsided. Eventually, those tiny peppers became my friends. And pretty soon I was grinding more.
All was going well, until after supper I reached up and touched my right eye.
Out of nowhere, a demon guided freight train ran over my face. My eyelid slammed shut. I was soon going to have my answer on how I would look with an eye patch.
Without hesitation, our host stood up and produced a tiny plastic cup.
“Here,” she said, “pour this goat milk into you eye.” It was so rapid and I was in so much pain that I didn’t even ask her, “how did you get that milk so fast?” Or, “is this a goat-milk eyewash approved cup?” Or, “where is your goat?”
I poured the goat milk into my eye and the pain was instantly washed away.
Chile Pequin is good.
Goat milk is better.
anthony forrest
Rises from still nothing
Then building
Growing from silence
Faint voices echoing
All enchanting
Soul sounding
Again
Drones the heart chambers
Red embers
Mind remembers
The song
Notes slow fading
Ears waiting
And wanting
So very much more
anthony forrest
We’d prefer to sit together, but sometimes it just doesn’t work out. I’m sitting in the middle seat next to a professor-looking gentleman with a book of sudoku thicker than his glasses, and a dude with large headphones and a propensity toward king-size three musketeer bars.
Just across the aisle, my wife is pressed up against the window. Next to her sits two bridesmaids going to the same wedding as most of the passengers in the rows ahead and behind her. The rambunctious girls talk my poor wife deeper into the corner and I’m sure the giggling can be heard in the cockpit.
May God have mercy on her soul.
The professor folds down his tray and begins driving away with his pen at a well-marked notebook. On my left, D’Artagnan loudly tucks a chocolatey wrapper into the seat in front of him.
Ah, the beverage cart cometh.
I quietly sip my coffee and listen in as a lady directly behind me puts in her order.
“Could I get you something to drink,” the attendant asks, sweetly.
A stern voice replies, “just a half cup of black coffee. Just a half,” she bellows, “no more!”
Does she know that she can’t handle a full cup? Does she not realize she doesn’t absolutely have to finish a full cup? I giggle at her lack of self-control; but only because I get it.
“That looks intense,” I say, nodding to the professor’s notebook. Turns out he’s an actual professor.
A legit one.
At Dartmouth.
He tells me that he’s working on international healthcare privacy agreements and other things I don’t understand. We hit it off and he regales me with tales of an old church in Oxford and 100-year-old oak timbers. He blinks excitedly through the wiry grey hair that covers most of his face. Occasionally he wipes his hands on his corduroy pants. Grey collar sticks out from disheveled purple sweater. He has conquered the professor look.
Planes force companionship. And though our new relationships may expire in two hours and thirty minutes, they are still worth forging. We’re all in this together.
anthony forrest
Gifts that shine so brightly
And outshine the daily fare
Like magic fruits of healing
God’s own hand of care
anthony forrest
Our bus careened over the hill and down into another pristine valley. Pines passed by at a leisurely rate. And the sun shone through a break in the Austrian Alps. We typically never do this.
Tour busses and groups epitomize the type of traveler that I simply don’t want to be. I can see it now: a group of late middle-age women with fanny packs and vizors piles onto the bus. Each has a camera and one of those neck wallets that holds everything—you know, so it’s easier to steal. Catty laughs and group photos overtake the day. The sun comes out and on goes the sunblock and clip-on sunglasses.
The horror.
But this was different. The stunning mountains soar high. Crystal clear lakes lay at the bottom of valleys. Tiny towns with tempting bakeries beckon a visit. This is the Alps.
My daydream died in front of my eyes and my attention turned to the front of the bus. Music started blaring out of the speakers. Our tour guide began dancing up the aisle, sporting a microphone. She started singing.
“Let’s start at the very beginning…”
No.
“A very good place to start…”
What’s happening? It can’t be. I turned to my wife. Her entire face beamed a smile that didn’t quit. She knew what was going to happen next. The music picked up pace and our tour guide began passing the microphone from person to person.
“Do, a dear, a female dear…”
For the love of all that is holy, no.
“Ra, a drop of golden sun…”
She’s coming this way.
“Mi, a name I call myself…”
Don’t make eye contact.
“Fa, a long, long way to run…”
This was literally our first time on a tour bus. And I should have known there’d be a sing-along on a Sound of Music bus tour. And now it was far too late. This was happening. I looked up and our gleeful tour guide dropped the end of the microphone within centimeters of my lips.
I quietly gushed, “ti, a drink with jam and bread…”
She finished, “that will bring us back to do, do, do, do…”
It’s official: I’m a tourist.
anthony forrest
Somewhere a walk awaits my walking
A rail awaits my ride
An unfamiliar bed awaits my sleeping
Though early will I rise
Somewhere
My foreign coin will buy foreign coffee
Distant sunrises delay
And early morning markets beckon
To buy more than I can pay for something
Someplace else on other streets
I haven’t talked with friends
Old and new I’ve yet to meet
And with them take it all in
Then later do it again
Somewhere
anthony forrest
“What this?
“You have drugs?
“Is for party?!”
We had heard this and other inquiries like it for several minutes now. All around us, heavily armed soldiers stared at us, unmoved. We had been in Jerusalem for only a couple of days and it seemed that we were already in trouble.
Please understand this: Israel is safe to visit. The news publishes the exception, not the rule. That being said, bad things happen, terrorists attack, and the middle east constantly wallows in unrest and tiresome Status Quo. While we boarded our flight to Tel Aviv, a commotion caught our attention outside the aircraft. Several police cars and fire trucks congregated between our plane and another. After a 45-minute delay, the pilot announced that we would be under way shortly. Upon arriving in Israel, our friends met us with wide eyes and concerned looks. Our flight had been the target of a bomb threat. Later that day, a terrorist in Tel Aviv stabbed and killed 9 people on a bus.
And now here I stood at the Western Wall, trying to explain to the small army of Israeli soldiers that the small clear bag of Tums in my wife’s purse was not actually illegal drugs. After they we entirely satisfied that we were not starting a drug distribution ring at one of the world’s most important religious sites, we were escorted through the gate.
Men and women are separated here. Men must have their heads covered and never turn their back on the Wall. Women must have their arms, legs, and heads covered. The name of the game is respect. With our respective head coverings, my wife went to the right side of the gate and I went to the left.
After all of the intense security and unsafe occurrences, my heart pounded even harder at the peace that stood in front of me: an ancient, 62-foot-tall, limestone wall. Small slips of paper inhabited every crevasse of the old stones. Each slip had a prayer for something—most of them for peace.
And I shouldn’t be surprised.
This is Israel.
The land of war.
The land of peace.
anthony forrest
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