all sorts of terrain | mostar

In all the years that Ellie and I have been friends - 11 of them! - we only traveled together for the first time a few weeks ago. When I shot her an email at the beginning of the summer singing Bosnia's praises and saying she should come visit, I didn't expect her to jump at the chance like she did. She found a ticket from New York to Zagreb, Croatia for just over $600, and we started planning a weekend in this neck of the world together.

We met up in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina's crown jewel. Lucky for us, her sister Christian decided to come last minute, and my roommate this summer Ana joined us, too. The four of us had a rough itinerary - a handful of places and sights we knew we wanted to see. They were all incredible - from the ruins of Poticelj to the truly awe-inspiring Dervish Monastery in Blagaj to the out of this world beauty of Kravice Waterfalls. But my favorite things weren't in the guidebooks or on our itinerary. We stumbled upon them while wandering, while walking and talking and drinking wine and making memories.

One was an old red truck parked in front of Nuic Winery. The red was in perfect sync with the green of the vines behind it and the fading blue of mountains in the distance. There was construction off to the side and a mechanic's shop around the corner. The truck wasn't intentionally left there to add to the image of a rustic winery. It was there to haul things, to make it over the uneven terrain to get work done in the fields and in the shops. As we were reminded at another winery that day - most things that look romantic at a vineyard, at least at a vineyard here in BiH - take an extraordinary amount of hard work - of manual labor. That truck was perfect because it wasn't posed. Wineries here are a work in progress. I found being at the beginning of something, seeing it raw and dirty and rough around the edges, absolutely captivating.

On Saturday evening we walked through Mostar to find a craft beer festival we had heard about. The walk took us by the famous Stari Most bridge and near war-torn buildings and through a market area. Ana and I were drawn to a little shop run by a local artist. His paintings lined the shelves. We each bought one, and it felt personal - a very special souvenir by an artist I'll remember. We missed the beer festival, but we saw sidewalk popcorn stands and two brothers peddling pedicabs, the older holding the younger's hand across the space between their steering wheels, making sure he could keep up.

We passed a cemetery on a quiet residential street. I noticed after the first few graves that each life ended in 1992, the year of the siege of Mostar. Some tombstones were elaborate and others nothing but a bed of rocks to quietly mark the loss of a loved one. A fresh bouquet of flowers rested on one plot that was overrun with weeds, no tombstone present. The wounds of the war are fresh still, scars still visible. I hoped for peace for the families and a new, beautiful future for this country - one that honors those who died in the atrocious fight to carve it up.

I loved, too, a lunch that Ellie, Christian, Ana, and I had on a cloudy, rainy morning. We found a sidewalk grill and ordered burgers and cevapi. We ate at a table under the cover of an umbrella. "A one-star meal with a 5-star view," Christian said, echoing a sentiment Ellie's and her parents often expressed on trips growing up. We sat by a bridge, the view spanning the dramatic, crystal clear Naretva River and mountains for days.

It was a weekend of making new friends and catching up with old ones. Of drinking wine straight from the barrel and acting silly, having serious conversations, exploring new places, and eating new foods. Mostar easily wormed its way into my heart, but this weekend was all about the company. 

my voice of fearlessness | kravice waterfalls

I always experience a moment of fear before jumping into a new-to-me body of water. A lake, a river, a swimming hole - there's a moment of hesitation, like taking the plunge means more than literally diving into the water. I had that moment at Kravice - a stunning, truly spectacular series of waterfalls that form a near semicircle around a translucent, tealish blue-green swimming hole.

I found the perfect spot to enter the water. I know people swim there often - they cliff jump, too, off the moss and grass covered rocks that jut out several feet from the various falls. But nobody was in the water - yet - that morning. There was no "I will if you will." It was just me. The water was ice cold and so clear that Christian - my college roommate Ellie's sister - saw a water snake slither through cracks in the rocks below. That didn't calm my nerves.

I joked to Ellie that were my mom with us, she'd have already dove in . She'd be teasing us for our unfounded nerves and our fear of - watch out! - cold water. With that thought - my mom's fearless voice in my head, I finally jumped in.

I spent the morning swimming, taking photos in the falls, carefully sidestepping rocks and navigating slippery boulders, and just taking in the entire experience. It was profoundly special to be in that water alone - just the falls and the fish and the moss and me. It felt like one of those truly once-in-a-lifetime experiences. It was every reason why I travel, why I explore. It felt hidden, nearly secret, like a place so special I wanted to shout it to the world and keep it all for the four of us there that day.

I knew I had to cliff jump. I say it's an activity I love - and I had talked up my excitement over doing it here. Climbing up the giant boulder to get to the jumping point made me reconsider. My heart pounded as I crept up slowly - barefoot, literally rock climbing, the path slippery and wild, brush and weeds sliding up my shins and mud and dirt creeping between my toes. If I slipped - a possibility that felt too real in the moment - the only option was falling straight down to treacherous rocks - not a fun natural waterslide but a painful pinball game in which my head is the ball.

At the top, finally, I couldn't see down to the water, couldn't see where I would land when I jumped. It was only a 7-meter jump or so, maybe 25 feet. But for about the millionth time this summer, I had the realization that 29 is not at all like 21 - or even 24. Or however old I was the last time I thought these shenanigans were a good idea. I hesitated so long at the top that a local guy who was rowing Ana out to the rock in a canoe to grab a photo of me doing said jump stripped down and scaled that "treacherous" rock in about 10 seconds flat to show me how it's done... Twice. He had to demonstrate it twice for me. That's embarrassing - but it was comforting to see him survive.

As I hemmed and hawed, trying to psych myself up, my mom's voice popped in my head again. If she were there, she'd have swam out to watch and be yelling for me to jump - to be careful! - but to jump. With that thought - my mom's fearless voice in my head - I finally jumped in. Maybe 29 isn't so far from 21 after all.

After all my moments of hesitation - getting into the water initially and jumping into it from that rock - I couldn't will myself out of it at the end of the day. I couldn't pull myself away from the up-close sight of those spectacular falls. I kept dunking my head in the water - telling myself I'd get out and dry off this time - only to swim right back out towards those thundering falls.

Swimming - mostly alone again, I kept thinking about my mom's fearlessness. She has an uncanny way of making things seem safe and normal that give me pause and make my heart pound faster. She's never met a body of water she's scared to jump into. It's her ability to chart her own course, to get into - and out of - sticky situations, and her contagious, big spirit that give me permission - encourage me - tell me it's okay - to set off into the unknown. I live for adventure not because I'm fearless but because she constantly shows me that most of the very best things in life require us to take a deep breath and just dive in.