It's raining. A slow soft drizzle, that mists our faces and dampens the tops of our feet. The six of us trudge down a water-swollen dirt road, the bright colors of our ponchos dotting the soft browns and greens of the landscape with bursts of fluorescence.
Ahead of us swells our destination: Cerro Chato, an inactive volcano located near La Fortuna, Costa Rica. Between the twin peaks, located 3740 feet above sea level, lies a green crater lake. Our goal: to reach the lake, take a swim and eat some bread we picked up from a local cafe that morning. The article sticking out of my mom's back pocket advertises that this hike is about four hours round trip. Four stars line the top edge: experienced hikers only. My 12-year-old brother doesn't seem to care; he's far ahead of all of us, oblivious to nearly everything, the way 12-year-olds are. Here's the thing though: we aren't even at the foot of the volcano yet. Once there, it will be over 1,000 feet straight up, on a path with little to no upkeep and even fewer level sections. 
My sister starts playing "Africa" by Toto from her phone. The tinny sounds ring out in between raindrops; dotted by individual trees, the wide fields around us do bear a striking resemblance to the image I have in my head of the African veldt.
We reach the official trailhead and here's where the real fun begins: the first few steps are two to three foot vertical ledges. Good thing we're a family of semi-giants, otherwise I'm not sure we would be physically capable of ascending past this point. We have to drag ourselves upwards by the roots and branches which hug in on all sides, and I have a mental image of a short person attempting this trail. It does not end well.
Thus begins the trek upwards. I'm sweating fiercely; we all are. That's the thing that nobody tells you about rain ponchos: they keep the moisture in as well as out. It doesn't take long before we are all absolutely covered in mud; most of the time we are on all fours, hands grasping at rocks and roots and limbs and low hanging vines and literally anything that will give us any sort of hold. Between the steep grade and the slippery muck, the going is treacherous and taxing. It's like the never ending staircase from hell. But when we stop for our (frequent) water breaks, in between gasps for breath, I register that it is absolutely beautiful on the side of the volcano. Up above us the trail disappears into the low-hanging clouds; through the fog there are no sounds besides birdsong and water (and our frenzied gulps of air). Everything is green, greener than I would have ever thought possible. It's that lush, glowing green that only emerges in early spring or after a long rain. With the vines hanging down from the treetops and the moss covering every open space, I feel so far removed from civilization that it's slightly shocking to recall that our car is a mere two (vertical) miles away.
After about two hours, give or take several weeks, we finally stagger to the top. The view is amazing - at least, it would be, if we could see through the clouds. None of us really mind though, because the lake is only a quarter mile away...straight down. Next we begin what the hiking aficionados affectionately call "the scramble". And a scramble it is; we stumble and tumble our way down the side of the cliff, crab-walking and leaping and doing our best not to pitch headfirst into space. There's no hope of saving our clothes now. I'm pretty sure I have mud in my pockets, and in my bellybutton, while rainwater squishes between my toes.
Then, finally, the green blue water of Laguna Cerro Chato comes into view. We skid to a stop at the shore and celebrate our victory with a cold swim, fresh baked bread and a visit from a surprisingly terrifying coati (the Costa Rican equivalent of a raccoon) who terrorizes us in hopes of gaining some of our bread for himself (he doesn't). With an impressive effort of poncho shaking and shouting my other brother and my father manage to shoo him off. He skulks in the edge of the woods for the remainder of our breather by the beach.
The water is cool against my sweaty skin, a welcome break from the oppressive humidity that hangs in the air. I roll the silt between my finger pads and watch as my sister laughingly screams that "the water is cold" and she's "full of regret". My family splashes around and goofs off in the lake around me, and our voices ring out through the rainforest fog, pure and joyful and together.
This is my favorite part of family vacations. We see incredible things and we have unbelievable experiences - we've visited small villages in Spain, scaled mountains in Denali, scrambled up granite crags in South Dakota and hiked through the sulfur fumes of Yellowstone. We've survived hailstorms in Custer State Park, taken surfing lessons in Puerto Rico and trekked through the desert of Monument Valley. We've bodysurfed in freezing Lake Superior waves, walked across the shivering Golden Gate Bridge hand in hand, and RV'ed our way across the great state of Alaska. My family has had experiences together that are astonishing, beautiful and awe inspiring, but my favorite moments are these: trying to take pictures in front of a glacier with my sister; getting hopelessly lost and somehow winding up in military territory while climbing the Rock of Gibraltar; seeing the look on my Dad's face when he found himself face to face with a lynx; laughing and stumbling my way up a huge ridge on the side of the Denali Highway with my brothers at my heels; taking a cooking class with my Mom in Costa Rica. I am absurdly close with my family, and these trips are the reason why. No matter where my three siblings and I end up, even if we are scattered across the globe, we will always have these memories. 
After 40 minutes or so we reluctantly pack up our stuff and get ready to slide our way back down the side of the volcano. Going down takes about half as long as going up did, but by the time we make it to the car I can't feel the backs of my legs and my quads have turned into jelly. We pile in and everyone complains good-naturedly the whole way back to our house in El Castillo. I couldn't be happier or more content.
