The driver cut the engine and the bus filled with the sound of the rain forest. Calls from birds, insects and howler monkeys drowned out our voices, and we sat a minute, just listening. Then we scrambled to the road where the driv-er was already unloading backpacks from the roof. It was a high school trip to the Monteverde Rain Forest Reserve in Costa Rica. There were 12 of us, 10 students (including me) and two teachers. We had driven four hours from San Jose, the Costa Rican capital. Now we had to hike for miles down a mountainside to the science research station where we’d stay five days learning about the forest.

I’d been one of the first to sign up for this incredible opportunity. Watching my pack thunk to the dirt road, though, I was torn between awe and anxiety. The forest towered above us, thick, impenetrable. Trees soared into a dark, mazy canopy. Vines twirled around their trunks, hung from branches, crept across the ground. Umbrella-sized leaves glistened with wet. It was almost evening, and the sun barely filtered through the humid clouds above. In the dimness, everything seemed to move, or to be about to move. I thought of home, a small town outside St. Louis, where we lived in a safe, cozy house and my parents worked safe, cozy jobs—Dad a computer science professor, Mom a college librarian. I’d never felt completely at home there. Dad said I had gypsy feet. But that was years ago. I wasn’t sure how those feet were going to get me miles down a mountainside now. The only walking I did most days was from one classroom to another.

Still, I wasn’t about to say anything. Most of the other kids—especially the older girls I wanted to impress—were in good shape from soccer and field hockey. They hoisted their packs like they were stuffed with paper and gathered excitedly around Rachel Crandell, the ecology teacher leading the trip. She’d been to the rain forest many times. I knew in my heart of hearts I couldn’t keep up with her. But I was too embarrassed to admit it. I wanted to enjoy this ecological paradise like she did—someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

“I’ll lead us down,” she said, “and anyone who wants to go slower can walk with Mrs. Lippert.”

That was Margie Lippert, our other chaperone, a Spanish teacher. She was a fabulous teacher, but I suspected she did about as much hiking as I did, which is to say, none. Keeping one eye on the older girls, I tried walking with my pack on. I staggered. Mom had helped stuff it before I left, but we’d had no experience with such things and no idea what we were doing. I’d brought several changes of clothes, a massive pair of waterproof boots, heavy bottles of water, a hardcover Bible and way more toiletries than anyone would need in the dirty, sweaty rain forest. I heard a clunking sound and suspected my oversize flashlight had just settled to the bottom of the pack.

“Okay, we’re off!” called Mrs. Crandell. “See you guys at the station!” She and the soccer players set off down the trail. I turned toward Mrs. Lippert. She hadn’t even put on her pack yet. Suddenly I felt mortified at the idea of trailing along with the slow group. Without thinking, I adjusted my own load and chased after Mrs. Crandell.

For several minutes I kept her gradually receding silhouette in sight. It didn’t take long, though, for my breath to heave and my legs to ache. A few twists of the trail later, I peered into the twilight and I couldn’t see anyone. I stopped, thinking I might hear voices. My pack was so heavy, it nearly bowled me over. I leaned against a tree, the forest’s ceaseless noise washing over me. The light dimmed. Either evening was coming on or the forest canopy was thicker. Probably both. Don’t panic, I thought to myself. You can catch up. And Mrs. Lippert is behind. I looked down. Parts of the trail had been covered in a kind of chicken-wire mesh to provide better traction. The aluminum sheen of the mesh caught the fading light, making the trail easy to see. Just follow the trail.

I lurched away from the tree and picked my way along the path. The forest seemed to close in. Vines brushed my arms. Leaves dripped on my face, wetting my skin. It was beautiful, mysterious, the richness of God’s creation. But I was, I had to admit, a little scared. I began singing hymns. “I walk with love along the way, and, oh, it is a holy day.” My voice was tiny in the forest’s roar. How far back was Mrs. Lippert?

The cooing, chirping and rattling was so loud, so echoing, I realized I wouldn’t hear anyone until they were practically right next to me. I looked down for the next square of chicken wire. The sun must have set. The forest was noticeably darker. I thought of my flashlight, buried at the bottom of my pack. My legs, jarring with each step down the mountain, were exhausted. Could I even get the pack off? The rhythm of walking kept me balanced. If I stopped, I might fall. And I’d never get the thing back on. My anxiety welled into panic. God, are you there? I think I might need you.

I stumbled on. The trail was wet in places and my feet began catching roots I couldn’t see. I prayed harder, concentrating on that verse from John: “Perfect love casts out fear.” I said those words over and over to comfort myself.

Suddenly the trees closed in even more thickly, and I realized I couldn’t see the trail. I lurched forward, straining to see the wire. But it was too dark. Or maybe the wire was gone? I crashed into a low branch, vines swirling around my face. I nearly fell. Reaching blindly, I clutched a sapling banana tree, bending under the weight of my pack. I steadied myself and peered into the gloom. I could see almost nothing. The forest chattered away in near total dark.

I caught my breath and closed my eyes. I know I should have waited for the slow group, God. But I’m here now. And I know you’re here with me. I just need a little guidance, direction. I said those words—guidance, direction—repeatedly. Then I opened my eyes. For an instant I thought I was seeing stars, like after you press your fingers to your eyelids. But no—I blinked, and it was still there. A small point of light dancing in the gloom. It looked almost like—of course! Like a firefly back home on summer evenings. It was a firefly, hovering in the forest. I ran toward it, fear and exhaustion momentarily forgotten. It seemed to wait, then led me a little farther into the undergrowth. Just as I caught up to it, it blinked out, its tiny light extinguished. I looked all around—and under my boots something gleamed from the ground. The chicken wire! The trail. Oh, thank you, God. I looked for the firefly. But it was gone.

Minutes later, a mere 50 feet away, I stumbled into a clearing and stood before the two-story research station, a wood building with a big open-air porch facing down the steep mountain slope. I heard some groans inside, and poked my head in to find the soccer players flopped on the floor, their packs cast aside, breathing heavily. The walk had been hard for them too!

I took my pack off and sat down, flush with accomplishment. And with another feeling I kept quietly to myself. The calm, sweet feeling that I’d witnessed something special in this rain forest. How silly I’d been for thinking I had to be an expert hiker or ecologist to experience that. I lay back on the floor. This was going to be a great trip.