There has been a lot of fear this past year. Enough living on the raw edge of emotion and plenty of shots of terror adrenaline to last our systems a lifetime. So why push it? Why ask for more?
Well, first off, let’s be totally honest: it wasn’t my idea. I was feeling quite comfortable with my feet on the ground. But the whole thing wasn’t something we talked about or analyzed. It went like this. Andy: “Should we do some climbing while we are out west?” Me (from the comfort of the couch): “Sure”. But know this, we don’t “climb”. Our climbing experience consists of a time or two at the gym climbing wall (like 20 years ago) and the kids wouldn’t know a climbing harness from a horse halter.
That’s me, almost to the top. And yes, it’s wide, but the drop-offs are stunning.
And here’s the other thing. I have a fear of heights. It’s real. It’s not a huge deal, unless I’m on a very tall ladder (see Mesa Verde), standing on a lookout platform (see Mesa Verde), or hiking along cliffs (see every hike in Utah). Normally this doesn’t happen often enough to impede my life. You might not even know this about me. But when I do have to be up, way up, I’m sick to my stomach, my legs are really, truly shaking and I don’t trust my next step. Fear immobilizes me. I become totally clumsy and completely positive that I’ll bumble right off the edge. I usually get stuck, unable to go up or down. There was a time not long ago that our family was on a look-out platform high up over a marshy area. There were railings, of course, but the “floor” was steel mesh (read: see-through). The kids were running from railing to railing in excitement. I had to sit down and scoot. Seriously. Thankfully we were the only people up there and I didn’t have to pretend there was something wrong with my feet.
So, maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly when I agreed to go climbing in canyon country.
Riley, with
Moab Cliffs and Canyons, greeted us with a smile, loads of gear, and the expectation of a good time. We had signed up for “family rockineering” assuming we’d be with a whole load of people, but we had him all to ourselves. Just us four and Riley for 5 hours of climbing in Kane Creek Canyon outside of Moab. Riley was amazing with the kids, steady, confident, cheerful. He was full of information about the local flora and dedicated to desert preservation. He has climbed all over the world (the life of a climbing guide apparently consists of banking the bucks during the summer climbing season and then traveling to places like Thailand to bask in the sun and pursue your own climbs in the winter season—sweet) and guides people on some of the most technical climbing in the west. And he assured me (when I finally let on about my, um, fear of heights, as we tumbled out of the van with our gear) that he “deals with this all the time” and “you’ll do great”. Adding some sage advice about it all being a “mind game” and to let yourself “trust your abilities”. Oh boy.
Surprisingly, going up was easier for me than going down. On the rappels I went last, not really wanting to watch the girls (who were having a blast) hanging over the edge. I’m certain that as this picture (above) was snapped I was saying to (relaxed) Riley “I don’t like this. I don’t like this.” with a shaky voice.
At some point during that afternoon I realized what I was doing. I was showing myself (and our girls) once again that I can overcome fear. That I can look it in the face and find something positive to focus on (like getting down). That we can push ourselves even when we don’t want to. To be strong, to be hopeful, to be resilient.
The 35 foot ladder one must climb (with the canyon floor looming hundreds of feet below) in order to get to the ruins at Mesa Verde.
Seriously? What is the Park Service thinking?
You’d think that after a year of facing cancer, a guided canyoneering trip or a escorted Park Service hike into the ruins of Mesa Verde would be, just a walk in the park, so to speak. Controlled, safe, easy. For me, it didn’t feel that way, yet still I welcomed the challenge. I wanted to push myself further. I think I wanted to find new edges of fear that had nothing to do with trips to the emergency room, or long days of chemo or the next scan. These new edges rose up to meet me each step of the way. They were red rock, sandy and oh-so-tall.
And these girls. A bit should be said about their eagerness to climb, to bike, to hike in the hot sun. I have to admit I anticipated some whining, but it really wasn’t there (o.k. sometimes after 6 hours on the road it turned up). But they couldn’t seem to get enough. Iris, whose bike was more equipped than Mae’s for mountain riding, took several rides with her dad and emerged beaming (even with the new challenges of sand, and rock uneven trail surfaces). Mae’s little legs and low center of gravity made her a confident and nimble climber and her smile was a bright as the sun itself when Riley lowered her over the cliffs of Kane Creek Canyon.
Andy was Andy. Cheerful, positive, game for everything. He felt great and it showed.
Turns out that fear in the desert now feels like more like courage. And so back home as I shake more of that red sand out of our shoes, I remember the feeling of exhilaration and determination.
And I know that’s why we went.
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