Heights

I'm a bit afraid of heights. Perhaps it's because I grew up in North Dakota where the spring ritual for our track team was to run two miles just to find a small incline on which to run "hills." And then, even that hill was not much more than a dip in the gravel road. Or maybe it's because I have some distant childhood memory of traveling in a Winnebago and making our way around windy mountain roads. I'm not sure why I'm afraid of heights but I'm reminded of it every time we're in Arizona.

This year I told myself I wasn't going to climb right outside Mom and Dad's backyard (the red rock in the above picture). Last spring I climbed higher than I ever had before and well, I guess I thought that was high enough. This year the kids and Dave knocked off that same climb before lunch the other day - they came back happy and exhilerated and I was just as happy that I'd stayed on the ground. On another day I talked them into going for a hike, not a climb. There was lots of complaining going on during that four mile walk (too much walking, not enough climbing) but I was loving every minute of it.

Then came our last day in Sedona. John wanted to make to climb again - not hike - and I couldn't talk anybody into going for a hike around Bell Rock - or even a small jaunt to Cathedral Rock. So while Sophie and Lucy stayed back and made cookies with Mom, I went for a climb with Dad, Dave and John - with every intent of coming back on my own once I felt that familiar stomach tightening.

It started out wonderfully - I was amazed at John's climbing and his enthusiasm for leading us up the wash. He reminded me of Dad with the way he just scrabbled up the rocks. Here's a pic I took right after one of our water breaks.

We kept going and I was feeling great - beauty surrounded us everywhere I looked and the rocks in the wash were solid and strong. We kept climbing and climbing and I started kicking myself for not doing this the previous days.

Then came some loose rock that involved some hunching over and maneuvering sideways on all fours. Dave stuck with John but I could see the look of concern on his face - he knows me well enough to know that I had just reached my limit. But unfortunately, there was no going back down the way we had just come. So I sat, took a drink, and talked to myself. I looked over at Dave, with his smile and his shorts and hiking boots full of red dust and took this picture of the view. I told myself I've come this far and I'm fine - and I can keep going. So I did - slowly and carefully trying to breathe and willing my legs to keep moving.

By the time we all stopped for another water break Dad knew I wasn't doing so well. He came over to me and talked me through a narrow pass full of loose rock, "Hug the rock Marc, hug the rock. Get down on all fours, face it. If you fall you're not going anywhere. Hug the rock, hug the rock. Great job Marci Miller!"

I was less than reassured. By then I knew I had to make it to the top - we could try to find a different way back down but they knew, from past experience, that there was an easier way down on the other side of the rock. So, up we climbed.

John was starting to get a bit nervous - I'm sure I wasn't helping him feel any more comfortable on the rock even though the only thing I said was "Dave, stay with him. I can't watch him climb." Meaning - it was all I could do to worry about myself and worrying about him was making me even more stressed overall...

During this last stretch, Dad was climbing around like a mountain goat above us - back and forth, back and forth, trying to find the best way to get to the top. He called out, "Oh I don't know, we may need to go back down." My heart skipped a beat. Dave whispered, "What do you think?" and I replied, "There's no way I can go back down there." So we kept climbing to where Dad's voice was. John was chattering saying he wanted to go back down when suddenly he came to a complete standstill and exclaimed, "Holy Moly!" I looked up from my position on all fours and reiterated John's words, with a bit more emphasis.

Dad was sitting on the other side of a twenty foot drop - as calm as could be. But it was clear to us we'd have to walk across a ledge less than a foot wide and about eight feet long to reach him.

John was all for it. If he would have had a harness and a rope and been at the climbing wall in Grand Forks, I would have been fine. And although he didn't have those things, he had Dave and Dad and no fear. And he made it look so darn easy - he grabbed the rock, shuffled his feet and made it across without any problem. Then it was my turn. I certainly didn't make it look easy to anybody who might have been watching. The first shuffle step or two were all right but when I felt I couldn't get a good handhold I started to sweat. I willed my right leg to move but it didn't. I felt like my 94-year-old Grandma who has Parkinsons and tells her legs to move but they just won't listen. Dave reached over to it and said, "Move it on 3... 1,2,3." It moved on four... or maybe five.

I made it across and tried not to watch as Dave made his way. From there it was a relatively easy climb the next twenty feet or so to the top. Once we got there and I saw long distances of flat land I sank to the ground and gave a silent prayer. And thought, I don't care if I ever do this again - for the rest of my life.


We rested up a bit and then had a leisurely walk down the back side and around the hill...and I've made up my mind. I'll stick to regular old hiking from here on out.