Nonetheless, venturing out into the mountains is something I often do, just not generally to mountains the size of Everest. I have a great fear of heights. I challenge this fear on a mini-scale occasionally by climbing up to a local peak, but usually near the top where an exposed area drops hundreds of feet, I break out into a cold sweat and my knees become noodles. I lose confidence in my physical strength and coordination and the vacuum of the sheer wall of air seems to suck me toward the precipice. I see my own mangled body so clearly on the cliffs below that it feels tangible. That’s when I stop, turn back or move further from the edge. I don’t have the nerves of steel it takes to scale extreme heights, and I suppose I see this as my body telling me what my psychological limits are.
I chickened out right at the saddle of Gobbler’s Knob, and just contemplating the last stretch of the Mt. Olympus hike makes me feel wobbly. I once climbed up a “short-cut” trail from the Alpine side of Lone Peak, but couldn’t do the rocky outcrop at the top to reach the peak–it just seemed too exposed. After walking through a small herd of mountain goats and resting near the base of the final rocky crown, I picked my way back down the mountain the way I'd come - and really, only then did I realize how very steep even that was–how very easily a misstep could have sent me tumbling down the slope. But this was still a “slope” rather than a sheer drop into nothingness. It rattled my nerves as I thought about it, but it was late afternoon and I still had over two hours of hiking ahead of me to reach the car. So I just pushed on–kept my line of sight on the ground ahead of me and placed my feet very carefully until I was down the steepest part.
On the other hand I have scaled some high mountain trails and reached a few more minor peaks where my footing feels secure and the path seems wide enough for safety.
And most often it is an emotional and physical charge.
Several years ago I did a backpacking trek to Machu Picchu, in Peru. For the most part the trail was very tame, if challenging, due to the sharp elevation rise on a few parts of the trail and a couple of more exposed drop-offs as you descend from the highest part of the mountain. Fatigue was my nemesis there–that and the weight of my backpack. At this point on the third day of the trek I had one of my mangled body visions as I cautiously made my way down a stone stairway from some Inca ruins.
There was a sharp drop to one side of the path and nothing for one’s hands to hold, and I could feel how clumsy I was becoming due to my fatigue. I knew I was near my limit.
But I just went into super-caution mode again and I plodded on. I made it to Machu Picchu on day four without any mishaps.
At other times my fear is simply more psychological. In Norway we climbed up to the Preikestolen–the “Pulpit Rock”. I couldn’t bring myself to walk near the edge.
At three meters or so from the ledge I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled to about the one meter mark. There I got down on my belly and scooted along until my head dangled over the cliff.
My fear made me feel physically weak. But I later hiked higher and further up the mountain. Where there was a solid stretch of ground under my feet and no sheer drop, I was not at all nervous.
There is something in me - in many of us - that drives us upward to that final knob or ridge where the landscape is spread out like a picture book and the wind swirls up from below. The view from the top never disappoints if the weather cooperates.
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Scaling heights partly requires adjustment to the setting I think, but it also makes demands of one’s natural fearlessness or lack thereof. I felt this all too clearly as I clung to the rocks with the bristlecone pines on a bald ridge in Great Basin National Park. I had reached the crest of the ridge through sheer willpower but my nerves were stretched just about to their breaking point. In order to calm the fear I was compelled to just sit for a time, to adjust to the scope of how far I'd come, to how far down it was on any side, and yet also to how satisfied I was with myself for having made it there.
I thought of this as I read Carol's account of moving through the Khumbu Icefall. She begins the series of climbs through the falls almost paralyzed with fear at a couple of points. Yet with practice and familiarity she becomes more confident and adept.
Across the winter I have been trying to get out of the house and going as far as the local mountains–if not Everest–and into the sunshine. Snowshoes make hiking in the snow a viable option and escaping the smog of the winter inversions is an added health benefit.
There is peace in the solitude of the snow covered slopes–especially if one is lucky enough to find a trail with few other hikers or snowshoers. And there is sunshine–a badly needed source of psychological regeneration for me that always is in short supply during winter months. I’ve been hiking a bit and enjoying it immensely. On one snowshoe excursion recently we saw a number of animals–we watched a small herd of elk work their way up the mountain not far off and passed very closely by a couple of moose.
Then we sat atop a snowy knoll to absorb the pale beauty of the view.
On another hike we watched the afternoon sun dance through the bare trees in the crisp cold.
I even took a shot at capturing the feeling of the mountain slope in the sun–or at least some sense of it–on canvas.
