[Photo by Carl Soderberg on Unsplash]
From the mid-point on the swinging, narrow foot bridge suspended above the surface of the Earth, the words running through my mind were plummet and splatter and broken. I’d forgotten how to breathe. Holding on was truly the only concept I could grasp. As I stared downward from an inconceivable elevation, the tops of trees could just be discerned, seeming to float beneath my feet.
To understand this tale, it’s necessary to state what may already be obvious to you: I find heights terrifying. Stupefying. I’ll add that I don’t frighten easily – I spent years participating in a sport that required galloping enormous horses over even larger fences, and twice scared off would-be attackers in dark foreign cities where the only words I knew for certain were hello and thank you. I’ve traveled the world alone, nearly died giving birth, and set my own broken toes. Snakes and spiders and bears do not frighten me. Yet, something takes over when I’m confronted with elevation: a mindless, perhaps irrational shutting down that leaves me paralyzed.
Several years ago during my job as an editor at a national travel magazine, an opportunity came to join a small group of journalists on an expedition to Northern Portugal. My maternal grandfather and his ancestors came from this area, and I’d always dreamed of exploring the region more fully than I’d had time for during previous trips to Lisbon and Porto. The itinerary included kayaking, hiking in the mountains, and horseback riding, all things I enjoy. Tucked into the agenda was a brief reference to an excursion at Diverlanhoso, one of Europe’s largest adventure parks. Did I want to come? Of course I did.
The wilds of Northern Portugal were as lovely as I’d imagined them to be. Driving from Lisbon to the mountainous, thickly wooded region of Povoa do Lanhoso took several hours, and I passed the time imagining the trekking and river activities that lay ahead. When we arrived at Diverlanhoso, I was ready to add some mileage to my hiking boots, and was a little surprised when guides carrying climbing gear met our group and instructed us to don helmets and harnesses. The itinerary hadn’t specified activities here. Unsure of what was going on, I complied; following uncertainly as we were led up a steep incline beyond a group of cabins and lodges.
Which brings us back to the foot bridge — one, I quickly learned, that merely marked the beginning of a series of thirty-eight suspended wood-and-cable monstrosities, spread across the landscape and progressing in both height and difficulty.
Standing frozen at the stepping-off point to the bridge, I looked down, certain of only one thing: supposing that the narrow cables held, I would surely die of heart failure before I’d gone a yard.
One by one, the others in the group crossed, disappearing into the misty air on the path that lay ahead on the far side of a sharp, deep ravine. My guide watched me quietly as I stood clutching the post anchoring the beginning of the bridge, then said in the calmest, most reasonable voice I’d ever heard, “You don’t have to do this. You can wait here if you like. Or, you can take a deep breath, trust yourself, and remember every impossible thing you’ve already done in this world. Then just take a single step forward. I promise I’ll be right there with you.”
The White Queen’s statement to Alice in Through the Looking-Glass trickled into my thoughts. The Queen’s claim, in case you’ve forgotten, was that she’d sometimes believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.
Had I not accomplished my own share of impossible things, all of which had come with rich rewards? Did I not always respond to someone else’s claim that I couldn’t do this or that thing by not only doing it, but excelling at it?
I contemplated this question quite seriously, and my subconscious supplied a resounding answer: Yes, I had, and surely I could handle more.
So, eventually, I took that step onto the swaying bridge. In retrospect, and compared to the remaining bridges, it was deceptively easy to negotiate. It was only about ten feet from end to end, and merely wiggly in a slatted, roped sort of way. As the guide followed closely behind me, speaking encouragingly, I made it the length of the bridge, one trembling step at a time. I don’t recall being fully conscious of any sensation at all. It was as though the entire universe was standing still, and I was moving slowly through some dense, thick void in time and space.
When I reached the end of the first bridge challenge, a remarkable sensation swept over me: I actually wanted to try the next one. Perhaps it was pure adrenaline, perhaps it was a younger me needing to test this older self, but bridge by bridge, I finished the course, the guide close by all the way. It wasn’t easy, not at any point; but by the time I finally slipped out of my harness, I’d stopped worrying about a multitude of things that went far beyond falling. I had done the thing that most frightened me, completely by choice. The feeling was one of magnificent proportion, leaving me with a sense of renewed confidence and something akin to dignity.
Whether I’ll ever feel comfortable looking over the rail of a high-rise balcony remains to be seen, but on that mountainside in my grandfather’s homeland, I learned something essential to my evolution as a human being. To fully experience life means embracing not only the parts that I find bright and pleasing, but also the ones that strike me as dark and treacherous; those moments where I’d rather just stay in a comfortable, familiar space and let others take the risks. While it’s possible that my heart may screech to a sudden halt from terror at some point in the future, I’ve come to believe such an ending is far preferable to suffering the dreary and more terrible fate of slowly aging as the world slips by outside the safety of my kitchen window.
[Photo by Denise Jans on Unsplash]
That day beneath the blue Portuguese sky, something shifted inside of me on a deep, core level. I have no idea what challenges lie ahead — but I plan tol meet them honestly, face-to-face. I’ll think of the friends and loved ones in my life who have battled true monsters without giving in to fear or despair, though no one would have blamed them if they had. Then I’ll take a long, deep breath; and as a wise and patient stranger once suggested, try to remember every impossible thing I’ve already lived through — and how those experiences have always brought me, changed and stronger, to the other side.
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