Acrophobia: n. an abnormal fear of being in high places.

            I stared up at the immense wall above me.  Talk about a fish out of water.  My knees shook in apprehension as I caught my breath.  My companions had already arrived and moved along another few yards to a relatively level place.  Taking a deep breath, I forced my feet toward the group.

            We dropped our loads and began to prepare for the impossible task ahead.  I unzipped my pack and took out a waterbottle.  Taking a long swallow, I commenced procrastinating.

            “Hey!  Are you going to get ready sometime this week?”, a nearby voice asked.  Abruptly returning to the present, I blinked and responded, “Uh… Yeah.”

            I reached into my pack and withdrew a rat’s nest of straps, rope and jangling metal that could pass for the Christmas decorations I took off my tree last year.  With a long sigh, I began to untangle the mess.

            Listening to my friends laugh and joke around me, I thought, “Sure, they know what they’re doing.  They probably won’t die today.”  Frowning darkly, I separated one piece from the rest of the bunch I was untangling.  Holding it up quizzically, it looked like some kind of ancient torture device.  Setting it aside, a separate pile of metal objects slowly grew, while the rope was unknotted and coiled.

            As I finished, the annoyingly cheerful leader of the group approached me and began to demonstrate “Proper Wearing of Torture Devices.”  First, step through the loops; snap, buckle and fasten an assortment of straps.  Finish it all off by attaching a metal thing they called a “beaner”…. whatever that is.  Just when I finished cinching and contorting myself into the device, nature called.  Was there a way to do this?  Nope.  I had to take it all off again, take care of business, and repeat the whole process.

            Twenty-seven days later, finally ready to go, the group stood assembled near the wall.  Helmets cinched, equipment jangling, we resembled aliens.  “Hello, Earthlings.  Take us to your leader,” the soundtrack in my head announced nasally.  Gradually, the voice morphed into the voice of Mr. Cheerful, the group leader, telling us last minute instructions before we began our ascent. 

            One by one the others nimbly scampered up the sheer face, connected together by ropes and taking turns laying bees.  (They called it “bee-laying”, although I am still unsure why.) Then it was my turn.  As I stood alone at the bottom of the rock, I timidly reached out to touch the smooth rock.  Voices shouted encouragement from above.  Somehow, I found the first handhold, then the second.  My feet in “sticky rubber” shoes that felt like ancient Chinese foot binding cloths, magically clung to the slight grooves and cracks in the rock.

            When I found myself on a small ledge with another climber, I got to take a break.  I stood precariously, gasping for breath as the blood reentered my adrenaline stream.  I couldn’t believe that I had made it this far.  My ledge partner congratulated me and began to tell me how difficult the next “pitch” would be (I didn’t know we were playing baseball).  As I looked upwards again, I felt the cold fear creep back in.  I said, “I don’t know if I can do this.  I just know I’m going to fall.”  Already 10 feet up the rock, my friend turned to me and called, “What’s your pin number??”

            I laughed nervously and began to climb.  Before I knew it, I was at the top.  My friends cheered and slapped me on the back.  I sat down quickly as my legs gave way, victims of post-adrenaline shock.  I couldn’t believe it- I had made it!