It hurts my neck to look up that high.
There, see? The cables, stretched between two tall Douglas firs.
A belay rope hangs from the highest cable,
running through a pulley, looping back to the ground.
Two, four, six eight, ten...
the knot is checked in a faith-building mantra
like a backwards countdown.
Belay on? (Apprehension makes it a question.)
On belay. Climbing? Climb on.
The ladder feels cold. And wobbly.
The slack in the rope is pulled tight with each rung,
delivering a dose of confidence through the harness.
The ladder ends and the metal staples begin,
defining the route up the trunk.
Depending on the strength of my legs,
knowing that is the power.
Staying focused on the physical challenge
crowds out the fear. (Well, some of it anyway.)
Then, twisting from the staples, feeling the roughness of the bark,
one foot, then both feet on the cable,
thankful for the mid-height cables on each side to hold onto.
So high above the ground, but trying not to notice that.
Everything wobbles, including my knees.
The belay rope moves with the pulley along the cable above.
I can feel the tension. I know I'm safe, but trust is elusive.
The other end of the cable dead ends into a tree, the goal,
and when I finally reach it I lean against the rope,
stretching to give the tree a quick kiss,
then turn around on the cable.
The walk back to the middle seems easier
because the challenge feels mostly over.
"Turn your back to me, lean back and sit."
The voice comes from below.
And so I do, trusting both the mechanics
and the facilitator, who was a stranger an hour ago.
Finally relaxed enough to take in the view from above
and then it's over. My feet touch the ground.
Smiling. I did it. Again.
Later on, as I replay the experience I realize,
maybe this is the biggest challenge --
making sure your comfort zone doesn't contract with each year
into something so small, you no longer recognize who you are,
or dream of who you want to be.
And so I hope, with everything in me.
I hope I am brave enough,
I hope I am reckless enough,
I hope I am physically able enough,
to do this again.
Come with me next time, will you?
(For all the Cispus Challenge Course facilitators over the years and still to come.)
