Fear of Heights Strikes Again

I have an issue with heights. Most of you know this already. My husband, Dan, is aware of this as well, but he still tricks me into situations that involve heights from time to time. In fact, Dan lured me into one of these predicaments over July 4th weekend.

"There's this cool waterfall past Trail Creek Summit. It's only a mile hike, and it has wheelchair access. It would be a nice leisurely trail before we head back to Boise. We should go," Dan said from our hotel room in Sun Valley.

Little did I know that "past Trail Creek Summit" meant driving a winding gravel road, over one thousand feet in elevation, with no railings protecting the sides. On the way up, I started to dread our return. I knew I would be the one dangling over the edge of the cliff that I could see out the driver's window as we crept up the mountain.

I was right. Coming back down was horrifying. During the times I dared peek out from between my fingers, it looked as though there was not even a lip of road protecting me from falling into the green and golden depths below.

As we drove down the gravel road, my meltdown started with me covering my eyes.

"Look at how pretty it is though," Dan said.

Pretty soon, my face was buried in my hands.

Dan had a difficult time hiding his amusement.

A few moments later, I turned my body away from the window and started bawling.

By this time, he was a little more sympathetic, "Oh no, Becky, don't cry," but he couldn't completely hide his amused grin.

Cars drove by us in the opposite direction. Each time, Dan had to pull over closer to the edge in order to let them pass us on the narrow road.

Once, we stopped by a group of motorcyclists, who were enjoying the view at one of the scenic overlooks and who didn't look at all bothered by the fact that they could easily stumble into the valley below. They did take a moment to stare at me though, the crazy passenger crying in the 4Runner driving past them.

"Oh no, this is embarrassing!" I moaned through my fingers.

I can't prove how horrendous this experience was because I have no pictures from the actual drive. All of our pictures during that trip were taken on flat land at the waterfall.

Later, Dan told me with a sigh, "I wish we could have stopped and gotten a picture, but that would have really sent you over the edge."

Asking myself, "Is the waterfall worth it?"

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When the Cat's Away . . .

Last weekend, my husband, Dan, went out of town for the weekend. A normal person probably would have organized a girls' night out or would have relished the chance to reconnect with friends other than his/her spouse. But I didn't because I don't often get the weekend to myself.

Dan and I are awesome because we have our own lives. We don't mind doing some activities solo . . . occasionally.

After eleven years of marriage, I don't even get an "I've arrived" text when he travels anymore. In other words, last weekend, I wasn't sure whether or not he was alive or dead. But I still filled my couple of days with fun alone activities.

One afternoon, I read a book for a couple of hours in a coffee shop. Then I treated myself to the new Amy Winehouse documentary that evening.

This is just the type of film about which Dan would say, "I wanted to see that one too!" But then he would never take me to it, not with Terminator Genisys or Mad Max: Fury Road on the big screen.

The next morning, I hiked in the Boise Foothills all by myself. I highlighted a route on a trail system map, and I actually followed it instead of panicking, taking a wrong turn, and getting lost. I packed up water, snacks, a first aid kit and willed myself not to see any cougars or rattlesnakes or crazy people. (I forgot to pack my pepper spray. That won't happen again, by the way, crazies who are reading my blog.)

However, when my husband's out of town, and I try to sleep, I imagine my house is turning into episode of Penny Dreadful, even though I spent almost a decade sleeping on my own in various apartments and dorm rooms.

I finally received a text from him before he returned to Boise. He wanted to know if I had already listened to a podcast or if he should wait for me so we could listen to it together, and that's how I found out he was still alive.

Of course, I don't want Dan to stay away too long. Last Saturday, I pulled into the driveway after a trip to the Farmers Market and sighed at the length of the grass in our front yard.

"Thank goodness Dan comes home tonight," I thought to myself. Or maybe I said it out loud. I talk to myself a lot when Dan is not around. "I don't feel like mowing the lawn."

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Bug Attack!

My husband, Dan, and I spent the fourth of July hiking and mountain biking. But (surprise, surprise!) this is not a post about my debilitating fear of heights.

Bugs hate me . . . or maybe they really like me. Either way you look at it, they are annoying. And, no, I don't wear a bunch of perfumes and lotions when I am being outdoorsy. Bugs do not hate/like Dan as much as me. Maybe my sweat is sweeter. I do sweat a lot.

A typical scenario after any given outdoor adventure goes like this:

"Becky," Dan will say pathetically, "look at this bug bite."

"You call that a bite?" And I will reveal about five or six bites on the back of my shoulder or my calf or underneath the seam of my sports bra. "This is a bite!"

The bug bite ratio in our relationship is about five to one.

I am pretty sure I have built up immunity to West Nile by now. They should probably think about using my blood to develop an antidote.

And I always douse myself in bug spray before venturing into the great outdoors.

Over the fourth, the fun started when I was adjusting my backpack. I felt a strange pinch and something with a hard shell on the back of my neck, right at my hairline.

"Dan," I said fairly calmly, "I think something's on me."

"Whoa!" (When Dan reacts with a shocked, "Whoa!" not a smirk, a stifled laugh, or a snort, I know it's bad.) "Hold still."

I, of course, did the exact opposite.

I threw off my pack and jumped around, shouting, "Get it off me! Get it off me!"

The thing that eventually came off of me looked something like this:

"This is not a good start to our ride," I remarked. 

By the time we stopped for a water break, three bugs had flown into my mouth, two had landed on my legs, and one had landed in my ear. The bug spray was not working.

"I think that bug might still be in my ear. It's awfully itchy," I said.

Dan pretended to examine my ear, "Nope, bug free."

"Yeah, you know nothing, Jon Snow . . ." I grumbled.

The next day, we went hiking, and Dan spent much of the time shooing away the flies that kept circling my head.

"I think this fly thinks you're a horse because of your ponytail."

"Great."

"At least you can flip them away with your ponytail . . . just like a horse."

"Thanks, Dan."

When he swatted my butt for the fifth time, I turned around and said, "Are that many flies landing on my butt, or are you just swatting it for fun?"

"A little bit of both," he replied with a grin.

 

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Sometimes Hiking is Scary (RE-POST from 7/12/14)

I have got to get over this fear of heights thing. During our ten years of marriage, my husband, Dan, has encouraged me to take up mountain biking, hiking, cross-country skiing, and snowboarding, all of which usually involve some sort of high cliff, ridge, or unprotected side hill.

(I still refuse to snowboard, by the way. "You don't perform on stage with me. Don't expect me to go down a hill with you on a plank." Discussion over.)

You would think the easiest of these activities would be hiking, but you would be underestimating my neuroticism. 

The unprotected side hills are the worst, and Idaho has a lot of those because Idaho has a lot, and I mean A LOT, of sagebrush in its foothills.

What does a neurotic textbook acrophobe, like yours truly, do on said side hills?

I freeze.

And I have this physical reaction I call "chills up my butt." Maybe it's a type of vertigo, but I call it "chills up my butt" because it feels like an icy tingle, originating in my butt, that makes me want to sit down right where I am. You've heard of butterflies in the stomach. I get butterflies in my butt.

And then I visualize tumbling straight down the hill.

Any therapist would tell you the trick to desensitization would be to visual a successful hike down the path. But the first thing I imagine is me dying as I somersault through tick-infested sagebrush.

It doesn't help that I did begin to tumble down a mountain only to have the fall broken by some very scratchy underbrush last September. So now I can visual this deadly scenario with startling clarity.

Last week, Dan and I hiked Proctor Mountain in Sun Valley, an easy loop according to all of the hiking manuals. These manuals need a second rating for us acrophobes.

Aerobic Difficulty: Easy
Acrophobic Difficulty: Terrifying

As we left the protective barrier of trees on either side of the path and approached the top of the mountain, I realized I was trekking over a hill of pure sagebrush that immediately dropped off to my left.

I froze.

A couple of middle-aged hikers passed us. (We had passed them only a few minutes before.)

"Hmm . . . I'm surprised we're passing someone," said one of the hikers in a syrupy voice.

"We weren't going that slow. I'm just scared now," I grumbled under my breath. (I am also easily irritated when I get chills up my butt.)

As soon as the patronizing lady was out of sight, I started to cry.

"I can't do this. I'm going to die," I sniffed. "I need to go on--"

"You don't need to go on your butt," Dan interrupted.

(Can you tell we've been through this before?)

Dan got in front of me and held my hand while I grasped onto the sagebrush with my other hand until trail widened and flattened out. 

Once I felt secure enough to survey my surroundings, I noticed a small stone shrine with "you will be remembered" messages painted on it.

"What is this?" I asked Dan. "A shrine to someone who fell down the mountain?"

"I doubt it . . . "

We ran into a second shrine a little farther ahead.

"This does not make me feel very confident," I said.

"Maybe they were drunk," Dan mumbled unconvincingly.

Proctor Mountain is advertised as "not a good trail if you're looking for solitude." I am surprised that more people did not witness my minor breakdown. I am also surprised that I am alive and that I actually enjoyed most of the hike.

I did it, without going down on butt. We even hiked a second trail that week. Dan only had to help me through two short sections. And there was no crying involved.

Finally smiling (as opposed to crying) after finishing the scary part of the hike

Other hiking adventures:
In Which I Discover the Perils of Hiking During a High Water Year
Yet Another Hiking Story

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