If someone had told me last year that one day I would be hanging off a cliff 1,000 feet in the air, I wouldn’t have believed them. Life has a funny way of surprising us though, so I left behind Florida’s flat marshes and made my way to West Virginia’s mountain ranges. The group of people that I went with had a particular peak in mind that offered a unique rock climbing course, named the Via Ferrata. The mountain I stood looking up at seemed non-threatening, even elementary. I could see where the cliff stopped, which was only about 20 feet above me. The square metal rungs that jutted out of the rock glistened from the sun and looked like no challenge at all.
Anxiety started filling the air when, finally, our tour guide strapped himself to the cable on the cliff and proceeded to demonstrate all the ways we could fall and die. His arms and legs flew through the air at odd angles and jerked suddenly when the safety cables caught him. The metal carabineer scraping down the wire filled the air with a screech and made me wince. Still, after his demonstration, I was confident that his theatrics were not needed and I would be in little danger. My confidence quickly grew dim, however, when I stepped onto the first few rungs. The metal was so thin that not even the whole ball of my foot could fit on the rounded steel. My hands sweated, and my grip felt weak. The rungs, which at first seemed so close together, seemed to have grown miles apart. I turned to look down at my friends and smiled confidently. Inside, however, I was thanking my lucky stars that the mountain ended only 15 feet above my head. I only had to climb seven more rungs forward.
This idea that I only had five more minutes of climbing was extremely optimistic. Instead, when I reached the top of the jagged part of the mountain, we began moving horizontally. The whole climbing experience was similar to this. Whenever I thought the end of the journey was coming up, a new crevice or route presented itself for us to follow. Some parts of the cliff were easier to climb than others. Many times the metal rungs disappeared, and my hands simply searched for parts of the faceted rocks to grip and hang on to. I prayed that the wind wouldn’t pick up and the hot sun would go behind a cloud. I was thankful many times over for the years of gymnastics training that offered me sheer strength when the course got difficult. My knees bled from knocking against the rocks. Tears were shed as my muscles burned from waiting in one spot while the people ahead of me worked to keep moving on. The sky stayed a clear blue above while the leafy trees grew so small below that they all combined into one great, big, grassy floor. My mouth screamed of salt. Life seemed so fleeting, fragile, and precious while hanging off that cliff that all beauty was heightened and all of life’s troubles seemed minuscule.
My senses were especially heightened in one particular spot on that rough and rocky mountain. My group had been climbing and heaving themselves across the jagged rocks for at least two and a half hours. The perspiration dripped from the few stray pieces of hair that had gotten loose from my ponytail at the nape of my neck and ran in fast straight lines down my back. My supply of water was getting low and less refreshing as the sun’s rays heated the metal canister. The tour guide notified me that the next step in the course would be to climb over the mountain to reach the other side. I pictured a sharp point that would scrap my inner thighs or maybe I would even have to jump over somehow. Actually, though, we reached the top of the mountain where a big chunk of rock was missing. The top of the crevice got wider at the top and created a sharp point at the bottom. The task was to climb in between the wider part and then continue around the corner to the other side.
When I maneuvered my way between the two rocks into the wider part of the hole I was faced with a sheet of mountain that could have fit ten people across. There was only one metal rung located in the middle of the rock though, so the only person hanging off was me. The instructor advised me to clip my safety harness around the metal rung that was a much sturdier and bulkier device than the one I was using to scale the mountain minutes before. I planted my feet shoulder-width apart, clipped my harness in, and just let go of the slippery metal rung. No rocks were below me, above me. I was suspended in the air only by a simple carabineer. My muscles tensed up as a little bit of fear seeped into my bones. I may have only been hanging off the cliff for five seconds at the most, but each second felt like a year. My sense of breathing became my main focus. I could visualize these blue, clear crystals being sucked up in my nose, filling my lungs, and finally being let out through my mouth. I was shocked back into reality when I heard the mention of solid ground waiting for me around the next bend.
I never breathed easier or valued my life more than the second I stepped off that cliff and took off my harness. My surroundings were closer, and colors seemed brighter. I remember a bee buzzing by me and I actually noticed the hair that covered its back. Our group followed a trail that led to a ledge giving us a magnificent view of the cliff we’d just traversed. It soared high into the sky and a satisfaction seeped into my bones. For days, I would close my eyes and be transported to moments hanging off that cliff. Suspended, gripped, alive.
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