What I Learned About Fear and Bravery on a Mountain After Age 40
Fear has only one tune: “No, don’t, scary, stop.”
There we were: Me, my fear of falling, and a tiny ledge between us and a 400-foot drop. In my mind, I separated myself from my fear and the fall. I had to, or I was never going to survive the situation I’d put myself in.
And yes, I’d done it to myself, well, me and Nelson Mandela. It was his quote, “Courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it,” that gave me the idea that fears should be conquered.
So, in a moment of inspired bravado, I’d signed up for a rappelling lesson. Despite being in my mid-forties and embarrassingly out of shape, I was going to rappel on the North Table Mountain in Colorado.
I’d paid hundreds of dollars but, once the bravado wore off, I wasn’t going to do it all. It would be a loss of cash, but not life. I was ok with my decision, but something inside of me wasn’t.
As I debated turning around on the drive to the mountain, I had a stern talk with myself. “You’ve done other hard things … What else are you going to do drive around Colorado and look at the pretty views while eating French fries in the car?” (uh, yes).
Why am I doing this?
In the parking lot at the mountain base, my fear grew until I was nearly paralyzed by it. I kept asking myself: Why am I doing this? As I clutched my steering wheel with white knuckles, I used a coping mechanism to break it down. In no particular order: I was afraid of failure, death, and embarrassment.
So why was I doing it? The answer I told myself was because life is short, and no matter how many days I spend sitting on my couch, none of those days are more memorable than the day before. I wanted more days worth remembering.
Also, I hate being afraid, so I got out of the car.
Onward and Upward
I met my instructor, Dan, at the trailhead. It was just him and me, and as I signed my waivers in case of death, he gave me a variety of gear to carry up the mountain.
After less than an hour hike, at the top of our 400-foot “practice cliff,” Dan started tying the ropes and moving from cliff to cliff like a Colorado mountain goat while I clung to the side like a barnacle.
“You can start gearing up,” Dan said. What goes up … must come down.
I put on a sturdy harness, like those used in ziplining, around my legs and waist, a helmet (for falling rocks), climbing shoes, and gloves.
Rappeling, Dan said, is like a trust exercise. You know the one where you let your body fall backward into someone’s arms and trust they will catch you? Except in this version, you’re on a cliff 400 feet in the air, and the only thing to catch you is death (I said that last bit).
Dan instructed me to link up to the rope and follow him out to a tiny 1.5-foot ledge. I slowly walked toward him while gripping the rope and checking the stability of every metal link embedded into the granite rock. These little iron hooks had a big job to do, and I hoped they’re up for it.
By the time I made it to him, I’m breathing heavily, not from exertion but panic.
But my worry, he assured me, was needless; he set up two ropes and multiple safety knots. If, on the bizarre chance, one of my ropes failed. I had another one ready to catch me. So, in theory, I wouldn’t die. I might have a heart attack, but I won’t fall to my death.
He told me to do exactly like we did when I was practicing: Hold the rope and slowly step backward over the edge of the cliff. One foot after the other.
As I stand there, one foot of ledge between me and a 400-foot drop, I waffle, question, debate, delay.
Dan says, “Just trust the rope.”
Logically, it makes sense, but try getting your brain to understand how safe you are going backward off a cliff—your brain screams, NO, NO, NO.
But I think of Nelson Mandela, and I know standing up to this mountain is a small thing, and I can do it.
Over the Edge
As I’m hanging at the edge of the cliff, Dan says, “OK, here’s what I want you to do, move this foot here … and the other foot here.” He pointed out his directions.
“Dan,” I said. “I understand what you want, but you need to adjust your expectations for what you’re going to get.” He laughed nervously.
I took a few more deep breaths and moved one foot a few inches backward, then the other again and again until I was hanging by a rope off the side of a mountain.
“You’re doing it!” Dan yelled proudly.
I smiled and, suspended in mid-air, stopped to look around. There was Golden, Colorado, small in the distance. The sun is shining, and the lush, full clouds are so close I can almost touch them.
It’s easy to understand why people do this; I thought while hanging there, it’s because they’re crazy. Also, there’s something unbelievably empowering about conquering a mountain. I, like a superhero, am in the clouds.
A Bigger Mountain Awaits
Now confident, after conquering the 400-foot cliff twice, we ventured to a 1000-foot cliff.
By the time we hiked to the top of the North Table peak, Dan and I were best buds. I told him how I fear falling, and he said he too had to overcome similar fears before becoming the mountain goat I know him to be. But you would never suspect that about him; fears are only visible in our minds.
Now at the top looking out over this 1,000 peak, somehow, I have to convince myself again. Just because I was lucky before doesn’t mean I will be again.
He coaxes me down, and before I know it, I’m hooked up and leaning over the edge convincing myself there are worse ways to die.
I immediately recognize this cliff is going to be a lot harder.
When I moved my feet down, there wasn’t any rock below for me to place my foot. The wall wasn’t flat like the last one; it dipped and curved. I could only get purchase for one foot at a time, or not at all, which meant I had to leap.
“Push away from the wall! Jump!”
Have you ever heard anything so stupid? Stupid is as stupid does, they say, so I did it. Tiny at first, but then bigger. Hanging out, swinging from the cliff like Spiderman because I am my own freaking hero.
When Dan came down after me, he leaped the entire way and landed at the bottom in about a minute. It took me eight.
“Showoff,” I yelled.
Overcoming Fear
I’d been talking myself out of it for days before I ever made it to the mountain. I told myself I had no business trying something like rock climbing or rappelling at my age and physical fitness level.
My fear had become bigger than the mountain, but it was all in my head.
Finally, in the parking lot, I decided to try, and if I can’t do any part of it, I’d stop. It wasn’t like he was going to force me. Sure, I’d be embarrassed, but at least I’d have tried.
That, I realized, is exactly how I’ve ever accomplished anything difficult, just trying. I always think I’m going to fail or embarrass myself (I often do embarrass myself), but somehow I’m always able to do more than expected.
Fear has only one tune: “No, don’t, scary, stop.” My fear is the most boring thing about me. Fear would have me sitting comfortably on the couch alone until I died there.
How many experiences and opportunities would have passed me by if I didn’t push myself to try? A lot.
Every time I push past my comfort, I find that I’m capable of so much more than I ever thought possible. I never promise myself to be good, or even to like it, but to know I tried. Life is for living, and I plan to live until I die.
“It’s not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.”
— Edmund Hillary
I know that my fear isn’t real, that it’s a thing that lives in my head and takes up more space than it deserves. Until that day on that mountain, that knowledge is what I thought enabled me to succeed against it. But that’s not it at all.
What allows me to surpass my fear is not suppressing it but acknowledging something else: My courage. When I allow myself to be brave, stand up, and say, “Here I am, come and get me,” I am invincible.
At that point, fear cannot stop me because the courage to stand up in the face of fear overpowers it every time and it feels so much better too. That’s the feeling I want to have.
So, he’s right. “Courage is not the absence of fear but the triumph over it.”
