As I tighten my grip on the Manzanita tree, I look left. Just seven feet away, the ledge ends. I'm standing more than a thousand feet above Yosemite Valley -- the pine trees are two inches high, the lodges three inches wide. "Come on!" my boyfriend, William, urges. He stands ten feet directly in front of me, unroped. Beyond him, I see the narrow sloped ledge open into a wider, sunlit one, offering a panoramic view of Yosemite Valley -- and safety.
My grip and my stomach tightens. I imagine my hand, wet, losing its grip on the Manzanita tree as I tumble down the sloped ledge, across loose acorns and leaves, falling forever, as in a dream. "I don't feel so good!" I yell back. "Come here! Hurry!" As the tears course down my cheeks, I freeze, fixated on the drop.
Then I'm aware of William standing next to me. I force myself to turn my back on the drop and crouch down. "Baby, you can do it," he says. "I can set up the ropes, and you'll be across in no time." I imagine moving across the ledge -- one end of the rope tied to my harness, the other to a Manzanita tree, just feet away from the drop. I can beat my fear of heights. I can do this. "Baby, you've got to talk to me and tell me what you're thinking." William's voice sounds far away. I don't reply. It's not worth it. I could die if something goes wrong. I've already climbed a boulder field and risked coming face to face with a rattlesnake. I've already inched my way across a foot-wide ledge, tethered by ropes, pressed against a boulder, above a 50 foot drop. Isn't that enough?
"Sweetie," William said, shaking me from my thoughts. "This isn't the best place to sit, because of falling rocks. You need to make a decision. Do you want to turn around?"
I look up at him. I look to my left again, at the drop. I want to go home. I realize I'm not ashamed to cry. And that I'm not ashamed to turn aroud. I'm so far out of my comfort zone this weekend, and for that alone, I am proud. "Yes, I want to turn around."
As we make our way down (William always ahead of me, leaping across the boulder field, while I slide down gingerly on my butt and hands), I wonder if he would be happier with a different breed of girl -- one of those women from his Patagonia catalogs -- her body ripped, her damp hair swinging as she grips the edge of a rock upside down, hundreds of feet above water. She's fearless. She's fit. She doesn't fall off logs, cry at the sight of hundred feet drops, or balk at a 16 mile hike. And part of me wonders too, if I would be happier with a man who says, "Honey, let's go to the movies today," or "let's cook lasagna tonight," -- whose Saturday afternoon plans don't involve possible close brushes with death.
But then William grabs my hand, "I'm sorry I chose a bad route for us today, and that you didn't have fun." And I say, "But I did have fun. I loved the view of the pine trees and the sky from a thousand feet up, as we ate our lunch. I loved seeing the mom, dad and baby deer family, the bobcat, and the bears on the trail yesterday." William cocks his head. "I love you." I smile. "I love you, too."
My grip and my stomach tightens. I imagine my hand, wet, losing its grip on the Manzanita tree as I tumble down the sloped ledge, across loose acorns and leaves, falling forever, as in a dream. "I don't feel so good!" I yell back. "Come here! Hurry!" As the tears course down my cheeks, I freeze, fixated on the drop.
Then I'm aware of William standing next to me. I force myself to turn my back on the drop and crouch down. "Baby, you can do it," he says. "I can set up the ropes, and you'll be across in no time." I imagine moving across the ledge -- one end of the rope tied to my harness, the other to a Manzanita tree, just feet away from the drop. I can beat my fear of heights. I can do this. "Baby, you've got to talk to me and tell me what you're thinking." William's voice sounds far away. I don't reply. It's not worth it. I could die if something goes wrong. I've already climbed a boulder field and risked coming face to face with a rattlesnake. I've already inched my way across a foot-wide ledge, tethered by ropes, pressed against a boulder, above a 50 foot drop. Isn't that enough?
"Sweetie," William said, shaking me from my thoughts. "This isn't the best place to sit, because of falling rocks. You need to make a decision. Do you want to turn around?"
I look up at him. I look to my left again, at the drop. I want to go home. I realize I'm not ashamed to cry. And that I'm not ashamed to turn aroud. I'm so far out of my comfort zone this weekend, and for that alone, I am proud. "Yes, I want to turn around."
As we make our way down (William always ahead of me, leaping across the boulder field, while I slide down gingerly on my butt and hands), I wonder if he would be happier with a different breed of girl -- one of those women from his Patagonia catalogs -- her body ripped, her damp hair swinging as she grips the edge of a rock upside down, hundreds of feet above water. She's fearless. She's fit. She doesn't fall off logs, cry at the sight of hundred feet drops, or balk at a 16 mile hike. And part of me wonders too, if I would be happier with a man who says, "Honey, let's go to the movies today," or "let's cook lasagna tonight," -- whose Saturday afternoon plans don't involve possible close brushes with death.
But then William grabs my hand, "I'm sorry I chose a bad route for us today, and that you didn't have fun." And I say, "But I did have fun. I loved the view of the pine trees and the sky from a thousand feet up, as we ate our lunch. I loved seeing the mom, dad and baby deer family, the bobcat, and the bears on the trail yesterday." William cocks his head. "I love you." I smile. "I love you, too."
