Feeling Fear

I am not a brave person. I have been cursed with an overly active imagination that can form vivid images of disastrous outcomes in almost any situation.

When I was a kid, our usual family outing was driving to Natural Bridge State Park, located within the Red River Gorge in eastern Kentucky. There is a rock formation visible from the road, Chimney Top Rock, …

… and while I was always excited to see it, I never once thought about climbing to the top of it. Little did I know that years later I would fall in love with a guy who did. Little did I know when I first met this mild-mannered fellow …

… that he would turn out to be so adventurous.

I first encountered that side of John one weekend in mid-January 1977. We were doing some winter camping in Red River Gorge, Kentucky. We had gone for a hike, and he decided we should get to the top of Chimney Top Rock. I was nervous, but I followed him as he explored around the base looking for a likely route up it.

Along the way, we came across two guys arguing. One was adamant: “You can’t climb up there without a rope. You’d be crazy to climb up there without a rope.” Now I was scared. John was unimpressed and quickly walked by them. Then he said something I have since heard many times: “Come on, Jean.”

I was anxious the entire way up, but I did manage to get to the top. I was so relieved! While sitting on a rock at the top, however, I came to the unhappy realization that I would have to climb back down. Being airlifted by helicopter really wasn’t an option. Before long, we headed down, John in the lead. It was January, it was cold and there was snow. I was wearing blue jeans, cotton long underwear and wool mittens. Everything was wet. My hands were cold and my fingers were numb.

I tried to reassure myself that it would be okay because I could depend on my feet to climb down. Then I reached a point where I couldn’t see anywhere to put them. I could no longer see John, so I didn’t know how he was getting down. I called down, “Hey John, where do I put my feet?” His reply made my heart sink: “There’s no place to put your feet. You’ve got to use your hands.” I did manage to get down safely but became quite upset immediately afterward. The plan had been to find a good place off the trail to take a break and eat some brownies we had with us. But all I could think was, “I want my brownie. I need my brownie. I need my brownie now!” So I sat down in the middle of the trail and ate it.

We both learned something about each other that day. I learned that John would encourage me to get into situations where I would be afraid, but that I could probably trust his judgment and would most likely survive. John learned that I was willing to try and just might be able to keep my head long enough to get myself out in one piece, but he had better have some chocolate ready afterward. We both apparently found this acceptable, as we started living together later that month.

The past 50 years with John have provided me with numerous opportunities to exercise my imagination and experience my fears. It started with milder challenges: learning to scuba dive in the cold, deep, dark waters of Puget Sound and hiking toward molten lava flowing out of Mount Kilauea on Hawaii’s Big Island.

It continued with hiking on narrow sections of trail with perceived exposure.

While I was afraid in each instance, I treasure the memories and the sense of accomplishment I felt when I got through each situation. I’m reminded of the time we were headed up Red Mountain in the North Cascades, Washington.

We were partway up a steep, scree-filled avalanche chute. I have lousy balance, weak ankles and I dislike the sensation of my feet sliding underneath me. I hated roller skating. Downhill skiing terrified me. I even managed to dislocate a hip cross-country skiing. So no, I did not like this sensation, and I resorted to crawling. I was dismayed when all four points of contact began sliding beneath me. I could see myself sliding all the way back down and being buried in a big pile of sharp rocks. Just at that moment, John looked back and, seeing my predicament, asked how I was doing. I paused before answering. I had a choice to make. I could respond in fear and start crying. I could respond in anger that once again he had gotten me into an uncomfortable situation. The best I could do was look up at him and say, “My next husband is going to be a dancer.” He laughed and said I had to survive this one first. Well, so far so good.

I have since realized, with some trepidation, that John was not done leading me into situations that would cause me to feel fearful. In 2011, we planned to take our son backpacking in Grand Canyon National Park. This was our first backpack trip in Grand Canyon. I was excited, but I was also nervous. The Grand Canyon National Park Service provides trail descriptions, and I read every one for the trails we would be on. The description for the Tanner Trail warned that in places the trail narrows to about a foot wide and slopes outward across eroding sandstone with hundreds of feet of exposure.

The Escalante Route description warned of the Papago Slide, a steep gully with large boulders in precarious balance. John named these trail descriptions Worry Papers. We have called them that ever since.

It didn’t help that we also received a form letter from the Park Service asking us to rethink our itinerary. It warned that trips such as the one we had planned “too often result in injury and occasionally even death.” To be issued a permit, we had to provide more information about our experience and acknowledge that we had been fairly warned.

I felt as though John was slowly but surely trying to expand my comfort zone. Out of self-defense, I read Feel the Fear … and Do It Anyway. I was initially disappointed to discover that there was no formula, magic spell or incantation that would enable me to put away my fears for good. The message was much simpler: fear was not something I had to eliminate before doing something frightening. I needed to trust that, whatever happened, I could handle it.

It took me a while to understand what that meant. I had hoped to learn how to be a brave person. Eventually I realized that being brave does not mean being unafraid. It means feeling the fear and doing it anyway.

When we started talking about backpacking the Nankoweap Trail in Grand Canyon National Park, I read the Worry Paper. It warned that the trail is often only one footprint wide, loose and gravelly, with significant drop-offs, and is not recommended for people with a fear of heights. It classified Nankoweap as the “MOST difficult” of Grand Canyon’s named trails.

On another trip, we planned to backpack on the Beamer Trail. That Worry Paper warned that the trail becomes a demanding trek along narrow, exposed ledges at the brink of high cliffs. When I first approached this section of trail, I stopped in my tracks. I had to avoid visualizing myself falling and bouncing off the rocks before going into the frigid waters of the Colorado River. I didn’t want to turn around, so I felt the fear and did it anyway. I wanted John to take a photo of me, but he had fallen behind and I didn’t want to wait.

The following morning, we hiked back out on the Beamer. I stuck with John and asked him to take a photo of me crossing the scary part. He was not far ahead of me, and I kept expecting to reach it. There were places where I paid extra close attention to where I put my feet, but nothing caused me to feel afraid. In fact, we reached the end of the Beamer Trail without my noticing what the previous day I had thought of as the scary part. As luck would have it, John had taken a photo of me. What this experience taught me is that by doing it anyway, I can begin to become desensitized to scary situations.

What I can do is accept that I will sometimes be afraid. I can change my self-talk. Instead of telling myself that I am a coward, that I am not brave, or that I should turn away from something because it frightens me, I can tell myself, “I am afraid, but I can do this. Whatever happens, I will handle it.”

I began this by saying I am not a brave person. Maybe I’ve been wrong about that.