A little more of the story

We continued up and around, pausing again for water. The sun was hot and the humidity must have been below zero. My shirt was wet under the backpack but everywhere else the dryness of the wind evaporated the sweat as it formed. After this stop, we didn’t go much further when, suddenly, or so it seemed to me, the folks at the head of the group began scrambling straight up the side of the canyon. Up the rock! I was stunned.

When it came my turn, lemming like, I began to climb. I had no idea how far up I was going to have to go or just what I had gotten myself into.

The first thing I discovered was that the hand and toe holes were very small and my boots were very large. I could find no place I thought my feet would fit much less stay. The ledges where I was supposed to find purchase protruded only an inch or so (or so it seemed to me) and that was waaaay to narrow. The hand holds were basically non-existent...at least as far as I was concerned. To add to my distress, I had something over a half-gallon of water in my pack, my lunch, rain gear, hand lotion, sun-lotion, bug spray, camera and extra film, my journal and pencil. The weight of the pack was a constant reminder that there was nothing but air behind me and nothing secure for my hands to hold. I felt as if I were consistently being pulled backward toward the valley floor.

I managed to climb for a while, maybe a third of the way up. Then I came to a step that was about knee high. It required putting my left foot in one of the toe holds and lifting all my weight with that leg and the little bit of pull I could get from a hand hold a considerable distance above my head. There was virtually nothing on which to rest my boot to stabilize my step and I have a historical lack of upper body strength, so to pull myself up with my arms wasn’t going to help much. Swallowing and gathering my courage, I tried the step, but couldn’t make it.

I could see or think of no other option and yet I didn’t believe I could lift my body that far. I was exhausted. My legs were jelly and my heart was determined to climb out of my throat.

I looked out across the valley to the wall on the other side. My gaze slid down the wall to the hogan we passed on the way to Yei’bi’chei. It was a small speck on the valley floor, a dollhouse miniature, hazy from the dust and distance. My ears roared, my head felt funny and for a moment, the world went dark.

I knew in that instant that I could easily die right there. Well, not so much in that exact place. It would be below, far, far below. I would probably die before I even hit the ground.

“This is it” I thought. “I cannot go any further. I can’t make the step without falling and I either manage to make the step or...”

TJ had been just ahead of me. I suppose she knew this was a difficult place and she had sidled out horizontally to a semi-level rock ledge even with me, but several yards to my right. She was standing upright, tall and easy in her boots, looking out at the valley below and talking about the beauty of the other side of the canyon.

“Trust your boots and lean into the rock,” she called.

“Yeah, sure,” I thought. “Easy for you to say. You’re younger, stronger, and you’ve made this climb several times, even done lots of other rock climbing.” She looked so at ease, so confident. How did she get to where she was? There was no ledge in the rock from me to her, not even a tiny one.

“Just come over here and take a break,” she said.
“I can’t” I replied.
“Sure you can, just lean into the rock and trust your boots.”

I knew if I paused too long I would never be able to make it. Fear would consume me and the bit of energy I had left would be gone. And if I went to where she was and looked down again, the one tiny particle of determination left to me would slide down to the canyon floor. Besides that, I was sure I couldn’t get to where she was.

I put my head down on my left arm, the one that was resting, head high, on the wall. It was probably not actually that steep, but I felt I was standing upright with the front of my body smeared against the face of the rock. I really had only two choices. I either let go and fell intentionally or I had to try the step one more time. I knew it would be only one more try, so I had to gather every thing I had within me and somehow make that step.

How can I explain the stark primal terror that I was on the rock? It was distinct, crystal clear and sharp edged. There was not one molecule of me that believed I could make that step. I thought of my children, my grandchildren. I couldn’t seem to think past them. Clinging to the side of that rock, about a third of the way up, I discovered I was afraid of heights.

This wasn’t my first experience with a challenging climbing situation, but this time was different.

Years ago I climbed a trail in the Smoky Mountains that went straight up, or so it seemed at the time. Lightening popped and sizzled and thunder rolled all around me as I reached the summit. Thick clouds obscured the valley below and the air was so charged, the hair on my body stood at attention. I only sat there, clinging to the weeds and small bushes, a minute or so and when the rain began, the trail back was soggy and slippery.

“Was I afraid then?”
“Kinda, a little I suppose.”
“Is the difference a matter of age? The difference twenty years of life can make? Forty-ish then, sixty plus now?”

I don’t believe age is the discriminator; maybe it is more a matter of quality and quantity. That hike in the Smokies was vertical. I scrambled on my hands and knees much of the way. There were distinct elements of risk, the lightening and the steepness. And, although I would have argued to the contrary until Yei’bi’chi, that trail provided an element of protection. There were trees and shrubs and rocks and bushes that offered a sense of shelter. If I fell, I would tumble and roll for a long time and probably break more than one bone, possibly even my neck or back, yet more than likely, I would survive. The lightening provided another element of danger, but it wasn’t constant. It was intermittent, and held an element of chance. It might not strike me. That is the difference, the “probably” and the “might not.”

On Ye ii beichi there was no “might not” or “probably.” Once I began the climb, I was exposed, hung out, so to speak. There was no margin of error. If I lost my footing, if I slid, if I fell at all, I was a “goner.” It was a yes OR no situation. There was no room for grey, it was black or white. I either lived through it, made it to the top, or I fell to my death, hundreds of feet before my body quit bouncing and sliding on the sheer rock face.
I wouldn’t even leave any permanent marks on the rock. I would not alter it at all, yet I would be altered totally and completely. My entrance into the next cycle of being would be immediate. After a flash of stark terror, would I have a moment of sheer release and relief? With the pain of skin shredding from my body and bones being re-arranged, would I shout a triumphant primal scream to welcome the transformation, meet it with a full embrace of acceptance or would I cower before the conversion? How I accept the rush and swirl of change in the face of its inevitability?

I’d like to think I would release and meet it with resignation. No, I hope the sense would be more than resignation; I would hope to meet it with courage and acceptance, as a new experience, one that as surely as I was born into this reality, I will leave it.

Would the fear fall away? Would I shrug on my way down and be grateful for the love and experiences of this cycle? Would I have an instant to feel regret that my family and friends would choose to mourn my passing, spend some of their precious time feeling sad and missing my physical presence? I don’t know.