Another step and I was certain my boot would slide out from under me, flinging my tall frame down the scree-covered hill, and I would plummet to my death. I was sure of it.
I bent over on all fours, like a cat stuck in a tree, nearly 14,000 feet in the clouds. Most cats don’t trust a soul, and neither did I, paralyzed, cotton-gloved palms clawing at any rock poking out of the ice.
“I’m going to die.”
Acrophobia, my extreme fear of heights, was freezing up body over mind, as it had done at the Royal Gorge, the Eiffel Tower, and the steel, narrow stairs overlooking Yellowstone Falls. I lived with the mantra, “Weakness is so weak.” I was determined to power through my irrational phobia by signing up for this women’s climbing expedition on a mountain aptly called Quandary.
What I didn’t take into consideration were my fancy boots lined with GORE-TEX® failing me. They had carried me across Scottish fields mired with cow dung. Those boots had sturdied my feet step over step of salt-water sprayed basalt columns poking out from the sea on Ireland’s Northern coast. Why were they failing me this day?
Today I’m honored to be over at Jerusha Hagen’s blog: Fear. Love. Hope. Repeat. (I seriously love her blog name!) Read the rest here…