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Vol. 3, Issue 15

In 1997, soon after I barely graduated from college in just under five years, my parents gave me money to fly to Rome to meet my best friend, who was studying there for grad school. We each bought a Europass when I got there and planned to travel from Italy to Spain by train, making stops along the way in as many countries as possible on a very tight budget. Interlaken, Switzerland was one of our stops. Now if you don't know, Interlaken is one of those cities backpackers go to when they want to do something more exciting than just eat space cakes in Amsterdam. It's a popular spot for rock climbers and hikers, and, according to the brochure, people who enjoy recklessly white water rafting off a cliff. Neither one of us was particularly adventurous, but we'd made it through three countries by train with barely any snags so we felt overconfident.

We spent our first night there drinking and making new acquaintances but, unlike most of the other groups of people slumming it in hostels we'd met along the way, the crew in Interlaken was different. Taller. Broader-shouldered. All the women smelled like coconuts and sage. All the dudes smelled like patchouli, but not in an obnoxious way. One big sturdy guy in a backward hat, clearly hammered, mentioned he had to get to bed early because he was going glacier climbing early morning.

"You should come!"

We both agreed, but I was the only one who got up early enough to go. It was the most expensive Interlaken adventure they offered, even more than the bungee jumping off a cable car above a snow volcano or something crazy like that. But the next morning before dawn, I handed over my wad of crumpled multi-colored paper currency to go climb a goddamn glacier.

It should be noted that I'm pathetically scared of heights. Steep stairwells. Ferris wheels. Even stepstools above six feet make me tremble. And those YouTube videos of Russian daredevils hanging by one finger off the scaffolding of 1,000-foot high buildings cause me to hyperventilate so badly I have to lay face down on the floor.

But cowards die many times before their deaths. The brave only die once –most likely by foolishly climbing a glacier.

****

Each morning I write down a "Fear List," which is the first recovery-related list I do each day, since most mornings I am more fearful than grateful. My fears are mostly things I can't control, especially about my children – their safety from viruses and cancers, or active shooters in shopping centers. All those fun thoughts. Besides that, it’s a steady rundown of first-world problems: scary mail from the IRS. Another subpoena. The creeping suspicion that everyone I love secretly hates me.

I write them down and this helps me get rid of the temporary paralysis.

But humiliation is a big one for me – if I sense there’s a chance for me to completely embarrass myself and my family even at imaginary events several years down the road I will spin for hours. I’ve hit on some of these before: how useless I feel because I’m not a handy person. That time I farted in karate class. Right now these are funny stories that I can publish but believe me, the thought of one of my kids watching me struggle to put together a bookshelf is as terrifying as slow leaking sarin gas.

****

We had to hike about four miles carrying our individual bags packed with helmets and ice-climbing hammers and rope and we wore the crampons all the way up the side of a steep mountain to get to the icy part. I want to say there were about 12 people there, but the dude who encouraged me to do this the night before didn't show. Luckily, I did recognize someone – it was a girl I'd worked with down the shore the previous summer. She was super-excited to see me. She looked amazing and she also smelled like coconut and sage.

"Do you rock climb?" she asked.

"Nope!" I said.

This response actually impressed her.

"You're very brave!"

I AM.

We talked the whole way up the mountain. Our conversation was so effortless that I began to fantasize about ditching my friend and traveling with her the rest of the way. Maybe we'd hole up in a French chateau for a bit, or I could take her back to that wonderful cafe in Venice I adored so much. Or maybe the best thing for us to do was to spend an extra day in Interlaken. We'd upgrade from a hostel and combine our money to get a cabin with one of those fancy hot tubs looking out at the snowy mountain tops. We'd drink champagne and admire The Eiger and Lake Thun. Maybe we'd glacier climb again, or just go for it all and jump banded hand in hand from a cable car as we exchanged vows over the snow volcano.

But we had to get up this mountain first.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah. I just need to quit smoking so much while I’m here."

She winced but still laughed.

We got up to the glacier area and split into two groups to learn how to properly get our gear on. The instructor seemed very confident in everyone's ability to secure and check their own equipment.

"Looks like we've got a lot of experienced climbers here today."

I stayed quiet, even as I almost castrated myself trying to shimmy into my climbing harness.

Our first test run was up a 10-foot glacier wall. I scaled it with relative ease and then slowly scooted back down to the ground. The next climb was a 20-foot wall, which was much harder and deceptively very high. I only went halfway up before I hurried back down, even though he encouraged everyone to go all the way up so they could get used to rappelling down the trickier parts of the glacier. ( "Rappelling," by the way, meant absolutely nothing to me. He could have made up a word and told me to fampoon down the glacier and I would be none the wiser.)

I figured the best thing for me to do was to conserve my energy or I ran the risk of soiling myself before I even attempted the bigger walls.

The next part gets a little hazy for me. I remember the instructor telling us to slowly inch out over the nose of this crazy ice mountain and then gently "rappell" down onto the gigantic glacier wall underneath it. I tried to replicate what I saw others do, but instead of smoothly, slowly bouncing down the glacier, I pushed off with both my feet and never touched the wall again until I slammed into it face-first about 20 feet below. I was now dangling above a gigantic glacier cave. I don’t know how far down it went because if I tried to look anywhere besides straight ahead I thought I would pass out.

The instructor peaked over the nose and asked if I was okay. I was not, but I couldn't tell him that without yelping so I stayed quiet. Then he suggested I just climb back up. I could not, though. The pulsating fear had incapacitated me as I flailed in my harness. Plus, I dropped one of my silly-looking hammers during the fall. I hung on tightly to the ropes attached to my harness, completely convinced that at any moment, they would snap. I figured they’d have to call in the Glacier Rescue Swat Team to get me out. I don’t think it’d be great for business if they let an American tourist just plummet to a grisly, icy death.

“You will be okay, sir!” He gave me a little thumbs up and then disappeared back above the nose.

It was hard to hear down there, but I felt reassured. The helicopter would arrive any minute now.

I soon realized he was letting everyone who didn't fall down the glacier still play around. I watched at least six people above me fling themselves across the magnificent and expansive part of the wall, screaming in exultation at how lucky they were to have such an amazing experience. A couple of people flipped themselves upside down and did snow angels. Everyone had forgotten about me and I understood – to think of me terrified and clinging to that flimsy rope would ruin the moment.

When the sun rose higher and splashed off the ice, it was an unbelievable sight. The giant cave stalactites were the size of warship missiles, and they glimmered majestically in an endless spiral. It was undeniably breathtaking. I made peace with the fact that I could possibly die there. I promised myself that up until that moment I’d enjoy the view. I remembered I had one of those disposable Kodak cameras with me in the pocket of my cargo shorts. I pulled it out to take some photos. If I survived, these would be incredible shots – probably good enough for an award-winning National Geographic spread. But as soon as I pulled the camera out of my front thigh pocket I dropped it. I found just enough temporary courage to look down and watch it disappear into the blackness. I never heard it hit the ground.

****

Before I do my journaling and my fear list, I pray. I know, right? This is totally a sobriety thing. I grew up Catholic, but I only prayed in church and I would usually just rest my forehead on the pew and take a little nap. But the God of my youth no longer exists. Never did, honestly.

There’s a hokey Bible-thumping phrase – faith over fear – which has been co-opted by deranged Evangelicals during this pandemic. They’re the strident anti-maskers who insist their belief in God will keep away the coronavirus and if they do get sick, well, heaven awaits.

I’ve taken a different interpretation: my faith in this mysterious Higher Power allows me just enough breathing room to stay sane. I had a bad case of the ambient creeps last week – fear of humiliation due to past wreckage had yanked me sideways – but after a day of that, I remembered that my faith in faith is what matters most. I accepted the things I cannot change, etc, etc. Everything was fine.

When I make my list I often think of that day hanging off that glacier and how that was an absolute cavalcade of my worst fears - the heights! The humiliation! For a long time, I told people I “went glacier climbing in Switzerland” without any further details. It's technically true, but I omitted most of the falling and flailing parts. It was too painful.

By the way: the helicopter never came to get me and I certainly didn’t climb back up. No, instead, the other climbers grabbed the rope and dragged me up the side of the glacier, like I was a stupid horse that had fallen into a well. The coconut-smelling girl from the shore didn’t speak to me at all on the walk down the mountain – no one did.

But I still think of that whole experience as such a blessing – my life was somehow spared and that closeup view I got inside the cave was unforgettable, even as I hung there shaking uncontrollably. I try to remember that when any of my fears surface – just look at the view. Isn't it beautiful? Just look at the view. – AJD

This week we have one of my favorite pieces on The Small Bow: a comic by Edith Zimmerman called "How To Make Your Own Bed," which is nice way to stabilize some of these long days.