By Cindy Price
Fear is a funny thing.
I never understood
my fear of heights.
I’ve had countless
nightmares of being on
top of a swaying building, throwing
myself facedown on the floor in
sheer terror to stop the vertigo. The
nightmares would jolt me awake in
a trembling sweat.
Yet I think nothing of boarding
an airplane and, having written for
aviation publications, I have even
flown carefree in experimental
aircraft. But I don’t think I’ll ever
ride a Ferris wheel again – I’m
terrified of being stopped at the top. Bridges also scare me and I have
to shut my eyes when crossing them. Except when I’m driving, of
course. Then my eyes don’t stray from the dotted line in the middle
of the road as I grip the steering wheel with white knuckles.
 A few months ago I had to face my fear of heights in a new way. My
husband had a lifelong dream to ride mules into the Grand Canyon.
I wasn’t keen on the idea because of my fear of heights, and I wasn’t
particularly fond of horses or mules. But I reluctantly agreed to go.
When he made reservations for the grand adventure months away, I
stuffed the pending disaster far back in my brain so I wouldn’t have
to think about confronting my greatest fear.
The months passed quickly though and before I knew it, we would
soon be heading for the hills. We had to pack in accordance to the
strict “dress code” – cowboy hats and boots, plus layers of clothes to
account for the dramatic temperature change in the canyon, from
cold to hot during the daylong mule ride.
We each had to weigh less than 200 pounds wearing all this gear.
I don’t know if this was for the mules’ sake, or if because the heavier
you are, the faster you rolled down the canyon if you fell off your
mule. Or perhaps rescuers couldn’t carry more than a 200 pound casualty out of the canyon, I thought glumly.
Being big city suburbanites, we did not own cowboy hats and had to
buy them. But I did have a pair of genuine Tony Llama cowboy boots
I inherited from my Texas grandmother. These were the real deal:
traditional leather with pull-on straps and steel reinforced pointy
jackass-kickin’ toes. Wearing grandma’s boots, I felt invincible. At
least in my closet.
We arrived the day before the terror trip and weighed in. I qualified
even though I had added extra padding with hopes of getting turned
down. “I see you’re from Texas,” the attendant noticed. “You must
know how to ride.” I hadn’t been on a horse in 30 years, and that had
been a frightening experience. I replied glumly, “Yeah, we ride our
SUVs in Houston all the time.”
That night my husband and I toasted the next day’s trail ride with
prickly pear margaritas. I was thinking there wasn’t enough prickly
pear cactus or margaritas in the entire southwest to give me the liquid
courage I needed for what lay ahead.
I awoke at 2 a.m. in a cold sweat, my heart pounding with dread.
I didn’t understand my overriding fear of the mule ride. I had never
been so afraid.
I was still awake when the alarm rang. We hustled to the corral. For
an hour the head wrangler briefed us about safety. He pointed out that
there had been Grand Canyon mule rides for over 100 years, and not
one “mule-related” fatality. There’s always a first time, the fear voice
said inside my head, and it will probably be me. My fear voice added
smugly, And what about all the people who died from heart attacks?
We mounted our mules. One by one we were led over the rim of
the canyon to the narrow trail going down the side of the steep cliff.
To make matters worse, the mules walked on the outside edge of the
trail giving you a close view of the deep drop below.
I clung tightly to the saddle horn, my eyes barely open and certainly
not looking down. I repeated the wrangler’s words in my head, Best
safety record in all the transportation industry! I felt like throwing up.
After awhile, my eyes slowly opened. A wondrous sight greeted
me. The morning sun spotlighted the colorful canyon walls, creating
a vast pastel masterpiece that surrounded me for as far as I could
see. A reverent Oh my God escaped my lips. My eyes teared from
the Grand Canyon’s majestic beauty. My fear turned to euphoria and
understanding. I realized I would have never experienced this aweinspiring
moment had I not first taken the frightening mule ride.
I sent a joyful thought heavenward. Hey Grandma, look at me! I was
scared but now I’m wearing your boots on a mule ride! A soft chuckle
sprinkled gently down. Don’t be silly, CindyGirl. Of course you could do
it. It’s just a mule ride. Why in my day we had to ride horses for six miles
just to get the mail. I grinned.
I learned a lesson on the mule ride. I learned that fear keeps you
from the best things in life. And to overcome fear, you just have to do
that which you fear. So throw your cowboy hat into the ring. Jump in
with both boots. Saddle up that big old scary mule and ride into the
valley of darkness. You just might see the light.
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