In 1997, after barely graduating from college in under five years, my parents gave me money to fly to Rome to meet my best friend, who was in grad school there. When I got there, we each bought a Europass and planned to travel from Italy to Spain by train, stopping in as many countries as possible on a very tight budget. Interlaken, Switzerland, was one of our stops. Interlaken is a popular spot for rock climbers and hikers and, according to one of the brochures we read, people who enjoy recklessly white-water rafting off a cliff. Neither 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 drinking and making new acquaintances, but unlike most other people we'd met along the way slumming it in hostels, the crew in Interlaken was different. Taller. Broader-shouldered. All the men smelled like patchouli and had rope necklaces. All the women smelled like coconut tanning oil and wore cutoff jean shorts. It was like an international convention of the most popular people in high school.
One giant guy in a backward hat, clearly obliterated, mentioned he had to get to bed early because he was going glacier climbing early in the 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 offered, even more than the bungee jumping off a cable car above a snow volcano or something crazy like that. But the next day, before dawn, I handed over my wad of crumpled, multi-colored paper currency and began the two-hour hike to our glacier destination.
I should note that I'm pathetically afraid 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 lie face down on the floor. But also humiliation is a big one for me. If I sense even a chance of completely embarrassing myself and being emasculated, even at imaginary events several years down the road, I will spin for hours. This is why I avoid things I know I'll be terrible at to prevent these scenarios.
But what is that saying? "Cowards die many times before their deaths. The brave only die once…"
I was ready to climb a goddamn glacier.
****
Each morning, I write down a "Fear List," the first recovery-related list I do each day since I am more fearful than grateful most mornings. My fears are usually things I can't control, especially about my children — their safety from viruses and cancers or active shooters in shopping centers. Reading a paragraph about E. coli outbreaks in Arkansas or glancing at an article about the growing threat of Russian nuclear attacks can take me out of some happy moments with them. Sometimes, while driving them home from school, I'm not looking at the road but at the skyline, looking for planes crashing into buildings or drones dropping bombs the size of quarters. I fantasize about crisscrossing lanes to avoid the roads and driving up a hill full of trees and small cabins, with no cellular service, to remind us of the terror on the horizon.
But my main fear is infecting them with some of my fear. That they will see a panicked expression on my face and they will never feel safe around me again.
Writing those fears down releases the valve. Then, I can move on to the gratitude list, which helps snap me back into reality.
*****
We hiked about four miles carrying our individual bags packed with helmets, ice-climbing hammers, and rope, and we wore crampons as we walked up the side of a steep mountain to reach the icy part. About 12 people were there, but the dude who encouraged me to do this the night before didn't show. Luckily, I recognized someone—a girl I'd worked with down the shore the previous summer. She was super excited to see me. She looked amazing and smelled like coconut oil.
"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 fantasized about ditching my friend and traveling with her the rest of the way. We could hole up in a French chateau for a few days, or I could take her back to that 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 get an upgraded 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, hand in hand, from a cable car as we exchanged vows over the snow volcano.
But we had to get up this mountain first, and I was struggling.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah. I need to quit smoking so much while I'm here."
She laughed nervously.
We got up to the glacier area and split into two groups to learn how to put on our gear correctly. The instructor was confident that everyone could secure and check their 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 quickly and then slowly scooted back down to the ground. The next climb was a 20-foot wall, which was much more challenging and deceptively 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.)
The next part gets a little hazy. I remember the instructor telling us to slowly inch out over the nose of this crazy ice mountain, then gently rappel down the gigantic glacier wall underneath it. I tried to replicate what I saw others do, but instead of bouncing down the glacier smoothly and slowly, I pushed off with both feet and never touched the wall again until I slammed my face into it about 20 feet below. I was now dangling above a gigantic glacier cave. I don't know how far down it went because I would have passed out if I'd looked anywhere but straight ahead.
The instructor peeked over the nose and asked if I was okay. I wasn't, but I couldn't tell him without yelping, so I stayed quiet. Then he suggested I climb back up. I could not do that. The fear had incapacitated me as I flailed in my harness. And I dropped one of my climbing hammers during the fall. I clung tightly to the ropes attached to my harness, convinced they would snap at any moment. I figured the instructor-guide man would have to call whatever version of the Glacier Emergency Rescue Squadron exists to get me back up.
"You will be okay, sir!" His cute little accent sounded condescending at that moment. He gave me a little thumbs-up and then disappeared.
But for some reason, I felt reassured. He wouldn't let me fall to a grisly, icy death. The helicopter would arrive any minute now.
I soon realized I wasn't the top priority. Other climbers paid good money to be there, so he let everyone who didn't fall down the glacier keep playing around. I watched several people above me fling themselves across the magnificent, expansive wall, screaming with exultation at how lucky they were to have such an awe-inspiring experience. A couple of people flipped themselves upside down and made snow angels. Everyone had forgotten about me. I didn’t blame them: the thought of me terrified and clinging to that flimsy rope beneath them would ruin their fun.
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 blindingly in an endless spiral. It was undeniably breathtaking. I had a disposable Kodak camera in my cargo shorts pocket. I pulled it out to take some photos. My hands were shaking, but if I could hold the camera steady for a few seconds, it would make this ordeal worth it, and maybe I could sell these shots to, like, National Geographic. But as soon as I pulled the camera out of my front thigh pocket, I dropped it. I summoned enough temporary courage to look down and watch it disappear into the blackness.
*****
The poet Mary Ruefle wrote an essay about fear ("On Fear”) that is ostensibly about how writers need their fear to write confidently about their place in the world. In her research, she asked a doctor and a pilot what they did in highly intense moments—a dying patient or a plane with a failed engine. "The only way to overcome fear is to do what you are trained to do. Fear is overcome by procedure." The pilot said that if he wakes up in a daze to a nose-diving plane, he focuses on what he's been trained to do in the circumstance and not on the actual circumstance: "Cut the throttle and punch the dive brakes."
Sobriety has given me access to spiritual life—faith, really—through my program, which, even when it's wobbly, does provide a level of steadiness that has eluded me. When I'm overcome by some of the more irrational fears, I can rely on what many call a Higher Power to get me through some of the more brutal seconds and minutes, in a pinch. Sometimes reciting a simple "you are safe, you are loved" can break through the panic. It is my procedure. Cut the throttle and punch the dive brakes.
Every now and then, maybe once every five years, I’ll be in a conversation where people will talk about dream vacations and on a couple of occasions Switzerland was mentioned. Even though I shouldn’t, I volunteer that I have been there and even "went glacier climbing," without further details. It's technically accurate, but I tend to omit most of the falling-and-flailing parts. But if I'm more familiar with someone, I will lead with the "I almost died while glacier climbing" bit, which might be closer to the truth but requires the proper context.
By the way, a helicopter never came to get me, and I certainly didn't climb back up. Here's what happened: the other climbers grabbed my rope and dragged me up the glacier wall like a stupid horse that had fallen into a well.
As we walked down the mountain, the coconut-smelling girl from the shore stopped speaking to me. No one did. Everyone walked ahead of me, blissful and serene, floating on the icy vapors of an adventure they would remember forever. I did not share their experience, so they pretended I was never there.
But I still think of that glacier climb as a blessing—I survived, after all. And that close-up view of that glacier cave was unforgettable, even as I hung there shaking uncontrollably. I try to remember that when any of my irrational fears surface—if my procedure is failing—I will simply look at the view. Isn't it beautiful? Just look at the view.
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