Nothing here to fear but broken bones

There are moments in our lives that we'd rather not have recorded.

Thankfully, my most recent moment of shame, induced by a somewhat irrational fear, was seven miles away from civilization, witnessed by only four family members, and shot on only one frame of a digital camera at a distance of a hundred feet or so.

During spring break last week, we traveled to visit family in Colorado, first to see my parents in Fruita, just west of the better-known town of Grand Junction, just east of Utah.

On one day with perfect conditions - 45 degrees, no threatening clouds, no bugs, no one else on the trail - we hiked into Rattlesnake Canyon, which supposedly has the highest concentration of red-rock arches outside of Arches National Park.

It was a spectacular, if not easy, trip on the trail, which wound back into the desert red-rock country, passing some amazing rock formations and overlooking some fantastic desert landscapes.

The trail ended at a giant arch, but if you climbed up through the arch, you could catch another trail on the other side, make a small loop and save yourself a few miles. And when your first hike of the year is about 15 fairly difficult miles, this is a very welcome thought.

Looking up from the bottom of the arch, it didn't seem like a huge deal to climb up. The pitch wasn't particularly steep - there was only a small dropoff toward the bottom. My two teenage boys scrambled to the top like they were climbing stairs.

Their example gave me confidence, but I should have known better - they have no fear. And technically, there was little to fear.

But once I started up the smooth surface of the arch, I realized a few things: There are no handholds. There was no way to check yourself if you started to slide. Though the bottom of the arch wasn't so far off the ground, you could still mangle many body parts when you hit bottom.

And my fear of heights is not diminishing with the years.

I made it to a level surface, above which there were a few indentations which looked like excellent places to put your feet while making your way to the next level.

They weren't. In fact, they were full of sand, and I slipped a few times and was soon paralyzed by the thought that, even if you strode confidently up the surface of the arch, there was always a chance that your feet could hit sand, you could lose your grip and you would descend in an uncontrolled manner with unpleasant consequences.

So if my husband hadn't been behind me to literally push me to the top of the arch, I'd still be there, whimpering, somewhat hysterical, held in the grip of unnecessary vertigo and making an embarrassing spectacle of myself.

Then my dad, who was viewing the whole operation with a bit of unease, tried to make the ascent, and he became stuck at the same place I had. I looked down and saw the same look of panic on his face I must have had five minutes before.

He decided to give up, head back down and return the same way, while we met him at the junction of the loop.

Later he told us that when he was very young, an older brother had made a practice of holding him by his feet over the rail of a staircase, thus instilling in my father a lifelong fear of heights.

I have no defining moment that explains why I can't bring myself to stand near the edge of a dropoff or look over a railing several stories high without envisioning myself losing my balance and pitching headfirst to the ground - which is why I don't usually approach even the highest and most supportive railings.

But it's good to know I have inherited a family trait and can't be held responsible for my chickenhearted ways.

Reporter Heidi Gaiser may be reached at 758-4431 or by e-mail at hgaiser@dailyinterlake.com