splish splash

For an American in the Alps, there are some strange things going on here.

My experiences climbing the Via Ferrata route and in the canyon yesterday have lead to some very interesting and amusing conversations with my roomates and friends - mostly starting with me giggling with glee and musing over the fact that most of this stuff is totally unheard of in the states.

I equate the canyoning, like the Via Ferrata, to playing a role in a Mission Impossible movie or the next 007 flick (our intense, not-too-American-friendly guide was quite amused and charmed when I expressed this to him). Tromping through water, descending down waterfalls, jumping, sliding, rappeling... all while dressed for the 1980s in funky old wetsuits and harnesses with diapers, er, I mean wetsuit butt-protectors. Which I managed to break by the end of the day. Guess I used it too much.

So what, you ask, is this strange activity? Well, after I got over the initial amusement of the ridiculosity of our outfits, I was thoroughly amused to find that, much as we would find a bolted climb with belay/rappel stations here or in the States, here, unlike in the States, there exist bolted canyon routes. It was a cock-your-head-to-the-side-squint-your-eyes-and-scratch-your-temple moment, for sure.

And so we slid into our first pool and started the descent. Using 8-plates and static lines, we rappeled down waterfalls of varying heights, the highest being probably around 20-25 meters (I'm a terrible gauge of height). At this one (Mom - skip the next few paragraphs) there was a ledge a few meters below the top where we could jump into the pool. I had jumped from a little ledge at the end of the rappel, maybe 5-7 meters, nothing much compared to the other, and that had been plenty exciting for me. But thinking of my unconquerable fear of falling in climbing, I grasped the muddy rope to pull myself up the path to the higher ledge, clipped into the static lines set up for the approach, and peeked around the corner to make sure the coast was clear for my jump.

Darn. Coast clear.

Hands shaking, I grasped the line and unclipped my safety lines. I don't think I can possibly describe the feeling of the jump, but I'll try... As I stepped off the ledge, an overwhelming physical sensation of "lettting-go" took over, which feels like fear wrapped in relaxation. I had succeeded in ignoring my fear to make that committment, but as I kept falling and falling, it crept back - and mid-air there was nothing I could do about it. I closed my eyes and prepared for impact, and as the seconds passed, the fear started to take over my physical state and I started shaking.

Splash.

Sink.

Float.

Neoprene cork.

It feels like a lease on life - mind you, mostly perceived as such, because the risk is very carefully calculated and managed (I will discuss in a later blog the interesting contrasts with our guides here and similar trips in the states). My first emotions were of relief and disappointment. The former logical, the latter surprising. I thought for a moment about what was causing my miss-matched emotions. I had closed my eyes and let the fear back. That's not why I jumped - I jumped to escape those emotions. After several minutes contemplating, I decided to jump again, and this time I was going to discover how to relax in that state - for real. But as I grasped that muddy rope again, Manu, our guide, intercepted me and said it was time to finish the descent; but that we'd be back and have another chance.

The last sequence of falls ran right under an old bridge. Click - mental photograph. The vibrant green of the trees, the soft light filtering through, the stillness, a time unknown and unknowing, strange black foam people with red plastic heads, blue butts and a strange assortment of footwear - wtf?

It was a moment where my vision stalked away from me and saw more than just the assortment of images assembled on my retina. I grinned at the thought of a farmer in the 1800s crossing this bridge on his horse and cart with us below him...

And so we reached the cars again, and busted out our lunches. I tell ya, walking down a canyon and splashing around in water can sure take it out of you!

We ran the canyon two more times - and I got two more jumps in. And as I had hoped, with each jump it got easier, and much more fun. Each jump made me want the next even more. Strange how adaptable the human state can be - something once practically paralyzingly frightening can become fun. It's all a matter of perspective, I suppose. And realizing the difference between real and perceived risks, the levels inbetween, and how to control them, scrutinize. I had felt apprehensive before the second run - relieved at the success of the first run, but nervous for the next. At this point I understood only a little of what we had done - much as it is when you first start climbing and still don't trust the gear or really have a grasp on how or why it all works. I wasn't sure the second run was worth it - at this point I thought only of what could go wrong, and having already done the run, having already seen it all, I would have preferred to go elsewhere and see something new.

But I recognized this as a form of fear, and decided to push past it. Much as I don't like to repeat difficult climbs (perhaps the fear grows knowing after one run the exact spots where you might fall, expecting or suspecting, and fearing), but knowing how valuable it can be to do just that, I knew it would be reallly good for me. And I had enough faith in my guides to let go a little.

And it was exactly that - a combination of fear and apprehension of something I didn't understand fully. After the second and third runs, I was so much more comfortable and having so much more fun. It's the same as that jump - you begin to adapt, understand, and enjoy.

There's something to be learned here, but I'm not going to push it.