DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

I am only slightly embarrassed to share with you the following irrational and complicated fear: I am deathly afraid of being suspended far above the ground by a cable. Or, more specifically, I’m deathly afraid of falling, especially after having been temporarily and unsuccessfully suspended far above the ground by a cable.

This is not a fear of heights. I ride elevators and airplanes without issue. I peer over the edge from roofs of tall buildings, peaks of mountains, and bridges with no problem. I’ve ridden up the Gateway Arch many times, leaned heavily on the thin metal walls 630 feet above the plaza, and felt the structure sway in the wind. And I’ve even ridden the aerial tram at Sterling Vineyards a half-dozen times with barely a quiver.

On the other hand, I quit a snow-skiing class after only a half-day because the instructor expected me to ride a chair lift that went about a mile into the air. Yeah, right!

And I nearly squeezed fingernail dents into the metal seat on the Kölner Seilbahn, the sky-tram that lifts riders way too high over the Rhine River in Cologne, Germany, in tiny cars that are much too small to die in if you know what I mean. This virtual tour only hints at my pain. (browsing tip: “nächstes Bild” means “next picture”)

So it was with some trepidation that I agreed to ride the Jasper Tramway, an aerial tram up the side of Whistlers Mountain, in Jasper National Park. Face your fears, I muttered to myself behind nervous laughter and transparently false bravado, as all the blood drained from my head to leave me dizzily contemplating the climb of packed tramcars into the afternoon sky. I had a long time to contemplate, too — the line ahead of us was the season’s longest. I stood there for an hour, watching a dozen groups of 30 people ascend to maddening heights over the mountainside, imagining grisly deaths from falling and the snap of the 8800-foot cable whipping down the mountain, clearcutting acres of old-growth spruce and perhaps beheading a few hundred tourists as well.

I knew I could handle it — really, all you have to do is stand there. Like I said, it’s an irrational fear, not that that knowledge keeps my pulse steady when I’m equally certain I’m about to plunge two hundred feet into the asphalt parking lot. If I can walk on fire, I remember thinking, I can certainly handle this.

And so I did. The ascent was uneventful, and I arrived safe and sane at the top, breathing normally, with all my fingernails intact. It was, after all that, a non-event.

Queueing up for the ride back down the mountain, I was proud to have no residual fear. I even planned to film the descent through an open window in the car. Yet while I waited, I shifted the video camera from one hand to the other to notice a palm-shaped pool of nervous sweat on the side of the case — a wet handprint that belied my newfound nonchalance. Maybe I’m about to die after all! I thought in a moment of panic.