You won't find me in high places

I've always been nervous around heights. I remember as a child going up in an observation towner somewhere in Michigan and while the view was spectacular, I was too scared to go near the railing.

When I was in junior high, I found out that I can't stand on the back row of choir risers without getting panicky -- and of course I always was one of the tallest people who always are the ones to stand on the back row. I negotiated my way down a step and, when I'm in a choir, have managed to stay there ever since.

The worst height panic attack I had was about 23 years ago on a trip to New York City with little seven-year-old Rachel and her father. We went up-up-up 70 stories to the top of Rockefeller Plaza and emerged from the elevator onto the roof which was surrounded by a simple wrought iron fence that was maybe four feet tall. Rach immediately made a dash for the edge, followed by her father. I was plastered against the side of the elevator structure, screaming, "Don't go near that edge! Don't go that far!"

Of course they ignored me and stood there admiring the view of Central Park while I stood there feeling my heart pounding in my throat and fighting the terrifying feeling that they were going to fall any moment. I'm not sure how many minutes I stood there braced against the wall, but I know that finally I took baby steps towards a bench that was near the elevator and in the middle of the roof, and sat down. Even now my stomach lurches, remembering the fear.

As I've gotten older, I think it's gotten worse. This summer as we drove over Trail Ridge Road in the Rocky Mountain National Park, I could not look at the road through parts of it -- it was too close. So I looked at the driver's side view, but the fear in the pit of my tummy was there, nibbling, and it was connected to the sure feeling that we were going to go off the edge and into the valley below.

And today we were exploring land near the Shasta-Trinity line and ended up on a very rough road that was -- oh -- maybe two feet wide. At least that's what it looked like from my view in Hagrid, our truck. I busied myself with the GPS, looking down, and not too far up the path, Tony decided to turn around. All I could see as he did a three-point turn (okay, it was more like four or five in that narrow space) was trees right in front of me and I was sure the wheels were on the very edge of the precipitous roadway, so I just sat back and closed my eyes and waited for it to slip off.

It didn't, obviously. I'm here, writing away on this post.

We eventually found a way to the road we were hunting, and while it was packed dirt and deeply rutted, it was fairly wide. There were almost no scary edges.

I don't do glass elevators well either. I turn my back to the view and study the control panel, or the texture of the doors.

It's fear of falling, I think, that frightens me so much. Not only for me, but for others I'm with. I can feel the fall, the terror of knowing that there is only one way out of it and it is going to be bad. It comes even on choir risers.

If there's a barrier there, something fairly sturdy and preferably opaque, I can handle it for a little sneak peak of views -- like at the Empire State Building, which has chest-high walls and wire over the openings. I'm okay in airplanes, even little ones (go figure). Very high, steep, glass-walled escalators give me pause, but I can do it if I stare straight ahead or at my feet (or find an enclosed elevator instead). But you won't find me gawking at views without something solid between me and that fall -- and I don't mean a vehicle door.

Guess I'm not a candidate for mountain climbing, hm.