All Rileyed Up

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Wordless Wednesday )

“They were new dogs, utterly transformed by the harness.”

“He wanted… to have the leadership. It was his by right. He had earned it and he would not be content with less.”

“Mush on, poor sore feets,” the driver encouraged them as they tottered down the main street of Skaguay.

“She was pretty and soft, but she weighed one hundred twenty pounds—a lusty last straw to the load dragged by the weak and starving animals.”

“With the aurora borealis flaming cold overhead, of the stars leaping in the frost dance, and the land numb and frozen under its pall of snow, this song of the huskies might have been the defiance of life, only it was pitched in minor key, with long-drawn wailings and half-sobs, and was more the pleading of life, the articulate travail of existence.”

Oh, Jack, if you could see us now.

I may not be afraid of heights, but something about hanging 800-plus feet in the air from a cable is enough to make me hold my breath.

Here’s how the Rainforest Canopy Adventure and Zipline Expedition is described in the brochure: “Envision the thrill of gliding through the top of the rich rainforest canopy along a series of cables suspended between tall spruce, hemlock and cedar trees, all bordering the magnificent Tongass National Forest.” Sounds cool, right? So I sign up, we ride out to some remote cabin-type place, get all geared out and go through the ins and outs of how to zipline. Then they put us on the ‘practice’ zipline, aka the short one.

My trusty guide notices my apprehension as I step up for my turn.

“You nervous?” he says.

I nod.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I don’t think you’re normal if you’re not nervous on your first time.”

I nod again, knowing full well he probably repeats those words all day long. I wonder if the guides get together at the end of the day and laugh/agonize over who had the most nervous tourists (eg: one of our guides got kicked in the stomach by someone who didn’t brake in time).

My guide hooks me up to the cable, and we play what I consider to be the zipline version of Simon Says: “Stand on your tiptoes” ; “Step off the platform” ; “Sit back” ; “Lift your legs up.” At this point, I am supposed to zip; however, when I lift my legs, the feeling of my weight being transferred to the cable above me feels so weird, my legs instinctively try to go back to the ground. As a result, my feet drag on the platform when I should already be zip-zip-zipping along. I am mortified at having messed up on my first zipline (my friend happily dogs me about this the rest of the week).

Because I am now nervous about dragging my feet, for the next zipline and every one following it, I do not just lift my legs – I do a little jump. It’s my way of saying “Here I am, Mr. Cable! Take me!” The approach works. For the first two ziplines, I do not look around. I only look to the destination platform where the other guide stands, motioning to me when it is time to brake.

I finally realize there is an entire rainforest below me, and wonder how I ever ignored it. There are tree peaks. Eagles (from afar, so I do not scream). Raindrops falling into streams and brush and thicket. And though I have seen the redwoods and sequoias of northern California, these trees can hold their own, tall Ent-like creatures capable of withstanding hurricane-force winds (such winds result in the younger branches curling as they grow, giving some branches a sheen like twirled hair).

We arrive at the big “ta-da!” zipline, referred to as “Ben’s Revenge.” For the love of all my nerves, why do they include words like “Revenge” in their names? Couldn’t they have named it the Happy Sunshine Zipline That Everyone Loves? They tell us we must do the cannonball position on this zipline in order to gain enough speed to make the distance. I am getting harnessed in. My guide chats with me about my life outside of the tour, asking me questions about what I do, where I live. I answer her, but my heart is not in the conversation. My heart is beating inside of me, and I’d like to keep it that way, because I am looking down from the platform of Ben’s Revenge and watching the aforementioned pretty raindrops. They are not as picturesque now, as they fall down… down… down… and disappear from my sight before they even hit the ground. A realization settles in: I’m high.

“Okay. Time to go,” my guide says.

I do not budge.

I continue to watch the raindrops, wondering if they are making it to the ground or landing on the random tree needle or leaf. I wonder if said raindrop might then get blown off, and later land on the ground. I am intently curious about the lives of every single raindrop falling around me, and I do not want to move because, well, I’M HIGH.

I’M HIGH I’M HIGH I’M HIGH I’M HIGH I’M HIGH I’M HIGH I’M HIGH

“Are you ready?” she says.

“No.” I let go of the cables. I re-grip them. I let go again. I need to stop looking down. I need to breathe.

“Are you… okay?” she says. I wonder if she can detect the pallor beneath my sunglasses and helmet. The little voice inside of me laughingly whispers in my ear, “Dude, what are you doing? There’s nowhere else you can go anyway. How will you ever go skydiving if you can’t even handle this?” I consider meeting my voice one day and punching it, and then realize I am having fantasies about kicking my own ass. Wow. Maybe I am high. I laugh a little and realize that I am breathing again.

I smile at my guide, grip my cables, do my lift/jump and as anchorman Ron Burgundy once said, “Cannonball!”

The air whips by, and the raindrops – innocuous splitter splatters when I’m standing still – spray my face. I look down. It is a blur of trees, a blur of green. Like I took a paint brush, dipped it into all the hues and shades of a Crayola green-only paint set and then put it on a paper and spun it around and around. The sensations of cold air and water die away as I become lost in the many shades of green. I think of how natural and untouched the world appears (even with our suspension cables hovering over it).

I’m glad I jumped into this, I think to myself. Glad to jump into this silent green wondrous beauty, brimming with life I have only begun to see.

My guide on the destination platform starts motioning for me to brake. My hand promptly goes up to the zipline, I slow myself down, and stop.

“How was it?” he says.

“Exhilarating.”

Later that night, I go through the things I purchased in town. One of my goods is a pamphlet of poems called “The Yukon Poems of Robert W. Service.” I bought it because we will be in the Yukon the next day, touring the White Pass. I sit down and read the poems. One of them, “The Spell of the Yukon,” ends with these lines:

“It’s the forests where the silence has lease;
It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.”

One hundred years later, I know exactly what he means.

This post part of Scribbit’s Monthly Write Away Contest.
Edited: It won!