I might never conquer my fear of heights, but I'm trying one peak at a time

This is a First Person column by Eric Sparling, who lives in Fenwick, N.S. For more information on CBC's First Person stories, see the FAQ.

It was gloomy at the top of the peak. I was standing in a cloud, trying to choose between two terrible options: Hike down the way I'd clambered up or continue onto the trail I'd come to complete. My courage was failing. The brisk breeze on the ascent was intimidating, the green trees below so distant — a miniature, safe world I'd left behind for a foolish mission. 

Heights are hard for me. When I stand on the edge of a lethal fall, I fear I'm going to jump. Adrenaline surges and impending doom fills my brain and chokes reason: Keep it together, death is right there! Do. Not. Lose. Control.

Not pleasant, to say the least, and emblematic of a broader threat to my sense of autonomy: Am I just a horrible or unchecked impulse away from destruction? 

The fear also had a huge impact the first time I tried to climb a glaciated mountain. I enjoyed the idea of being the kind of person who climbs mountains — a brave man of action. So I flew to Banff in 2015 for a mountaineering course. While others clambered up summits, I huddled in a high valley separating two peaks. The glacier's crevasses were frightening and the peaks seemed too exposed. Even the hike to the hut was intimidating. I'm done with mountains, I'd thought.  

But I couldn't make peace with my failure even though my fear of heights was crippling. So, I persevered and kept trying. On two more trips to Banff, I achieved my humble objectives. A third trip, to Mt. Baker, was derailed by my fear. Guides had to coax me to the volcanic crater a thousand feet below the summit. 

And now failure threatened again.

Even watching a YouTube video of another hiker doing the infamous ridge connecting Pamola to Baxter Peak, the highest point of Maine's Katahdin massif, was uncomfortable. But I was determined to do the aptly-named Knife Edge as a solo traverse. A test to prove I would Not. Lose. Control.

I was in danger of failing the test before it even began. My confidence had evaporated.

I'd brought a walkie-talkie. My buddy was also on the mountain, but he'd taken a different route up to Baxter and was waiting at Katahdin's summit. I keyed the device, said stuff like, "I'm not gonna do it," and, "Give me a minute to think."

Three more people arrived at Pamola's crown. A man and two women, young, full of energy. Excited and joyful travellers from Quebec City. I told them I was challenging my fear of heights, but this goal felt like too much. The man said I could hike with them. His companions cheerfully agreed. 

A decision point. Forward on the fearful ridge? Or back down the hill, self-recrimination, and telling my wife and daughter I'd given up?

I accepted the trio's offer, then keyed my walkie: "F--k it, I'm going."

We had good weather for the Knife Edge, and in dry conditions the hand and foot placements are solid. But for a person afraid of freaking out, it's challenging. The drop-offs are big. The wrong move in the wrong place will kill you.

The ridge took me three hours. My companions stayed close — joking, singing and sometimes dancing in place. I did not have fun. My heart raced, my lungs gasped and every grip was a focused effort. Panic whispered in my ear when we paused for lunch, but I managed to keep the volume low. Then we were moving again and I refocused on not screwing up.

I made it across. I felt grateful to my friend for waiting for me and also to the three adventurers who guided me. The generosity of strangers saved my day. 

Thirteen hours hiking and 4,000 feet up the mountain later, and I'm still afraid of heights, of course. There are no magic cures. I feel conflicted about my failure to solo the Knife Edge. I'm glad I did the route but wish I was bolder. 

Pushing back against fear has made a difference, though: I now handle heights better. Taking measured, modest risks has improved other parts of my life, too. I'm better at tackling difficult things, and kinder to myself when I fall short. 

When my daughter was younger, she did judo. I used to tell her that everyone who stepped on the mat and wrestled beat everyone who didn't. With faltering resolve and a good dose of luck, I took the opportunity to step onto the Knife Edge. It wasn't a perfect performance, but it established one thing with certainty: when it comes to grappling with heights, I could kick the ass of "Banff Eric" circa 2015.

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