By Ellen Schecter

I’m on my hands and knees on the rocky slope of a French Alp, frozen in fear. Sharp, brittle shale cuts into my palms and kneecaps. My heart jackhammers in my chest. Go! Stand up! I command myself, but my body refuses to move. Tears of terror—and humiliation—fill my eyes; I’m determined not to let them spill over. I’m sixty-four years old and right now I’m not sure I’ll live to see sixty-five.

It's Day Three of a ten-day, 112-mile hike around Mont Blanc, tackling the Alps of France, Italy and Switzerland. Teri*, a friend of mine from work, invited my husband Greg and me to join her on this escapade. Eight strangers and a local guide complete our group. This day in mid-August is hot and mostly sunny, with white wisps of clouds gradually appearing in the cobalt sky above us. We’re hiking up to a col, a saddle, high in the French Alps.

I wasn’t afraid of heights until I reached my thirties. It came on slowly, worsening over time, until suddenly hijacking me while driving up a steep mountain road or hiking a high, narrow trail. I said yes to the Tour du Mont Blanc for the challenge and the adventure, fear of heights be damned. Our tour’s website stressed fitness for climbing and descending, and while I’d become athletic relatively later in life, I knew I could do the distance, and assumed I could manage the terrain. Plus, it was the Alps! Why say no to that?

So far on this hike, I’ve pushed through my fear three times. On Day One, I’d navigated a steep narrow “trail” I could barely see and forced myself to climb an unexpected iron ladder hammered into the steep side of a mountain. On Day Two, I’d confronted a worse surprise: a long swinging bridge suspended high over a canyon. Refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead at those in our group on the other side who were encouraging the rest of us, I made it across. But on this day, the mantra I’m relying on, Feel the fear and do it anyway, isn’t working.

I hate myself for being scared, for my body betraying me. I know I should just put one foot in front of the other. But all I see and hear is grey-black shale kicking up dust as it clatters down and off the mountain, convincing me I’ll follow. Which is why I’m now on my hands and knees, petrified, poles askew at my wrists on the rocky ground.

Most of the group are further up the trail. Surely I’ve been stuck here for an hour, but Greg tells me no, only a few minutes. He stands above me to my right, then moves below me on my left. He speaks to me reassuringly, patiently, but my reptilian brain is in charge now. I can’t process new information, like his logic. Greg reaches out his hand.

“Just take my hand honey, I’ve got you.”

“Don’t touch me!” I screech. My fingers are talons, gripping the shale and dirt. I desperately want to grab his hand, to get off this slope, but my fear holds me prisoner.

“It’s not that steep. Day One was a lot worse, and you did that fine.” Greg’s voice is calm, soothing, but he isn’t helping. Maybe it’s not steep to you, but it sure as hell is to me, I snarl silently. How dare he be so not scared of heights, tromping around on this damned Alp, ignoring the shale skittering past him.

More time drags on. Now, I’m not only terrified and angry, I’m worried that I’m keeping the group waiting, and falling further behind. You can’t spend the night here on this Alp, I scold myself. Get. Up. Instead, with small shallow breaths, I ease myself back onto my haunches.

My friend Teri, our group’s caboose, trudges up behind us, huffing and puffing. At least someone from our group is still behind us.

“Are you okay?” she asks, concern creasing her forehead.

“No. I’m scared.”

Teri looks from me to Greg and back.

“I’ll stay with you,” she offers. “Greg can go on ahead. We’ll catch up.”

“Are you sure?” Greg looks skeptical.

We both nod. Greg holds my gaze.

“Yes. Please go,” I answer shortly.

“Okay. See you soon.” He turns and strolls oh-so-easily up the trail. I hate and love him all at once.

Nearby, Teri rests on her hiking poles. She distracts me, gossiping about the others in our group. I half-listen, thinking about other times I’ve felt defeated. In my personal life. My career. Athletic training. How did I manage? What did I do? I’ve never let anyone tell me I can’t do something; why am I letting my Self tell me that now? As I reflect, my fear and self-hatred begin receding, edged out by the stubborn determination to succeed that has served me so many times before. It spreads from my heart to my gut to my limbs, armoring me. No retreat, no surrender, I think, with a nod to Bruce Springsteen. I can do this. Still, I rise, I think, channeling Maya Angelou. With a deep shuddering breath, I push myself up with my poles, standing tall. Puffing my cheeks, I blow out my fear along with the air.

“Okay, dammit. Let’s go.”

And we do.

After retiring in 2020 from a career as an organizational consultant and executive coach, Ellen Schecter and her husband Greg Boiles moved from Oakland, CA to New Mexico. Ellen spends as much time as possible outside hiking and cycling, learning about New Mexico, and traveling when possible. She is learning flamenco dance and working on a memoir. 

*this person’s name has been changed.