Canyon

I'm standing at the edge and looking down. It's deeper than I thought; steeper than I had anticipated. I'm ready, though, I'm pretty sure.

At least I think I am.

I hope.

I've been wanting this for a long time, now. I've been working out, getting in shape. I've been doing some heavy training, actually. I've checked my gear, over and over: the harnesses, the ropes, the chalk and the carabeeners. It looks to me like everything is here. I've had the maps spread out on my table more times than I can count, been planning my route, making sure I know where the crevices are deep and the overhangs more than I can handle. When I close my eyes, I can see it in my mind.

I'm prepared.

But everything is different on game day, you know? The moves that seemed so secure and well-practiced on the wall aren't quite the same on real rock. The muscles that have been getting stronger in the gym turn out not to be the ones that are needed to make it over to the next hold and down that face.

I know there will be some things I haven't foreseen; I have a feeling that they're still going to take me by surprise.

I wonder if I've made a mistake in some of my judgements, if maybe the ropes I have prepared aren't going to be enough for this climb, if the route that I've planned won't work once I'm on the face. I wonder if I'm in as good a shape as I want to believe I am.

I wonder if I'm more hesitant than I should be, or if maybe I'm not nearly cautious enough.

I wonder if I'm going to get half-way and become paralyzed with fear. I can see it already: too scared to take another step in the descent, too tired to get back up on my own. Stranded. That happens, sometimes, to people. I've heard about it, and it scares me.

But I know, at least, that I can't know. Not now; not really. I won't know if my hands have the strength I need until I have to swing across for my next foothold. I won't know if my heart has the courage I long to have until I choose to test it and let myself go.

But I hope.