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During our recent family expedition to the “Winter Trail” (which was essentially an obstacle course in the dark, powered by approximately 47 million aggressively cheerful twinkle lights), we encountered only one small problem.
Gravity. And height. And suspended bridges. Okay, so more than one problem, but definitely all related.
We were well into the course when I realized the return route involved crossing a bridge dangling alarmingly high in the treetops. Most of the family had already breezed across before Willie and I stepped onto it. Let’s just say the younger generation learned some exciting new vocabulary when we reached the end and I discovered—surprise!—there was a second suspended bridge waiting for us.
At that point, I did not hesitate. I launched myself onto the next bridge with the speed and determination of a woman who knew exactly what would happen if she paused long enough to think. Everyone was stunned by my sudden decisiveness. But I knew. I knew.
The thing is, I didn’t always fear heights. As a child, I lived on the highest diving board. I climbed trees higher than the neighborhood boys. My best friend and I regularly picnicked on her roof like it was perfectly normal behavior. As a young adult, I even went skydiving—more than once!
Somewhere along the way, however, my bravery packed up quietly and moved out without leaving a forwarding address. We discovered this unfortunate development while traveling in Ireland. At Bunratty Castle, we decided to climb one of the towers to admire the view. Halfway up the narrow, twisting staircase, I had a full-blown panic attack. I could not go up. I could not go down. I could only plaster myself against the stone wall while people attempted to squeeze past me in a medieval staircase designed for exactly one human and zero emotional breakdowns.
Most people were kind. Some were … less so. And one voice with a clear British accent muttered, “Stupid Americans.” Not my proudest travel moment.
Eventually, through sheer willpower and humiliation, I made it to the top, where I was perfectly fine—because the walls were high and my brain could pretend that I was safe. But then came the descent. The only way I could manage it was with Willie leading me down while I kept my eyes tightly shut, inch by inch. The human traffic jam behind us grew to include multiple nationalities and at least three distinct tones of irritation. I am fairly certain that if we’d moved any slower, we’d have needed embassy intervention for an international incident.
So yes—when I hit those bridges on the Winter Trail, I moved with urgency, purpose, and what can only be described as survival instinct.
Because some people stroll through magical twinkle-light wonderlands… and some of us just sprint through them powered by a healthy respect for gravity coupled with unadulterated fear.