Zipline

It's been a while since I've written anything. I mean, anything. So today I'm posting something Rachel wrote for her college class. (She's enrolled in English 1010 at USU for both college and high school credit.) Rachel is an awesome writer! Also, she's braver than I am. 

Zipline

The zipline. My third year, and this is definitely the scariest thing I’ve decided to do at girls’ camp.

We’ve just finished a challenge that I already can’t remember the name of— something about sharks?— and now we’re preparing for the zipline. Unlike the other challenges in this challenge course, the zipline is optional; still, everyone except my sister, Jessica, is going to do it. I’m probably foolish for deciding to when I’m not sure I really want to, but I know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t, so here I am. Just this once, and then I’ll never have to go on a zipline ever again.

I leave Jessica sitting on the bench under the canvas pavilion at the edge of the zipline clearing and go to put on a harness and helmet. My nerves build up like static electricity as I watch the others go, one at a time, up the rope ladder, across the bridge of planks strung together with rope, and down the zipline. At the end, a pair of missionaries bring a ladder to help them down. The most comforting part of this process appears to be the purple line attached to the harness that another pair of missionaries holds on to in case anyone falls—and one girl does, so at least I know now that the purple line really works.

I carefully watch the process repeat, making sure that I’ll know exactly what to do when it’s my turn, and try not to think too much about how the ladder is taller than our cabin by more than my height, and the empty space between each plank on the bridge looks like it must be at least a foot wide.

Then, before I know it— and definitely before I’m mentally prepared for what I’m about to do— it’s my turn. I take a deep breath to little effect, then step toward the rope ladder. It turns out to be easier to climb than a lot of the other girls had made it look, although my feet keep getting caught in the holes as I try to move up.

The wind picks up suddenly when I’m only about halfway up the ladder by my reckoning. I cling to the rough ladder and feel the reassuring tug of the purple safety line attached to my harness; the wind doesn’t stop, so I continue upward, more nervously, not really hearing the encouragement others are calling to me. Almost there, I reassure myself, tentatively continuing in spite of the swaying ladder.

I refocus and swiftly ascend the remaining feet of the ladder, concentrating too hard on climbing to look down and get scared. The triumph I feel at reaching the top is quickly squashed as I realize that getting from the ladder to the first plank of the bridge is going to be a lot harder than it looked when the others were doing it.

Before I can think about it too long, I grip the safety line and scramble up onto the plank, half-crouching for a second before cautiously straightening up. The bridge stretches in front of me, and I’m pretty sure the empty space between each narrow plank has at least doubled. Despite the encouragement of the woman across the bridge, there to attach me to the line once I make it across, my legs are shaking so much that the entire bridge is shaking, too. Not helpful.

I’m more scared than I can remember being in a long, long time, and it’s all I can do to stare across the bridge, watching it shake in time with my trembling. Finally, I muster up my courage and force myself onto the next plank, wishing I could feel the safety line better to be sure I’m not going to fall. I step forward again, twice, three times, faster and faster until I’m across the stupid bridge. I don’t hear the cheering of the others and I barely register anything the woman on the nest says to me. I just breathe fast, in and out, trying to slow my racing heart.

The woman unhooks me from the purple safety line— a fact I try not to dwell on, because if I think too much about how there’s nothing from stopping me falling off this five-foot by five-foot platform of wood… I’m sure I must be stiff as a board as the woman attaches me to the zipline itself.

I look down the line, then down at the ground. There is no way I can just step off of the nest into empty air. I feel like I’m standing there for ages before the woman offers to let me slide off from her knees, rather than having to step off myself. Gratefully, too terrified to be embarrassed, I accept her offer.

My heart actually skips a beat when I slide off the nest, and for one terrifying moment I wonder if I’m actually attached to the zipline, or if I’m just going to hit the ground thirty feet below. Then my harness catches with a jolt and I’m zipping down toward the trees at the other end of the clearing.

It’s exhilarating, terrifying and exciting, the air whipping past me and the trees rushing up to greet me on my way down. It only lasts a few seconds, but it makes up for every moment of fear that came before it; I wish it could last longer… especially since I worry that I might run into the trees at the end.

I don’t, though: the missionaries catch me before I can even be stopped by the end of the line itself, and they bring the ladder beneath me before unhooking me from the zipline. The moment my feet touch the solid surface of the ladder, my knees set to shaking again, back and forth like woodpeckers, so that I can’t climb down. Without a shred of grace, I awkwardly wobble down the ladder with the help of the missionaries— I overhear one of them commenting something to their companion, but the only word I catch for sure is “adrenaline”.

No kidding.