The view of the mountains from our sunrise hike destination.

I don’t consider myself a particularly brave person.  In fact, I’d go so far as to call myself a total chicken.  I’ve never seen this as a huge detriment…I’ve always figured that my sense of fear is simply a highly developed survival mechanism.  Call it intuition.  Call it instinct.  If these were prehistoric times, I’d be the first to jump from my bed (or hut) and just feel that danger was coming.  I’m pretty sure I’d save my village.  However…these aren’t prehistoric times.  No predators in my neighborhood last time I checked.  My world is a ridiculously safe one.  And so lately I wonder…when does my “fear factor” stop protecting, and start inhibiting? 

My sense of fear goes way back.  As a child, I hated ghost stories because I believed the ghost stories, and felt (literally) haunted for weeks afterwards.  (Frankly, I’m still trying to get over The Sixth Sense, and I was 18 when that came out.)  And then there was Disneyland.  When the ride Splash Mountain opened, I took one look at the horrifyingly steep “drop” at the end of the ride, and decided there wasn’t a soul who could drag me into one of those imitation log boats.  (To this day, I own a t-shirt that says “I rode Splash Mountain!”  Yes, I’m not only a scaredy-cat, I’m apparently a liar too.)

Since that trip to the happiest (and scariest) place on earth, nothing has quieted my overactive fear mechanism.  And so the upshot of all this fear—rides, heights, ghosts—is avoidance.  For as long as I can remember, I tend to steer clear of scary movies, and the feeling of freefall.  In college, I famously pronounced, “I have no desire to be in touch with my adrenaline.”  And like I said, this never presented much of a problem.  But recently, my fear aversion tactics were challenged. 

On our recent trip to Chile, I was forced to confront some slightly more adult fears.  Airplane turbulence.  The absence of leafy greens for a solid week.  And then the kicker…our sunrise hike.  It sounds pleasant enough, but let me tell you—I was convinced that danger lurked.  It was the final day of our 6-day trek, and my husband was adamant that we reach a rather famous (and very rocky) lookout point by dawn.  I thus deduced that we’d be hiking an unknown trail for 2 hours in the DARK.  We discussed it over dinner the night before.  And sitting over my plate of Chilean lamb and mashed potatoes, I heard my voice catch in my throat as I tearfully asked my husband, “Do you really think it will be okay?”  No matter how he responded, I was determined to be totally—unreasonably—freaked.  Loads of people (and guided groups for that matter) do the exact same hike, but I wasn’t convinced.  I saw cliffs.  Injuries.  Myself airlifted out of a national park.    And then something odd happened…

We went anyway.  Despite my fear, I went.  For my husband (and him only), I hiked that trail in the dark.  And it was…drumroll please…

What I would have missed, had I succumbed to my fears.

Totally fine.  The moon was bright.  The trail was easy to follow.  And when I managed to find a moment free of fear, I noticed the clear sky, and the scattered pattern of stars.  The mountains became peaceful silhouettes, instead of looming death-traps.  We made the hike slowly and carefully, and finally found ourselves at the lookout point with probably 30 other death-defying(?) hikers.   It was beautiful.  Fun even.  And yes…also a little scary.  And I don’t regret it for one minute. 

Later that morning (post hike), I sipped my nasty instant coffee and came to a realization.  Sometimes…my “intuitive” sense of fear is nothing more than my overactive imagination.  Much of the time, my vivid images of dangerous consequences and fatal injuries are simply unrealistic.  And so I wonder.  I wonder what I lose by allowing anxiety to wash over me, filling my brain with images of tragedy rather than beauty or excitement.  I wonder what I miss.  How many sunrises? 

You’ll never see me sky-diving, and I’ll never enjoy being scared.  But every so often, it might serve me well to push aside the fear in my head, and see what happens—for real. 

AUTHOR’S NOTE:
In case you’re wondering…by the end of our trip, I was injured exactly 3 times.  Brace yourselves for the following brushes with death:
1.  On Day 3 of our trek, I fell down ONE STEP on the deck of our private cabin
2.  On Day 4 of our trek, I SLIPPED in the shower and acquired a healthy-sized bruise
3.  On the 5^th and final day, my nose began to peel as the result of a SUNBURN

As you can see, despite my worst fears, all injuries were sustained due to stupidity or general clumsiness.  

Are you brave?  Or a total chicken like me?  Do you like the rush of adrenaline, or avoid it like the plague?  And when have you done something that scared you, and found that it paid off in the end?