Ziplining: Or How to Confront Your Fear in the Rain Forest

Megan, ziplining with the boot on her broken foot

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Ziplining is  advertised all over the mountainous regions of Costa Rica, but we had heard it was best in Monteverde – the cloud forest – an area at about the same altitude as Denver, 5000 feet.  So it was on our list of things to do.

The afternoon we arrived in Santa Elena, we made  a reservation for ziplining for the next morning. We would be picked up at 10:30 by a van from eXtreme Canopy. I didn’t particularly care for that word  EXTREME. There were plenty of other ziplining companies in town, why not choose one that just said, oh, you know, canopy flying or ziplining for the timid?  But Megan, the thrill seeker of the family, insisted we could all do it and would be fine.

I made the mistake of going online that night to check out exactly what was entailed in ziplining. And then I had the rest of the night to imagine myself in a harness, snapped onto one of fourteen cables that extended over the rainforest canopy, several hundred feet above ground. eXtreme canopy boasted the longest zipline in the region – nearly a kilometer long. And did I mention the Superman part of the  adrenaline rush? This is where you wear a chest harness, are snapped onto the cable facing the ground,  and race through the air with your arms extended at your sides and your feet cradled in little cuffs of rope.

Even the next morning when the van picked us up, I still was pretending I could do this.  Most of the people in the van were young – early twenties, Megan’s age, from all over the world, and were really psyched for the ziplining.  After a ride over a really bumpy road, we arrived at the facility.

More vans were pouring into the facility and we all lined up at the desk inside to pay and sign a waiver – you know, if the cable breaks and you fall to your death, your heirs  won’t sue the facility. Not exactly the kind of thing a paranoid person like myself wanted to read.  I passed on the Superman part of it, saved five bucks.

Then we filed into another room to be fitted for our harnesses. The guy who fitted me with a harness and helmet was super friendly, asked where I was from and had I ever ziplined before? By this time, my throat was so dry with fear I could barely speak. “Listen, is there any way to slow it down once I’m on the longest line?”

“Slow it down? No, no, no way, there are people behind you.” Then he gave me an odd look. “Why would you want to slow it down?”

We trekked into the information area in the woods, where one of the guys explains how it works: right hand behind the pulley, not in front of it; squeeze to slow self down, but don’t jerk on the cable;  if you start spinning,  squeeze gently and lean to one side. At this point, I looked at Rob, then Megan, and said, “I’m outta here.”

I returned to the building, divested myself of the harness and helmet, got a refund, and spent the next two hours talking life and politics with a young woman from Barcelona, Spain. She was four months pregnant,  worked as a nurse in a nursing home, had had her share of mystical experiences, and referred to Bush as “un assasino” – an assassin. I knew I was in good company.

Rob and Megan raved about their experiences afterward and I thought a lot about that.  What was there to be afraid of? Thousands of people had done this. It wasn’t like I had to jump out of an airplane. And wasn’t there a possibility that I could use ziplining in a novel? To do that, I would have to experience it.

So on our last day in Monteverde, we headed out again, with a different company, to zipline.  I still felt some of that same fear, the dryness in the back of my throat, a pounding in my head. But I thought of Megan’s two skydiving experiences, thought of DJan, who used to teach skydiving, thought of  everything that could go right – instead of everything that could go wrong.

One of the drawbacks of being a novelist, at least for the kinds of books I write, is the what if scenario that always lies at the nightmare end of the spectrum. What if the cables break, what if the child is abducted, what if the alien ship lands, what if, what if… So I shifted my thinking to what if it all goes perfectly and I love it?

There must have been fifty people in this group, all of them much younger than Rob and me. Their excitement was infectious. I climbed the stairs with Rob and Megan to the first platform. I suddenly wished I had my camera. I had even left my cell phone behind.

I was relieved the first cable was short. Two hundred feet, if that. I could do it. One platform to the next and there was a guy on the other end who would unhook me from one cable and hook me up to the next. I didn’t have to do anything except remember to place my hands correctly and bend my knees and cross my ankles.

Off went Rob. The cable didn’t break, he didn’t spin, he was racing toward the platform – and was laughing!

Then it was my turn. I made it to the second platform intact. That was my primary thought. I did it. Then as the guy connected me to the next cable, that dryness returned to my throat. This sucker was long. “How long is it?” I asked.

The young man laughed. “Not long enough,” he replied, then nudged me forward, off the platform, and I was airborne.

The wind sang, the smells of the rain forest rushed through me, the trees two or three hundred feet below me swayed like hula dancers,  the sky loomed above me,  vast, bluer than blue. And for brief moments, a bird soared just above me, as if celebrating with me, cheering me on. Hey, it’s not so bad up here, right? Pretty cool, isn’t it?

And so it went for fourteen cables, each one longer, higher, faster, and I loved it.  And I especially loved that my fear had dissolved. I plan to do this again, maybe even try the Superman part of it.

During the periods on the ground, we met others in our group – kids Megan’s age who traveled on a financial shoestring. That evening, Megan went out with a group of young women her age from Australia and returned to our cabin raving about the glories of backpacking around Central and South America.

I’m beginning to think that fear, at least this kind of physical fear, is an illusion, an atavistic throwback to some other life. Megan thinks my next step is jumping out of an airplane.

Well, maybe. Just maybe. Big maybe.