Last summer, when visiting with our friends Dave and Lynn at their cabin in Invermere, Rick and I were propositioned with the opportunity to go try a zipline for the first time.

“I was thinking we could…” Any sentence that starts like that from our friend Lynn is a guarantee that she has “plans” – and we have learned to be game and to follow her lead.

On the drive over to Valley Zipline Adventures where we would be hanging our lives out to dry over a mountain gorge, I made the mistake of bringing up the classic early-90s-mountain-climbing-Sly-Stallone movie Cliffhanger. I like to do fun things like that. It’s how I roll. (Can anyone say foreshadowing?)

Specifically, I was referring to the opening scene when (oops, spoiler alert!) someone doesn’t quite make it.

Actually, she plummets to her death.

Some might attribute it to nervous energy. I mean, I was all-in, good-to-go BUT: riding on a zipline does require a modicum of trust. However, I don’t really get scared unless I sense imminent bodily harm. (Like the last time I went skiing and the black runs were very icy and I cried all the way down the mountain. Twice. But that’s another story.)

No, I think it has to do more with agency. If I’m the one driving the bus, so to speak, or propelling myself down a mountain, per se, then my life is in my hands. If I suddenly feel I have no control, then I become a basket case. (Well, maybe another example would be if my husband was driving the bus. Can anyone say back-seat driver?)

But in the case of the zipline, it was no different to me than getting into the seat of a roller coaster at Disneyland and getting strapped in for the ride, which I will happily, gleefully do. (Again and again, please.) I completely trust Mr. Disney’s engineers and safety-checkers. They like taking my money, so they’re not gonna kill me. It’s not good for repeat business.

Maybe it was because my friend Lynn and I were enjoying a chat. Maybe I just think that if Rick listens to the instructions, I will also automatically know what to do. Maybe it was that our trial mini-runs suspended 6 feet above the ground were easy-peasy. “I got this,” I thought to myself.

It’s a bit nerve-wracking, standing on the edge of a very high platform, to will yourself to jump off it, even though I was, so to speak, strapped in for the ride. But that was the only way for the ride to start so, leaving Rick behind, I followed after Dave and then Lynn, not wanting to be dead last. (Did I really just say dead?)

Heights don’t bother me. In fact, they exhilarate me. As I was skimming along the cable for the first time, I made sure to look down and really enjoy the experience. But then the next platform that I was headed for came in close and I heard, “Grab the rope, Bon!”

Rope? What rope?

Needless to say, dear reader, you can guess what happened next. That’s right: gravity. Not gravity downwards, but backwards along the cable. I had missed catching the rope that would secure my landing and my friends watched me now move away from them, going slower and slower, until I stopped somewhere in between where I left and where I was going.

Thankfully, our guide, who was standing waiting with Dave and Lynn, called out helpfully, “This is good! Now you can all see how we rescue someone!”

It’s NEVER been my life’s ambition to be a cautionary tale for anyone. But the fact was, I was stuck until my cheerful guide came sliding back along the cable to begin the arm-over-arm task of hauling me to the safety of the next platform. Which took a little bit of time.

Hanging from a cable several hundred feet above the ground inspires several thought processes: admiration for the quality craftsmanship of the German-made straps and carabiners that were holding me up; humility for my life held literally in suspension; and wonder at what the hell I was thinking when I didn’t listen to the directions for landing my first zip.

One of the best things about getting older is that I have learned to stop taking myself so seriously. There was a time that I would have been humiliated at having missed the rope, at having to be rescued. I might have cried. I still hate to put anyone out, but the fact was, I had paid for this adventure and part of that included being taken care of by my guide. Even if I didn’t listen to him.

I used to let things like this hold me back – the idea that i would look stupid (Look at me! I’m the only one who screwed up!) or unattractive (Does this harness make me look fat?) or incompetent (She can’t even catch a bloody rope!) But one thing life has taught me is that, for the most part, everyone else is too concerned with themselves to really care what I’m doing.

Put another way, it’s just not that big a deal. Sure, everyone had to wait for me. But then, I guess I dragged out the experience so we got more value for our money, right? I was with Rick and my friends, who love me, and were more concerned for me than disgruntled. Which is actually a good strategy for adventure: try to travel with people you love and who love you – they’re more gracious when stuff goes: Oh no.

And, let’s face it, making stupid mistakes is a surefire way to at least remind you not to do THAT again. I landed all of my subsequent jumps brilliantly. You could say that I was an excellent student. Well, you could, except for that first time, when I almost didn’t make it across.

But then, it really wouldn’t have made a very good story.