Look at the Wall

Florence, my best friend in London, decided I needed a holiday. Northern New Mexico. Santa Fe. Taos. Bandelier. That’s how, at four in the afternoon on a Thursday, we found ourselves standing at the base of four wooden ladders leading up 140 feet to Alcove House. I’d last climbed it about 20 years prior. I remembered one ladder being a bit difficult due to my vertigo, but I’d soldiered through with a little help from the guy above me.

Several tourists, including Florence, climbed up the first ladder effortlessly. It wasn’t that long. I mistakenly remembered the second one was the problem. I got three rungs from the top when I saw the gap. A good foot between the ladder and the stone pathway. The posts and rungs were six inches thick, wider than my hands could comfortably wrap around. My legs slowed until I stopped and stared down the gap.

My vertigo isn’t about heights. It’s about edges. And gaps. Something to do with sawing my ear off as a child to replace the three tiniest bones in my body and then stitching it back on. 

I couldn’t move. I tried getting an assist again. My legs wouldn’t budge. It was awful. I told Florence to go, I’d seen it before. I climbed down, dejected. 

I watched a range of tourists climb up. Including two young women.

“You make it look easy,” I said as one effortlessly stepped over the hole. 

She looked down at me and said, “The trick is to keep going. Don’t stop.” 

I laughed. So obvious. I tried it again. And a third time. Each time my legs just ground to a halt as I stared at the gap. The edge. 

I sat down at the bottom of the ladder and waited, morose. When Florence returned, I realised how dark my thoughts had turned. 

“My life is over. I always said you get old when you become afraid. I can’t do this anymore. I’m old.”

She suggested another walk. No. Leave? Dread. When would I ever come back to try it again? So she suggested food at the phenomenal cafe on site. Yes, I could do that. 

The cafe had nothing decaffeinated so I ordered a hard watermelon lemonade. That first sip was amazing. As was the second. I love elevation. 

“So, the park doesn’t close for two more hours, at sunset,” she said. “Do you want to try again?” 

“Yes!” I surprised both of us. It had been building. I couldn’t let this defeat me. 

“But this time I’ll go behind you. We’ll go up together,” she said.

“One problem. This is alcohol.”

“They gave you alcohol? It’s lemonade!” She was horrified. 

“It was intentional.” I laughed and poured the rest into my water bottle. 

We speed-walked the mile back to the ladder both thinking how we’d bribe anyone locking it up. She couldn’t bear knowing if we’d get to try again, so she raced ahead and shouted back, “It’s open!”

Two older women were just coming down. I expressed my concern. One said, “It’s tough. I’m afraid of heights. The trick is to look at the wall.”  

We left our bags and the rest of my hard watermelon lemonade at the base of the ladder. 

“You go first. I’ll be behind you,” said Florence.

I began to climb. This was the easy bit. I’d done it three times already. I neared the top and felt my legs start to slow. Florence started giving directions behind me and put her hands across the gap. If I stopped to shush her, I’d lose my momentum. The trick was to keep going. Not look at the gap. Look at the wall. What would I grab on to? The ladder was too thick to grip well. I was going to fall off. Forward momentum carried me over the edge. I’d made it to the top of ladder one and onto a slick sandy stone-carved path.