Being Afraid: The Things That Scare Me

Although, I should probably be afraid of that too.

But I'm talking about being on the edge of a long way down, which is where I've been countless times while hiking. On one occasion, I was so paralyzed by fear while backpacking in Grand Canyon, my trail-mate had to retrace his steps to where I was standing, frozen, and let me hold onto his backpack as he walked right in front of me. We took baby steps for at least half a mile, as I stared at his feet and we played memory games to keep my mind off of ... well ... death.

We were on a Search and Rescue mission, actually, hiking part of the Tonto Trail between Grapevine Canyon and Cottonwood Creek (west of Horseshoe Mesa), if you're familiar with the area. Along this section, there are stretches where the trail is right on the edge of several hundred feet of sheer cliff, without any visual barriers like rocks or vegetation to make it at least seem not so dangerous. I mean, one slip and ... bye-bye.

Whenever I come to an exposed stretch of trail, be it for ten feet or a mile, I'm very afraid. And I try to avoid such exposure on my hikes as much as possible. Still, it doesn't stop me from walking trails or diminish my love of hiking or backpacking ... or stop me from wondering why the heck they have to put those trails so close to the edge!

Acrophobia and Altophobia both mean fear of heights, but I don't think that's what I have, because I don't mind being up high. I just don't like to be on the edge of those high-up places.

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I just learned that this fear has a name: Tachophobia. Definitely put me down for this one. Which is why I don't enjoy downhill skiing, driving on freeways where the speed limit is 75 mph, riding a galloping horse, or flying down long hills on a bicycle.

Whenever I get going too fast--or feel like I am, anyway--I feel out of control, as if I could wipe out at any moment. And that kind of thinking can only get me into trouble ... which it has.

There was the time I started flying downhill on cross country skis and, just from fear, hit the ground hard. It's amazing I didn't break anything, the way I landed with arms, legs and skis a tangled mess, and it wasn't like I had to fall either. If I'd have kept calm, I would have stayed upright.

Then there was the spectacular dive I took off a skateboard when I was a kid, as I was rolling fast down the big hill in my neighborhood. And the road burns and bloody scrapes were spectacular, too. Needless to say, that was the last time I ever got on a skateboard.

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I guess I have Astraphobia too. Dang! But there's no doubt about it, when I hear that first rumble, my pulse quickens and I look around for where I can hide from the several hundred million volts that are sure to follow. Which is why I was darn scared almost daily for a couple of months while hiking the Appalachian Trail. It seemed like nearly every summer day was visited by a thunderstorm and always right where I happened to be.

And most of those storms are etched in my memory, including the time I had to throw down my pack and metal trekking poles and assume the "please don't fry me!" position, crouched on my heels in the pouring rain as the lightning crashed all around. Fun stuff, huh?

I know I said before that I don't like going fast, but just add lightning to the mix, and you'll see me hike faster'n a cheetah on speed!

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For me, it's not really Lygophobia -- fear of darkness -- because I'm just fine indoors or even outdoors when I'm with other people. It's being all by my lonesome in the dark in the great outdoors that gets me all panicky. Matter of fact, I get the heebie-jeebies even if I have a flashlight when I'm alone at night in the woods (or the desert or a canyon). That little bit o' light makes very little difference.

Oh, heck, you dragged it out of me; I still get nervous even when I have company at night outdoors, if it's just one other person. I mean, if it's just one person, they can only be on one side of me at a time, so that leaves three other sides exposed to the boogie monster, right? Yes, I have quite the imagination.

So it makes a whole lot of sense that I'm often traipsing around at night with one other SAR-mate, looking for the lost and missing (and over my shoulder). Just don't tell my teammates that Deb is a weenie.

Seriously, though, my fear is partially based on not knowing what I'll find when I'm out there, until I'm right on top of it ... or him or her. On one occasion, the find wasn't good, and that sudden shock--though over soon afterward--has stuck with me, I guess.

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Also known as 4-wheelers, ATVs, and ORVs, quads and I don't get along well. And I wouldn't be driving them at all if it weren't for my volunteer work with Search and Rescue. In SAR, quads come in handy on unpaved Forest Service roads and rough two-tracks, where we often have to search for lost backcountry travelers and patrol the perimeter of an area where someone is missing.

I'm just not comfortable on those heavy beasts, which I feel are determined to tip over with me on and then under them. I'm okay putt-putting along on flat terrain, but when those rocky, rutted back roads cause the machine to pitch to one side or another or angle steeply up or down, I lose all confidence. And that's when I get myself into trouble, often hitting the brake when I really should be giving the thing more gas.

I can't seem to find a fancy phobia name for this one, though. I guess maybe it's too silly to have one.

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I have a very good reason for having Apiphobia, though. When I was about twelve years old, I was attacked by a swarm of yellow jackets and stung several hundred times, head to toe. Thankfully, I wasn't allergic and, as far as I know, I'm still not. But with that many stings, I blew up like a red balloon and was in extreme pain for days. Then, when the pain subsided, I was one massive itch.

Not two weeks later, I was stung up the back of both legs by hornets.

Needless to say, when I hear a buzz, be it one fuzzy bumble bee (harmless, so they say) or a hive full of bees, hornets, wasps or yellow jackets, I break out into a cold sweat. I know they have their place in the world, but just keep those nasty stinging things away from me!

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