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“Do one thing every day that scares you.” Eleanor Roosevelt
I haven’t always been afraid of heights.
As a kid, I loved the big roller coasters that climbed way up into the sky before sending you flying down the hill – like the Orient Express and Timberwolf at Worlds of Fun near where I grew up.
I would loosen my seatbelt and throw my hands up in the air the entire time, intentionally trying to get airborne and jostled around like one of those inflatable promotional people flailing in the wind at the grand opening of a car dealership.
At summer camp, I would climb the “faith pole” – which was basically just a wooden telephone pole – while wearing a harness, and without holding onto anything. I’d stand on the very top, and jump off into nothingness, with the “faith” that the camp counselors would pull the ropes tight enough to catch me before I went splat on the ground.
Apparently, I had absolutely no survival instincts.
For my 30th birthday, I went skydiving. I took a nap on the plane on the way up, then casually jumped out of it at 10,000 feet like this was a perfectly reasonable way to spend an afternoon.
No problem.
But somewhere along the way, my relationship with heights took a very unfortunate turn.
In 2020, I was helping change a lightbulb about 15–20 feet in the air when someone decided it would be hilarious to shake the ladder I was standing on.
It was not hilarious. I didn’t change the lightbulb. I climbed down in a huff. And I have never been the same since.
So today, when Massimo and I had to descend four wooden ladders with nothing but a thick blue rope to hold onto, the fear came flooding back with such force that I started shaking. It was a moment that made me truly regret coming on this hike. Not even a seven week UTI from some stupid, colored, perfumed toilet paper did that.
In the morning, we woke up in our tents at the glamping campsite, and I stepped out onto the little deck to watch the sunrise.
Then I heard a familiar man’s voice.
“Hello, stranger.”
I looked down and was shocked to see Marian, the firefighter we had met the same day we met Agnes, standing in the yard.
Apparently, Marian had walked 42 kilometers the day after we saw him.
Which earned him two spectacular blisters and a mandatory week at home to recover.
He lightened his backpack, bought some sandals per Massimo’s sales pitch, and picked up almost where he left off.
We ate breakfast together with Marian and Costin and then headed out for what turned into a lovely walk up, down, and around some absolutely gorgeous mountains.
It might have been the most beautiful walk we’ve had on this entire hike – despite the ladders I’ll tell you about in a minute.
Or maybe I was simply able to enjoy it more because, for the first time on this entire trip, I was actually feeling good.
I was happy to be hiking and enjoying myself again. It’s the best I’ve felt so far on this trip. I had a good night’s sleep and the UTI is hopefully long gone.
I’m like a new woman.
Massimo and I took a few breaks along the way. The guys were hiking at a different pace and had wandered ahead, leaving us to enjoy the scenery at our own leisurely pace.
At one point, we stopped at a house that had a special stamp for the ladder section we were about to descend.
The hosts offered us a cup of coffee with homemade honey, and to sit and relax. We were enjoying the day. It was great.
The grandmother who lived there was hilarious.
She would smile at us and then rattle off an entire paragraph in Romanian that neither of us understood. We would smile and nod. She would laugh. We would laugh. Nobody knew what was happening. It was a beautiful cross-cultural exchange.
She was wearing a shirt that said:
WE ARE ALL STAR DUST.
Right on, Mama.
I like your philosophy.
We continued along the trail and eventually ran into Marian, who was sitting in the cemetery of a church in Inlet, the extremely remote village we were hiking through, taking a break. He was relaxing with the cat who owns the property.
The church was the point on the map where we could choose our own adventure.
We had two options:
Option 1: Follow the official trail around the mountain.
Option 2: Take a shortcut down four wooden ladders to the river, then walk about three kilometers along the road to our accommodation.
Paul and Agnes had both taken the ladder route and described it as a “fun little adventure.”
Something unique. Something worth trying.
Agnes had also told us that she met a local woman who takes this route to work.
Later, we met that same woman. She works at the place where we’re staying tonight.
She told us she climbs up and down this shortcut twice a week to get to work, while her husband walks the path every day.
It’s essentially the main route the villagers use to get to and from the larger surrounding towns.
When I asked Marian about it, he said he had climbed it several times to deliver supplies to residents in the area on behalf of a local NGO because they are so isolated.
He admitted it was difficult. But he said we should definitely try it.
I never mentioned my fear of heights to anyone because I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal – so many people walk this route daily. It really didn’t even cross my mind.
Off we went on the alternate route.
The beginning of the section was beautiful. I stopped to take many photos and I even got Massimo to stop long enough to take some selfies with me.
Everything was wonderful. The scenery was spectacular. The weather was perfect. I was happy. Life was good.
Then we reached the ladders.
Not far from the top of the ladders, we met a group of five Romanians who had just climbed up.
I asked them what the experience was like.
“Challenging,” they said. “But good.”
Then came the sentence that should have sent me immediately back around the mountain.
“But going down might be a different story. It’s pretty steep.”
I looked at them to evaluate the situation.
There were two people over 65 – in “okay” shape, a woman and a man in normal physical condition, and another guy who was a little overweight. All three were over 50.
I thought: If they can do it, surely I can do it – even with my backpack.
Right?
Wrong.
When we reached the first ladder and I looked over the edge, I freaked out.
Inside.
But I was determined not to let Massimo know exactly how terrified I was.
Because there is a certain dignity in pretending you’re fine while internally preparing your obituary.
Massimo took my hiking poles, shortened them, and I secured them to his backpack.
He went first. Which was good. I could watch him do it. And if I fell, he would break my fall. Ahhh. A soft place to land.
Massimo descended the ladder with complete ease.
Of course he did. He’s “The Legend.”
Then…it was my turn.
I held the thick blue rope tightly, slowly turned around and tried to place my foot on the first step.
I was so scared that I did that ridiculous thing where you put your foot down, decide it feels too far away, bring it back up, try again, bring it back up, switch legs, and try the other foot.
Again.
And again.
And again.
It took a while.
Immediately, my legs felt weak. My hands started shaking violently. My heart started racing.
The pounding of each heartbeat was thumping so loud that it felt like it was vibrating inside my ears.
I was experiencing such intense fear that I couldn’t even feel the weight of my backpack. I honestly forgot I was wearing it.
All I could think about was the next step.
Then the next one.
Then the next.
I knew there was no turning back. I had to keep going.
And I also knew that if I’m going to continue doing things that scare me, I have to keep facing those fears instead of letting them control me.
So…
Onward.
Dad, I’m sorry for what I’m about to say. But authenticity is important to the integrity of this story. I know I continue to embarrass you with my unfiltered blog posts about peeing my pants and UTIs. My apologies – this next story is worse. So maybe stop reading now.
A few days ago, my friend sent me a hilarious – and probably inappropriate depending on your religion – Instagram video of a woman named Trudy singing a song she had written called Biscuits and Blow Jobs.
It’s a catchy little tune. Have a listen.
If you don’t have Instagram for the link above, you can watch her sing it here on YouTube.
Anyway…
While I was clinging to that rope for dear life, I told my brain that I needed a distraction to calm myself.
A song. A mantra. Anything.
The mind does funny things when it thinks it’s fighting for its life during a near-death experience.
Apparently, mine has questionable taste in motivational music because my brain immediately started singing:
“Biscuits and blow jobs is how you keep a man.”
Over.
And over.
And over.
Don’t judge me. I was terrified. My brain was trying to keep me alive.
And, in all honesty, ever since I first heard the song, I’ve been humming the little tune while we hike. It’s locked in my brain forever.
So there I was.
Clinging to a rope.
Descending a rickety wooden ladder on the edge of a mountain.
Beads of sweat dripping down my face like a steady rain and making my palms even slipperier.
My hands were shaking. My legs were shaking. My voice was shaking.
And very quietly – hoping to God that Massimo wouldn’t hear me or I’d never hear the end of it – I kept repeating:
Biscuits and blow jobs…
Biscuits and blow jobs…
What a mantra. But it worked.
Trudy, you saved my life today. I hope you get a million likes, become wildly famous, make a zillion dollars and eventually have your own arena tour. I will happily attend.
I was somewhere around the third ladder saying my little B & BJ mantra, when I heard voices.
I looked up and saw two Romanian day hikers we had met several hours earlier.
They had climbed up the ladder, hiked for a couple of hours, and somehow caught back up to us…Because I was taking approximately three business days to descend these damn ladders.
I asked them to wait until I was completely off the ladder. I was worried that if the ladder shook while I was on it, I would fall to my death.
They politely waited.
Bless them.
Side note: I am so dedicated to this damn blog that somehow I managed to take photos and videos of this event. I swear to the Lord above that I don’t actually remember doing this. Instinct must have taken over my body and mind.
Once I was officially at the bottom of the ladders, I sat down at the wooden table someone has so kindly installed, and clenched it like it was the last solid object on Earth.
Then I thanked God for keeping Massimo alive. Because if something happened to him on this hike – a hike that I invited him on – his family and friends would absolutely kill me.
Then we’d both be dead.
The couple who had waited patiently for me to put on my big-girl panties and get moving quickly walked down and asked if we were okay.
I think they could see how genuinely grateful I was to be finished with the ladders and standing on something resembling stable ground.
They continued down the mountain while Massimo and I sat there for at least ten minutes.
I needed to calm down. My heart needed to slow down. And I needed to convince my legs that they were, in fact, still attached to my body.
Eventually, Massimo and I continued down the very steep, slippery, loose-dirt path until we reached the river.
There was a bridge we needed to cross to get to the road that would take us to our accommodation.
I stopped short.
“Massimo, I need another break to gather my thoughts, slow down my heart rate, and walk across this bridge.”
He’s such a champ. Of course he agreed.
While we sat on a concrete slab next to the bridge, me with my head in my hands and Massimo eating a sandwich – all I could think was –
Who can eat at a time like this?!?!
Obviously, The Legend. Nothing phases this man. But I felt like vomiting.
While we were sitting there, the man from earlier walked down to the bridge to speak with us.
He told us that he and his wife had been waiting in their car for us (yes, I looked that pathetic) and would like to drive us to our accommodation, which was about two kilometers away.
The walk probably would have been good for me to calm down but it was such a sweet gesture that I hated to say no.
Romanian kindness is never far away.
So……….More hitchhiking without even asking. God really wants me to finish this hike soon…and alive.
We hopped in the car with Vlad and Anka and we safely arrived in three minutes – after dodging a cow that was in the road – at our gorgeous accommodation for the night.
Once I was safely on flat ground and sitting in a chair, I opened my Garmin app to see what my watch had registered my heart rate at during the ladder portion of the hike.
174 beats per minute.
WHAT?!?
ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FOUR?!
For context, my resting heart rate is 53. My average heart rate for the entire hike today was 105.
Someone give me a beer…and a recommendation for a hypnotherapist.
But after it was all said and done, I survived.
I faced my fear. I climbed down four terrifying wooden ladders on the edge of a mountain in the Romanian wilderness.
I discovered that, under extreme psychological distress, my brain is highly inappropriate and risqué, and considers “biscuits and blow jobs” an appropriate survival mantra. Which it is not – but makes for a fantastic story to tell at weddings, wakes, and parties.
And I made it to the other side…or…down the mountain.
Maybe that’s what this hike keeps teaching me: You don’t have to be fearless or perfect. Sometimes you just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other…and hitch a ride every now and again.
Much love & gratitude. Namaste 🙏
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During my crisis, I somehow ended up with a blood blister on my toe. Probably stress-induced.
My feet are absolutely wrecked.
