When I was 12 I thought it would be fun and interesting to join a newly forming Explorer branch of the Boy Scouts. Our scout leaders were to be the two roughest town hooligans, who were being given an option from a judge for crimes they committed to either serve their time in jail or become scout leaders. They opted for the scout leader role. Our first meeting involved the tying of various knots. The scout leaders were quickly bored with that, as were we, and said we would be hiking the Appalachian Trail the next weekend instead of meeting in the borough room located under the police station (which gave them the creeps). "Oh yeah," this is what I signed up for.
Our hike was going well until we came to the bridge at the gap in the mountain over the Lehigh River (pictured below). The leaders thought it would be fun for all those brave enough to cross over... via the girders underneath the bridge. Never one to pass up a good dare, I was one of the three kids who accepted the challenge rather than walking across on top safe and sound. You had to crawl on all fours of the beams until reaching a vertical girder, then stand up holding on and swing yourself to the other side, going back down on all fours to continue... over and over again. About half way across, the winds really picked up and you had to hold on for dear life to keep going. Looking down at the rocks protruding out of the water, and fighting back the tears I contemplated going back or continue to risk certain death. But the specter of being called a "chicken" trumped all common sense, and I kept going. We eventually made it across none the worse for wear but totally exhausted. Unfortunately these two genius scout leaders hadn’t contemplated how we would get down to the ground once we made it across. The only way down was a 20-foot drop to the rocks. Everyone else had already crossed over the bridge, and unfortunately no one had any rope for us to utilize in order to get down. The scout leaders decided we would have to go back the way we came. Pure terror came over me and I think I actually did shed some tears. After resting up a little, we did it all over again to get back.
When word got out what had happened, the troop was immediately disbanded and the two scout leaders were sent to jail with a couple months tacked on to their sentence for reckless endangerment. I didn’t tell my parents what we did, but they found out in short order anyway. The fateful moment came when my mother asked me if I was one of the kids who did this. The vision of my mother’s anger, renowned for her Celtic warrior like ability to wield an oversized wooden spoon, overtook me and I said what any kid in the 60’s would say. "No mom, not me." I figured it would buy me an extra few days of life, enough time to plan out my future existence as a hobo or circus roadie. Unfortunately it only bought me only about a day (not enough time to get all my belongings together) and I dearly paid the price for both my stupid actions and lying about it. Boy did I pay the price. I couldn’t sit down for a week.
Although I didn’t pee myself or pucker up in either situation of absolute terror (the crossing of the bridge, and the moment I was to receive my punishment from a crazed Irish mother), I have had to deal with an overwhelming fear of heights ever since.