Tethered

I was stuck. My family had zipped away through the treetops, and I was stuck. 

No matter how I tried, the contraption wouldn't unlock. Not long before being trussed up into a harness and set loose in the woods, we'd hunkered down in front of an instructional video on a ski-lodge bench with about a half-dozen other off-season adventurers.

You "twizzle" one carabiner to its locked position, and the other carabiner attached by a spliced cable magically unlocks. Climbers are then free to attach both carabiners to the same lifeline and continue through the next obstacle. The disembodied voice assured us that this safety mechanism was foolproof.

Another woman looked a little stricken as the video ended, and our guide asked us if we had any questions.

I knew what she was thinking: "I won't remember any of that." I also knew that I would be the fool they hadn't counted upon.

"Don't worry. There will be plenty of staff members to help you."

But I was worried. Trudging up a hill (that was probably one of the green trails I could barely traverse on skis in the winter), I felt my lungs working harder and my breath growing short.

This is more work than I'd envisioned when I promised the kids we'd go ziplining.

I had pictured a more relaxed tour with guides attaching us to the wires and pushing us off, waving into the afterglow as we cast away through the uppermost canopy, through the forest, and over farmland until we floated down to the base of the mountain, landing with grace and a light touch.

Instead, I was alone on a rickety platform built for three. Safely and seemingly permanently attached to the trunk of a tree while the rest of my family zipped onward.

The red flush of embarrassment was already washing over me when the panic began to set in.

A lady behind me chuckled a little, offering help. She fitted the clip into the magnetic slot and tested the one that should spring open.

Still. Locked.

A wave of relief cooled some of the shame. See? It wasn't just me, I thought. Although a few more tries on her part would eventually prove successful. 

Perhaps the good news was the journey wasn't as daunting.

I'd side-stepped the wires with ease. I'd balance on teetering logs. I'd climb up and down rope ladders that swayed to and fro.

But the double-locked safety devices stopped me in my tracks.

"Just call for help," I remembered from the videotape.

A few jovial teens wearing the vests of safety and ski area insignia – appeared with a ladder. They climb up to unlock my carabiner with a laugh and some advice: Make sure the cables don't get too twisted."

I wanted to hate this.

It was taking too long. We had already been here for an hour and could still see the place where we started. Small, non-biting bugs were flitting around my face. And every "twizzle" lead to my feelings of a fizzle as my own family zoomed ahead while other families piled up behind me.

This was worse than every terrible game of miniature golf I'd ever played.

And yet, the actual effort of the journey had been remarkably smooth.

We were out of the house on a beautiful fall day, finding that walking on tightropes between trees and flying squirrel-like through the forest made us seem graceful and athletic, though none of us could honestly claim those titles.

There was only one precarious moment when I felt I would fall off a log and not be able to scramble back. A long moment passed when I imagined myself dangling awkwardly from the harness, waiting bunglesome for an attendant with a ladder to climb up and save me.

But that didn't happen. At that same moment, I regained my composure and balance and continued to the next perch, where my youngest was waiting.

I wasn't prepared for his panic, though I had just gone through at least twelve stations where panic had tapped at my shoulder. 

His carabiner had stopped working, too, and like a deer in the treetops, frozen in fear. And his terror only increased as I flew toward his platform. He couldn't get free and was sure I would slam into him as I glided toward the landing pad.

For the first time all afternoon, I felt calm and capable.

And without looking into his tear-stained eyes, I told him everything would be alright.

I knew exactly how to help in this situation, and so I told him: "I've been failing at this very maneuver all day." 

And while such practice may not make perfect, it gives you enough experience to persist.

Eventually, we would be free.

And maybe we would turn around and start again.