Cotton Candy, A Fear of Heights, and a Gorge - Or, The Many Ways To Spell "Acrophobia"

(The following is a true story. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Actually, I wrote it from my youngest daughter's perspective at age six. Bless her heart, she is still not a big fan of high places.)

A Webster definition of acrophobia would tell you it is a morbid fear of heights. Fear is the mind's darkroom where many little negative images are developed. No matter how illogical it is to fear an illusion, it still grips your heart with physical pain, sharp and breathtaking.

A family vacation to Royal Gorge, Colorado was a trip to hell for me. Every twist in the road revealed more and more mountains to drive up and over. A panoramic vision of beauty for some, for me it was excruciating just to open my eyes and look out the window. I had no inkling what a "gorge" was. Thus, when we arrived and parked the car, I could see no immediate need for panic. At once, the bridge came into view, a span of some eight hundred feet and soaring over a thousand feet above the Arkansas River. My Cabbage Patch tennis shoes came to a dead halt at the foot of the bridge and only the thought of being left behind pushed some movement into my little body. Tightly closing my eyes, and clinging to the legs of my mother, I inched along the wooden planks, feeling each one vibrate and bounce whenever a car passed slowly by. Tiny intakes of air coupled with a low-pitched whine were the only sound I could make. Finally, tired of the leg-drag routine, my mother picked me up and carried me the rest of the way, trying once to persuade me to take a little peek at the pretty mountains. One quick glance between my eyelashes, and I again retreated to the safety of no sight. Reaching the far end of the bridge, I ventured a look-see. The park guides were selling tickets to the incline railway, a wonderfully modern transportation to the bottom of the Gorge. Little red cages stacked neatly in single-file held approximately two and a half adults for the five-minute ride down. Surely we weren't...oh yes, we were; tickets were bought and I could see my sisters gleefully hopping into one of the cages. Grabbing onto the maternal leg, I pleaded to stay and wait for my demented siblings to return. Nope, Mom hoisted me up on her hips and into the next-to-last dragon red car of death we stepped. I turned my face away from the dizzying vertical view, and the wails began. Superglued to my mother's chest, my screams could be heard above the clank, clank, clank of the motorized chain. In the caboose, a young concession stand worker was bringing down a fresh delivery of over-priced goodies for the captive tourists at the bottom, awaiting their tram ride back up. Several pink, fluffly clouds of cotton candy were perched on their white paper cones and they swayed rhythmically with the motion of the railway cage. Momentarily, I forgot my plight with the thought of the sugary melting sweetness of the pink confection. In an effort to save his ears and his nerves, the kind boy quickly offered me a cone of consolation.

The returning tram ride was somewhat less traumatic, but I was dismayed to see no chance of acquiring further bribes for my misbehavior. The rest of that trip included a drive up Pike's Peak, which I have no memory of. The view from the floorboard of the car did not lend itself well to sightseeing.