The Ledge

"I don't know about that."

"It's better than it looks."

Trust, not blind but with skepticism.

The worst part of the hike is the rope, I've never done this one before, and for some reason I go first. It takes a while to figure out how to climb up the twenty foot near-vertical face that's so eroded the dirt footholds have turned to slippery sand, and the ledge by the tree that's holding the rope seems like a mantle to nowhere, so instead I go left and once to flatter ground I promptly sit to collect myself. I don't look down the hundreds of feet drop below. It's better not to.

"It'll be better on the way down, right? There's nothing else like this on the route, is there?"

"No."

No to what, I wonder.

Merrily we hike, an endless ridge, granite towers, purple flowers, dwarf fireweed, signs of mountain goats and wolves, and eventually the turning point is the front door to the ice field.

The return hike, yellow flowers, sun in our eyes, side hilling to save our tired legs, I can see home far below by the water, ravens follow us, it's perfect.

And then, we're there again.

The down climb is, yes, just as bad. We stop, collect ourselves, mentally prepare. Slowly, safely, not exactly trusting the rope but letting it guide us down. I sigh when we're all safely to the ridge below, the scariest, and best, behind us.

What's the worst that could happen?

You fall, get hurt, really hurt, or you don't and then you get to see it all.