Foliage, Ziplines, and Trust

We drove eastward until reaching the freeway -- an almost obligatory part of the trip if we were to arrive at a reasonable time; but even then the views were spectacular. After a quick and scenic half-hour, we exited into New Hampshire and followed highway 10 up to the Kancamagus Highway -- a limited access road through the White Mountains National Park. From there, the road hugged the mountain streams up the mountains, across the Appalachian Trail and down into Lincoln where we met up with our fellow adventurers at Alpine Adventures for scheduled zipline canopy tour. I had been looking forward to this day since we booked the excursion almost 2 months ago. Lori has been more circumspect. The videos at the office didn't help much. Looking back, I perhaps should have suggested we wait outside. The release we had to sign didn't offer much encouragement either. Both pages, each detailing possible decapitation, maiming, bites by wild animals, collisions with trees, and catastrophic and painful death. I casually compared the waiver of liability to the inserts routinely accompanying prescription drugs. That seemed to be persuasive. For the moment.

Shortly, the 12 of us were huddled into a side room where we were assigned our nylon harness and helmet and a few chatty warnings about the possible loss of limbs should we not listen to our guides or fiddle with our lifelines. One last survey of the troops to cinch up our harnesses and we were shuffled into the waiting bus for the trip up the mountain. Arriving at the trailhead, we were transferred to an old six-wheel drive Swiss-made troop transport vehicle that had been used in the 1960's by the Austrian army, the ride in which should have sobered anyone who still had teeth and a spine by the time we reached the drop-off point. A few more draconian instructions, and we were ready to begin -- one at a time, harnessed to the zip line, followed by the casual reminder that "this is completely voluntary" -- and the suggestion that we simply step into...

...oblivion. The first zipline wasn't bad: we were standing on the ground, on a rock, and we could essentially just step off and begin to fly. The end of that line, however, landed us on a narrow platform about the size of a milking stool on the top of a tree at least 36,000 feet in the air where we were instructed to just "hang there for moment" while the guide made several clicking maneuvers. Shifting over our apparatus to the next line, the guide once again casually suggested that we just squat down and step off. Step off, this time, literally into...

...oblivion. For what I trust was not the first time it had happened, the harness held, the trolly wheels gripping the line above continued to roll, and somewhat miraculously we reached the next stratospheric platform at an elevation where only nosebleeds dwell.

And it went like this for six lines -- interrupted only by a suspension bridge that was only missing alligators in a lagoon below.

The final line they told us not to bother even trying to control our direction. We were going to drop too fast, travel too far, and gain too much velocity for it to matter.

Did I mention the issue of trust? Afterwards, Lori and I talked about it: her near inability to trust the employee guides -- every one of which looked to be about 8-years old -- who held our lives in their hands; and my almost nonchalant willingness to be putty in their hands; trust in the people; trust in the equipment; trust in the cables stretched between Venus and Mars and chasmic universe in-between; trust that all those disclaimers and waivers we had signed were just lawyer talk to cover everyone's rear end.

Back at the inn for dinner, our waiter, Paul, asked us how it had been. "Great," I responded. "Grateful to be back alive," countered Lori. Paul had been the one the previous night who, upon hearing of our plans to go ziplining through the foliage, had shaken his head and proclaimed, "Not me. I'm all about 'terra firma.'" Tonight, after hearing our stories, he recalled how he was told in the military that the only things falling from the skies were fools and bird poop. I'm guessing it might have been a little more colorful in the military, but his point was made.

I loved it. It was exhilarating. I would do it again. But I wouldn't be surprised if I don't. I won't be at all surprised, however, if Lori, should the opportunity happen to arise again, quietly shakes her head, tells me to enjoy the ride, and boldly makes other plans. And I wouldn't be surprised if I joined her.