Author’s note: To get the most out of this story, I recommend you first read the previous blog about the place. Thanks!
“When people are fearful of something, they tend to avoid the feared activity. Although this avoidance might help reduce feelings of fear in the short-term, over the long term it can make the fear become even worse. In such situation, a psychologist might recommend a program of exposure therapy.”
Sarah refolded the brochure along well-worn creases and replaced it in her backpack. A dozen tourists milled about on the valley floor, waiting for the guide to start them on the trail. She stepped apart from the others and looked up, stretching her neck in the process. Bhutan’s Tiger’s Nest monastery resembled a miniature that had been painted onto the top of a vertical three-thousand-foot cliff.
“Time to start,” the guide announced. “Ready? Let’s go!” A local, he wore a traditional Bhutanese knee-length robe and spoke with an awkward bonhomie. The other tourists sprang into action, sprinting to the start of the trail in their excitement. Sarah let them go first.
What am I doing here?
She laid all the blame on her former boyfriend. That he had dumped her seemed grossly unfair. Sarah was modestly pretty, appropriately social, reasonably athletic, and, from a family inheritance, financially set for life. It wasn’t her fault she was deathly afraid of heights and Franklin was an avid mountaineer. “I can’t share my passion with you,” he’d pointed out with increasing frequency before the break-up, his passion being high-altitude camping, trekking along steep paths, scrambling and summitting peaks and ridges.
The break-up devastated her, and she grasped at the only way she knew to revive the relationship—overcoming her lifelong acrophobia. After several sessions with a psychologist, she advanced to direct in vivo exposure by crossing a low-lying swinging bridge. It was a modest victory at best: she completed the challenge on her hands and knees, reciting a Biblical passage. Then she learned Franklin had started dating a woman from his climbing gym. Sarah needed to up the ante, to flood her exposure, starting with the most difficult task instead of the easiest. A photograph of the Tiger’s Nest had hung in the lobby of her college dorm, giving her goosebumps every time she’d passed it. I’ll start there, she decided.
The trail, of hard-packed earth, seemed easy enough as it ribboned through pine woods.
I can do this.
She placed one foot in front of the other and regulated her rapid breathing. Soon the ascent steepened. She concentrated on the trail, which remained lined with trees. When the view opened up to show a vast panorama of the valley below, she hugged the inner edge of the trail.
I can do this.
At the halfway point, the group stopped at a café strewn with colorful prayer flags for an obligatory tea. Sarah averted her eyes from the drop-off below. The monastery loomed much closer, a tableau now instead of a miniature. They were heading toward it at an angle, but every possible way up seemed terrifying.
“Congratulations!” the guide enthused. “You have reached a spectacular view. The trail beyond will become increasingly more difficult. Some of you may prefer to turn around here. A van will take you back to Paro, and we can meet up later.” Sarah’s heart crashed around in her chest, but she stood with the group who would continue upward. The guide scanned her with concern.
No longer did the vegetation cushion her from the abyss beyond. The altitude was higher, the trees more scraggly. She walked with mincing steps, her body sore from leaning away from the cliff, her limbs the consistency of overcooked pasta. Every glimpse to the abyss splintered her. Her heart struggled like an animal in a cage, and she felt she was breathing something thicker than air. Then the trail angled downward; the valley lurched into view, and she crouched as she walked.
I can’t do this.
Where a bridge crossed a small waterfall, the guide approached her. “You look sick,” he said, without any of his earlier enthusiasm. Sarah eyed the stone steps ahead of her, once again ascending, and at the monastery temples, which looked as if they had been pasted onto the vertical granite.
“Help me,” she croaked.
For the rest of the ascent, the guide held her hand, and a fit woman in the group followed behind, a hand on Sarah’s hip. For her part, Sarah kept her eyes closed. After what seemed a thousand steps, they reached the entrance to the temple.
“Oh. My. Goodness. What a view,” the woman exulted. “Open your eyes, dear, and take a look.”
Sarah didn’t. Instead, she walked into the main temple, curled up in a fetal position on the cool floor, and sucked her thumb, something she hadn’t done since the first grade.
**
It took a private helicopter to pull Sarah, cocooned and with a hood over her face, off of the monastery and back to the city of Paro and her plane rides home. Her acrophobia worsened, but, as a silver lining, she no longer had feelings for Franklin.
Several years later, she met a man with absolutely no interest in sports; they married and lived a long and happy life together.
