My fear of heights is irrational.

But it’s real.

My phobia started on a trip to California. We were traveling along Pacific Highway, a breathtaking highway. The road hugs the coastline and can be breathtaking.

However, our friend, who was driving the car, was speeding. We’d come around a curve and it seemed there was six inches between our tires and the drop off into the ocean. It was so scary, I laid down on the floor in the back seat with my eyes closed.

The next time was when I was visiting my son in Taiwan. He planned a trip up a mountain to visit a spa and see the countryside from up high.

The road to the spa was curvy and winding and straight up. I spent our lunch break with a hot towel on my head. I slept on the way down, refusing to face that part of the trip.

A trip to Colorado a couple of years ago should’ve been gorgeous, especially a planned leg from Durango to Telluride. There’s twists and turns, steep climbs and stomach-dropping descents.

I thought I could make it, but half way there, my brother took pity on me and we turned around.

Last year, we decided to take a coming-out-of-Covid trip, and I chose Arizona. All the pictures show deserts so I figured we’d be horizontal the whole time.

I was wrong.

The view out of Phoenix was flat and calm, but didn’t last long. We were headed to a quaint town, Prescott, and we had to climb 5,367 feet to get there.

Google Maps doesn’t tell you that extremely important piece of information when you’re plotting a trip.

We couldn’t see around the curves, and when we did, it was a petrifying view of either plunging straight down or climbing up a steep road, engine straining, with the knowledge that what goes up must come down.

Perhaps watching videos of people driving on mountain roads would be reassuring, I thought. After all, they got home safe and sound.

My fears intensified after watching these drivers weave back and forth, avoiding the “falling rocks” and “dangerous gorge” signs along the way.

Maybe it was just me who was scared on that Phoenix to Prescott road. So I watched a video of a family driving the same trip.

When they arrived in Prescott, their little girl looked like she’d been on the losing end of an encounter with a vampire – her eyes gaunt, her face white, her mouth hanging open.

“She has a stomach ache,” her mother said to the camera.

“She had a terrifying experience,” I yelled at my computer screen.

The next trip I planned was to Boston because it’s 19 feet above sea level.

I checked.

On a recent phone call with my eldest son, we talked about my acrophobia.

“What are you scared of?” my son asked. “That you’re going to fall off the road?

“Yes,” I said. “There’s a reason roads are nicknamed ‘Highway of Death’ and ‘Death Road.’”

“You’re in a car that weighs 2,000 pounds. You’re not going to fall off a road going 30 miles an hour. When’s the last time you heard of an accident like that?”

“Today. Some people had a Jeep roll down the mountain right in front of them,” I said triumphantly.

He had no answer for that. I didn’t tell him they were on a rocky mountain road in a vehicle built for mountain travel. I wouldn’t get off the interstate for all the chocolate in the world.

Before we take another trip, I’m going to see if I can find a hypnotists who can ease my fear of heights.

If they can convince someone to squawk like a chicken, they just might be able to help me relax the next time I plan a trip more than 20 feet above sea level.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.