Highlining took everything I thought I knew about fear and threw it into the sky. To stand on one inch webbing stretched across a void, with all exposure penetrating your vision and unhinging your brain, every iota of your being is telling you not to be there. This is fear and each step across that line pushes it slowly away.
~Faith Dickey
~Faith Dickey
After four weeks and two teaser posts, my attempt to describe walking a highline is finally ready. It was a remarkable experience; maybe that is why it has been remarkably difficult to find words for it.
From my last post, you already know that I’d been dreaming of attending the Girls Only Highline Festival in the Czech Republic for several years. Choosing to go this year was a big, and somewhat scary, leap of faith. I’ve been practicing on the same basic gear—short ratchet kit slacklines—ever since I started slacklining over four years ago. The one exception was my first (and only) highlining exposure experience over a year ago—where I didn’t actually walk on a highline. I was traveling six thousand miles to highline…and I only had two full days at the festival. It absolutely felt right to go, but what could I possibly hope to accomplish in just two days?
I decided to keep it simple: aspire big in the long term, but have a defined “success” that was very attainable. In Moab I hadn’t found the courage to stand up on the highline, so that was my goal: to stand, even if it meant falling. I had done what I could to prepare with what I had. I assured myself that I was more ready this time to walk. But most of all I was determined to stand up, to take my first leash falls.
So on Friday afternoon, after a good night’s rest and watching the rigging of a long highline, it was time to head to a highline of my own.
A short hike brought me to a small group of girls sitting near one of the anchor points at the shortest highline, 18 meters, or about 59 feet. Conventional wisdom for highline success is to walk longlines close to the ground, then shorter, easier highlines where the mental (fear) factors of high balance come into play. That beginner highline was five feet longer than the waterline I’d trained on, and as long as anything I'd ever walked close to the ground. Since I’d never even been near a longline, my personal distance record might have been the shortest of anyone at the festival—not exactly a contest I wanted to win.
Enjoying the easy camaraderie in our little group, admiring the skill and persistence of the other girls, I felt remarkably calm…considering. I’d done a fairly good job of not thinking about the emotional and physical realities of highlining. I’d shoved my doubts down deep, bound them down tightly under outward stillness and unconcern. They were still there though, lurking beneath the surface, making me feel not quite in synch with my beautiful surroundings. The trees swaying in the cool autumn breezes, the bird’s eye view of our camp, the vast stretches of pinnacles lining the valley like sentinels couldn’t quite reach deep enough into my soul to soothe my disquiet. I wasn’t feeling very optimistic; I was worrying that I might fail at even my very minimal goal. Waiting for my turn on the line, I wasn’t even sure anymore that I wanted to try it.
At that point I knew I needed to get on the highline before any of that pessimistic gunk came churning to the surface. When the line was free, I hurried (carefully) to be next in line. Imagine how weird it was sitting at the edge of a cliff, feeling impelled to hurry tying myself to a rope, so I could scoot off the edge of a cliff. Impelled. I don’t have a better word for it. I was thinking that perhaps I ought to just find a new dream…while my fingers continued to tie the knot.
Tied to the leash, double checked by the more experienced highliners, I scooted out…and just sat there for a while, looking down in a hopeless attempt to get used to the yawning void below me, to the cliffs whose sheer walls plunged down to a bare rocky floor. As the distant ground below me seemed to waver, inviting me to join a dizzy dance with vertigo, from behind me the voice of my new friend Heather reminded me not to look down. She was right: I wouldn’t get used to it; looking down wouldn’t help me balance.
A deep breath, and I focused my gaze and my soul on the far anchor point, took another deep breath, rocked onto one leg, stood up...and walked straight across without falling once.
I wobbled, but was never dangerously out of control, never seriously afraid of falling. The focus of that walk was a beautiful thing: only the anchor point and the slackline that led to it mattered: down ceased to exist.
Even though, in the process of sitting to turn around, I lost my balance and caught the line, it counted as a perfect first walk, an “onsight,” a big deal in the world of climbing and slacklining.
I got back up (a process that was significantly more difficult than I remembered from last year), and with just as much steadiness crossed back. This time, as I approached the end, I managed to kneel, then sit, then lay down, a simple routine I’d done many times on the waterline. Perhaps that feeling of familiarity lulled me into complacency…or cockiness. Lying there, I let my focus wander; I wobbled, and rolled off. I’d taken my first (gentle) leash fall.
After an even more strenuous second leash climb and remount, I was back on solid ground, and was greeted with congratulations…which I’m afraid I didn’t accept as graciously as I would like. With adrenaline still coursing, but smothered by the lingering deep focus, and dazed by a success so incomprehensibly beyond anything I’d dared hope for, my brain fixated instead on how pumped my forearms and fingers were from the remounting. Yes, my reaction upon successfully walking my first highline—on my very first try!—was, “But my arms are sooo dead.”
Eventually the adrenaline wore off—leaving me with my stomach quaking and hands trembling—and elation finally crept in. Then for the next half an hour or more while we watched another slackliner work the highline, Heather and Miriam got to listen to me muttering, “I walked a highline…look my hands are still shaking” and other similarly eloquent ramblings.
After a lovely long rest and almost a whole pack of Haribo (Pico Bala) gummies, I recovered enough to walk again. I managed a clean walk to the far end, then kneeling, turning, and mounting smoothly. A few steps back toward the starting anchor, I fell hard and decided to be done for the day. A very good, wildly, unexpectedly successful first day.
My second and last full day was packed with firsts as well. On our way up to the highlines again, Heather and I stopped by the longling in the field by the campground. She convinced me to try it too—a fifty meter line, nearly triple my then personal distance record. Much to both our surprise, by my third try I walked that line too. My very first longline.
At that point, Heather suggested I challenge myself by going straight to the long highline, skipping the short and intermediate lines. Fifty-six meters this time, and significantly less tensioned than my first longline an hour earlier. After two remarkable victories, on that long line I finally had the experience that I had been expecting all along—a line so difficult it took all my willpower to force myself to stand up to take a fall. And fall I did: the line bucked me off a split second after I stood. But I did stand. Plenty sore from the day before, after that fall I called it a day. Though I have a nagging regret that I didn’t make more attempts and take more falls, I still feel proud of what I’d accomplished in that day, too.
As is my custom, I made time for one last memory moment, one last goodbye. Sunday morning, already dressed for church and in a hurry to get to services in a city far away, I couldn’t resist giving the longline one last try. In the soft light of early morning, and in a dress no less, I balanced for a few moments over dew-damp meadow grass. It seemed an appropriate way to say goodbye to Ostrov, the Autokemp, and the festival.
From my last post, you already know that I’d been dreaming of attending the Girls Only Highline Festival in the Czech Republic for several years. Choosing to go this year was a big, and somewhat scary, leap of faith. I’ve been practicing on the same basic gear—short ratchet kit slacklines—ever since I started slacklining over four years ago. The one exception was my first (and only) highlining exposure experience over a year ago—where I didn’t actually walk on a highline. I was traveling six thousand miles to highline…and I only had two full days at the festival. It absolutely felt right to go, but what could I possibly hope to accomplish in just two days?
I decided to keep it simple: aspire big in the long term, but have a defined “success” that was very attainable. In Moab I hadn’t found the courage to stand up on the highline, so that was my goal: to stand, even if it meant falling. I had done what I could to prepare with what I had. I assured myself that I was more ready this time to walk. But most of all I was determined to stand up, to take my first leash falls.
So on Friday afternoon, after a good night’s rest and watching the rigging of a long highline, it was time to head to a highline of my own.
A short hike brought me to a small group of girls sitting near one of the anchor points at the shortest highline, 18 meters, or about 59 feet. Conventional wisdom for highline success is to walk longlines close to the ground, then shorter, easier highlines where the mental (fear) factors of high balance come into play. That beginner highline was five feet longer than the waterline I’d trained on, and as long as anything I'd ever walked close to the ground. Since I’d never even been near a longline, my personal distance record might have been the shortest of anyone at the festival—not exactly a contest I wanted to win.
Enjoying the easy camaraderie in our little group, admiring the skill and persistence of the other girls, I felt remarkably calm…considering. I’d done a fairly good job of not thinking about the emotional and physical realities of highlining. I’d shoved my doubts down deep, bound them down tightly under outward stillness and unconcern. They were still there though, lurking beneath the surface, making me feel not quite in synch with my beautiful surroundings. The trees swaying in the cool autumn breezes, the bird’s eye view of our camp, the vast stretches of pinnacles lining the valley like sentinels couldn’t quite reach deep enough into my soul to soothe my disquiet. I wasn’t feeling very optimistic; I was worrying that I might fail at even my very minimal goal. Waiting for my turn on the line, I wasn’t even sure anymore that I wanted to try it.
At that point I knew I needed to get on the highline before any of that pessimistic gunk came churning to the surface. When the line was free, I hurried (carefully) to be next in line. Imagine how weird it was sitting at the edge of a cliff, feeling impelled to hurry tying myself to a rope, so I could scoot off the edge of a cliff. Impelled. I don’t have a better word for it. I was thinking that perhaps I ought to just find a new dream…while my fingers continued to tie the knot.
Tied to the leash, double checked by the more experienced highliners, I scooted out…and just sat there for a while, looking down in a hopeless attempt to get used to the yawning void below me, to the cliffs whose sheer walls plunged down to a bare rocky floor. As the distant ground below me seemed to waver, inviting me to join a dizzy dance with vertigo, from behind me the voice of my new friend Heather reminded me not to look down. She was right: I wouldn’t get used to it; looking down wouldn’t help me balance.
A deep breath, and I focused my gaze and my soul on the far anchor point, took another deep breath, rocked onto one leg, stood up...and walked straight across without falling once.
 |
| Photo by Miriam Mrrm |
Even though, in the process of sitting to turn around, I lost my balance and caught the line, it counted as a perfect first walk, an “onsight,” a big deal in the world of climbing and slacklining.
 |
| Photo by Heather Falenski |
After an even more strenuous second leash climb and remount, I was back on solid ground, and was greeted with congratulations…which I’m afraid I didn’t accept as graciously as I would like. With adrenaline still coursing, but smothered by the lingering deep focus, and dazed by a success so incomprehensibly beyond anything I’d dared hope for, my brain fixated instead on how pumped my forearms and fingers were from the remounting. Yes, my reaction upon successfully walking my first highline—on my very first try!—was, “But my arms are sooo dead.”
Eventually the adrenaline wore off—leaving me with my stomach quaking and hands trembling—and elation finally crept in. Then for the next half an hour or more while we watched another slackliner work the highline, Heather and Miriam got to listen to me muttering, “I walked a highline…look my hands are still shaking” and other similarly eloquent ramblings.
After a lovely long rest and almost a whole pack of Haribo (Pico Bala) gummies, I recovered enough to walk again. I managed a clean walk to the far end, then kneeling, turning, and mounting smoothly. A few steps back toward the starting anchor, I fell hard and decided to be done for the day. A very good, wildly, unexpectedly successful first day.
My second and last full day was packed with firsts as well. On our way up to the highlines again, Heather and I stopped by the longling in the field by the campground. She convinced me to try it too—a fifty meter line, nearly triple my then personal distance record. Much to both our surprise, by my third try I walked that line too. My very first longline.
At that point, Heather suggested I challenge myself by going straight to the long highline, skipping the short and intermediate lines. Fifty-six meters this time, and significantly less tensioned than my first longline an hour earlier. After two remarkable victories, on that long line I finally had the experience that I had been expecting all along—a line so difficult it took all my willpower to force myself to stand up to take a fall. And fall I did: the line bucked me off a split second after I stood. But I did stand. Plenty sore from the day before, after that fall I called it a day. Though I have a nagging regret that I didn’t make more attempts and take more falls, I still feel proud of what I’d accomplished in that day, too.
As is my custom, I made time for one last memory moment, one last goodbye. Sunday morning, already dressed for church and in a hurry to get to services in a city far away, I couldn’t resist giving the longline one last try. In the soft light of early morning, and in a dress no less, I balanced for a few moments over dew-damp meadow grass. It seemed an appropriate way to say goodbye to Ostrov, the Autokemp, and the festival.
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