Autumn is in Full Swing

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Listen! the wind is rising,
and the air is wild with leaves.
We have had our summer evenings,
now for October eves.
~Humbert Wolfe

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Where I set up my slackrope orange and yellow leaves are quivering overhead and—increasingly—fluttering to the ground. All too soon the branches will be bare. I’ve been storing up memories of these idyllic autumn practice sessions. This is how a slackrope session might go these days:

After I set up, I focus on walking for a while. I work to hold my silver strand still, so that except for the changing angles of the rope as I cross, it appears solid rather than merely a loose hung rope. I breathe deeply as I try to take big steady steps all the way to the other end. My turns are still usually unsteady, but I get myself around so I can head back to where I started. Back and forth, back and forth as an autumn breeze tickles the leaves overhead and brushes by cool on my skin.

Taking a break from my practice, I lie down on the rope. The rope runs under my ankle, against my calf, up my back, into the hollow next to one shoulder blade, and against the back of my head. While one hand grips the rope above my head, I press my fingers down into the soft grass and push off to start the rope swaying. I relax and enjoy the luxury of forgetting all about balancing for a while. Above me the branches sway, and I contemplate yet again how rarely I look straight up. I close my eyes and enjoy the patches of sunlight that skitter over my face and warm my eyelids as my rope rocks me back and forth.

Then I’m ready for a challenge: I stand in the middle of my rope facing toward one of the anchors. My arms tilt to one side, I flex a little at the waist, press through my hips, and the rope begins to swing. I work on getting the timing right—the movement of my arms, bending at the waist, shifting my weight—to ride the increasing swing of the rope. I concentrate on my anchor point, my North star in a world that is pitching. My face is a mask of focus, but my heart lifts a little, revels, each time the rope swings high, slows, then plummets back down in a smooth arc under the weight of my feet. All too soon my timing is off and I have to slip or fly off, landing with a soft thud on the grass and scattered leaves while the rope, now free of my weight, flaps and then sways to a standstill.

Can you tell that I’m in love with slackrope? It’s a wonderful combination of a mid-air walking path, hammock, and swing set. I may also be enamored with slackrope just because the basics came easy—a first for me. During my second ever slackrope session I managed walking backward, sitting, and standing. Oh, and laying. Laying on a slackrope is a joy. Unlike slackline and tightwire, laying was low effort even in the beginning and (relatively) comfortable. I know, I know you’re thinking that lying on a single ⁷⁄₁₆ inch strand of rope can’t be comfortable, but while it certainly isn’t as comfortable as a hammock, it really isn’t bad.

After that the next skills came more slowly. Falls from a slackrope are somehow more daunting than from a slackline, and sometimes I don’t trust my feet on the steep uphill at either end. I mastered my fear of turns about a month ago and now can do them reasonably well if sometimes a bit shaky. More and more often I can walk with the rope remaining almost completely still. Having the rope hold still is a huge accomplishment…but not all that cool. What I really want to master is swing walking. (See video clip here to grasp the beauty of the thing.)

First I need to master just the standing lateral swing. For more than a month I worked on swinging, wanting so badly to experience the beauty of it but seeing little results come of my efforts. In the last week, like a surprise gift granted in the grace period of an unusually long autumn, I finally made progress. I’m ridiculously proud of that progress. I still can’t maintain a standing swing for very long, but I’m starting to feel the rhythm, and my body is starting to work with the line instead of against it. I’m even ridiculously proud of the fact that when back on solid earth I sometimes feel a little bit seasick as my body adjusts to a world that is holding so unwaveringly still.

I’m still learning how to increase the swing and then ride the swing.  I focus on that…till I fall off. I have to confess: the trees will be bare soon, my slackrope season will be over…and I have yet to learn to STOP a lateral swing. Oh well, perhaps it’s appropriate given the season that I fly off my rope, cartwheeling in the air to land on my feet. I’m sure that the leaves that flutter and dance to the ground around me appreciate my graceless human imitation of their descents.

Given that slackrope and especially swinging is all about movement, a video of some of my more successful practice seemed appropriate for this post. Special thanks to MelissaH for putting this video together and also for her k-pop obsession which lead to choosing the incredibly appropriate background music for this clip.



Bird Millman once said that she could "could walk a wire if they strung it between a couple of stars." I'm with Bing Crosby though: my dream (at least this week) is to swing on the stars:

Would you like to swing on a star
Carry moonbeams home in a jar
And be better off than you are
…
So you see it's all up to you
You can be better than you are
You could be swingin' on a star
~Bing Crosby, "Swinging on a Star"

I hope this post gave you a glimpse into the beauty of slackrope and that you’ve had a taste of the joy I experienced this autumn swinging on slackrope. I hope you're enjoying your autumn as well.

Learning Grit: Juggling

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“Over time, grit is what separates fruitful lives from aimlessness.” 
~John Ortberg

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A while back a good friend of mine told me about how she’d been teaching her daughter about “grit”— persisting even when the task is difficult. Like my little friend, I am learning about grit: for more than a year now, I have been learning how to juggle.

My dream of tightwire has spilled over into a fascination with all thing circus, and what is the circus without juggling? I have generally avoided sports that involve kicking, throwing, and catching—basically anything that involves quick reflexes, coordination, and airborne projectiles. It’s just not my thing, and that’s ok. Sadly though my high avoidance for any and all even remotely similar skills means that I don’t have a great foundation for this juggling endeavor.

Juggling is probably the most accessible of the circus disciplines, so at least getting started was easy. First I found inexpensive juggling balls—juggling beanbags actually: they don’t roll so far when dropped; which is good because I drop them constantly. Next I got a book that promised simple step-by-step instruction for the basic cascade juggling pattern. Then began the grueling repetitive practice of teaching my hands to do something utterly foreign.

Lesson #1: Just throw one ball from hand to hand so the ball arcs in a sort of figure-8 pattern. My book suggests spending at least half an hour on this skill…I spent three weeks.

Lesson #2 was tossing two balls, one from each hand, so one is tossed just as the other crests. I spent at least another two weeks just on that.

Lesson #3 was to throw all three balls in succession, holding two in one hand and one in the other. This came more easily, so I only kept myself on it for a week or so before moving forward.

When I could do three tosses reasonably well, I thought I’d soon be able to juggle. I could see what the pattern was supposed to be, it was just a matter of adding tosses. “Just adding tosses,” should be easy enough right? Nope. The balls were flying out of control by toss three or four…or two. Somewhat discouraged, but still determined, I backed up…I practiced one toss, two, three. Eventually it became three tosses and sometimes four, four and sometimes five… progress seemed unmeasurably slow and backing up frequent.


Learning to juggle is taking a lot of time and patience. With all the other things in my life I’m metaphorically juggling, it’s hard to fit one more thing in. Luckily I found a time that doesn’t take away from everything else: I juggle my way to and from work, a ten minute walk—which became a fifteen minute walk once I added in the constant stops to retrieve rogue balls. I juggled my way to and from work all through last summer and autumn, and started up again this spring once it was warm enough.

Juggling has also been an exercise in grit because my painstaking practice hasn’t been conducted in private. My walk to and from work isn’t through a high traffic area luckily, or my erratic tosses would make me a public menace, but there are enough passersby. Somehow I’m most likely to fumble the very first toss or fumble all three balls at once just as someone is approaching. I’ve learned to shrug it off, to focus on what I’m learning rather than how I’m performing.

The weather is getting cool again now, so during my morning walk I juggle till my hands are numb, let them thaw, then go again. It’s worth it though, especially because just in the last few weeks I’ve finally reached the point where I’m really “juggling”—no longer confined to halting tosses, painstakingly counted. My “runs” are pretty short—I can’t keep control of the pattern indefinitely, and all too often I drop a ball after only a few tosses, but I’ve finally had a chance to experience that “satisfying circularity”¹ that comes with control and automaticity.

I’ve been thinking about juggling not just because my juggling “season” is coming to a close, but also because it’s about time to retire my first set of juggling beanbag balls. They’ve served me well through two seasons of commutes to work now, and they’re pretty disreputable looking from being dropped on pavement, in the dirt, the grass, the dew, being stepped on, squashed in my bag, and fiddled with in my pockets.

Now that I have the basic beginner’s “cascade” pattern down nearly well enough, it’ll be time soon to add something new—maybe juggling two balls in one hand to work my way up to a four ball pattern or maybe the next easiest 3-ball tricks, “Juggler’s Tennis” or "Columns."  Learning something new will mean going back to the beginning and back to basics all over again. Toss, fumble, retrieve, and try again.

If grit can get me there; if some sensible instruction, a little technique, and endless repetition are what it takes, eventually I'll be able to juggle at least a little.

I got grit. How ‘bout you?

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¹ Duncan Wall. 2012. The Ordinary Acrobat, page 85.

Balancing to the Music

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This balance between repetition and variation (new information) is what turns sound into music. …A great musician is a master of balance, of equilibrium; he/she knows when to add something new, when to create tension, and when to give us the predictable and let us feel at home.
 ~ajrdileva, "Music Balance (Repetition vs Variation Culture)"

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A mini highlight in my week was discovering a new song for my balance playlist. Yes, of course I have a playlist just for songs I balance to. Plugging in my headphones, stepping off the ground, and fitting my movements and my soul into the rhythm of the music and the sway of my slackline is incredibly satisfying.

I’m pretty picky about what I listen to when I’m balancing (hence the playlist). Given that I generally walk slowly, and focus on subtle, controlled movements, it's understandable that people assume I listen to mellow instrumentals. That is not the case however; almost everything on my playlist has vocals (lyrics I connect with), and an upbeat tempo. The songs on the list span several genres: musical soundtracks, pop/rock, country, and Christian contemporary.

Confession: I’m a nerd. After discovering my new song (I will get to that…eventually) and deciding to write this post, I wondered what made songs "right" for balancing.  I couldn't articulate anything concrete beyond vocals and a decent tempo, so I decided to see if Pandora could help me out. I created a station based off of my playlist songs, and when Pandora chose something I liked, I’d check the “Why was this track selected?”

Pandora was baffled by my mix. The genres identified were: hip-hop, electronica, blues, rock, disco, folk, country, and gospel, as well as cross-overs between the genres. The musical qualities were contradictory: syncopated or unsyncopated, repetitive or varying, acoustic  or synthesized, major key or minor key, melodic or harmonic, etc. Pandora started adding "…and many other features identified by the music genome project."

Well, it was worth a shot. Without a precise analysis or explanation of my musical preferences, I’m just going to assume that I've settled on some incredibly appropriate balance of sometimes contradictory musical qualities. That is, after all, what great music is all about according to ajrdileva who so kindly provided the header quote for this post.

In addition to the rank and file songs on my playlist there are also the "premier" songs: songs that have the appropriate (if ambiguous) balance of musical qualities, have lyrics I connect with, and are thematically appropriate to the activity. Idina Menzel’s "Defying Gravity" from Wicked was the first to make the premier list. Next was "Firework" by Katy Perry (partly in honor of the scene from Madagascar III where I first heard the song).

This week’s song to make the premier list is "Don’t Look Down" from the TV show Austin & Ally (which I've never actually watched). If you don’t know the song, below are an abbreviated version of the lyrics and a link to the song online—you’ll have no trouble seeing (or hearing) why it made the premier list:

"Don't Look Down"
Sung by Laura Marano and Ross Lynch

I’m walking on a thin line
And my hands are tied
Got nowhere to hide
I’m standing at a crossroads
Don’t know where to go
Feeling so exposed  

Yeah I'm caught In between
Where I'm going and where I've been
But no,
There's no turning back  

It’s like I’m balanced on the edge,
It’s like I’m hanging by a thread,
But I’m still gonna push ahead
So I tell myself
Yeah, I tell myself  

Don’t look down, down, down, down
Don’t look down, down, down, down
…

It's a good song.

After that rather lame conclusion sentence, I spent hours deciding what to write next, because, honestly, adding a third song to the premier list made another theme evident: I'm drawn to songs about inner greatness, impressive individuality...and (overcoming) self-doubt. The audacity to aspire to a grand spotlight seems somehow presumptuous, and realizing anew—and highlighting in writing yet again—how pervasive my self-doubts are makes me feel uncomfortably vulnerable.  I generally wait to post until I can wrap up in an inspiring way, but I discovered this song this week, and it might be months or years before my feelings of being "caught in between where I'm going and where I've been" are safely, and inspiringly, in the past.

So I decided to take a risk, be vulnerable, and not wrap up my post with a clear and tidy sense of victory. For this week I'll be glad that I discovered a new song and, in the process, learned about balance in music. Music has a way of speaking to how we feel, so I guess if I sway and bounce and step to a beat that reflects my hopes and my fears, that's no bad way to push ahead.  I'll learn to defy gravity, let loose the fireworks in my soul, and balance on the edge—in time.

Niagara on a Tightrope

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Daredevils, lunatics, call them what you will; there’s one thing that unites those folks who attempted the tightrope-walking or barrel-riding stunts…an irrepressible urge to stand out from the crowd. Niagara Falls was their stage, and they intended to fill the show with rapturous applause, even if it meant bringing the curtain down for the final time.
~ Karl Fabricius

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Niagara Falls is an iconic landmark and natural wonder, one that I've wanted to see for a while. This past weekend I had the chance to visit for the first time. While the falls are a draw in and of themselves, there was also a bubble of joy in my heart that I carried quietly through the weekend because of Niagara'a significance in the history of wire walking and also its association with the storybook Mirette on the High Wire—the book that started it all.

Henry Bellini with Niagara in the background

People are generally more familiar with the Niagara barrel stunts of the 20th century than the wire walkers of the 19th, but in their time the wire daredevil performances were every bit as popular—possibly more so because they were legal (advertisable and marketable) spectacles. Niagara was a popular summer resort for the wealthy; whole families with servants in tow would “summer” at the luxury hotels lining Niagara gorge. For the wire performances, the bridge and grandstands were full of men in top hats, women with parasols, and little girls clinging to the skirts of their nurses; bands on both sides of the rivers added accompaniment, and once safely across, the performer might be driven in a carriage with four horses up to one of the hotels for refreshment before making the return trip.

Maria Spelterini, the only female Niagara wirewalker,
pictured here with peach baskets on her feet

At least eight wire walkers performed crossings of the Niagara gorge between 1859 and 1896. Never content with simply crossing safely the 1,000+ foot span nearly 200 feet over rocks and torrents, these performers added headstands, somersaults, sprinted across in 2 minutes, cooked themselves breakfast, did laundry in an old fashioned wash tub, climbed down to the Maid of the Mist and then back up, pushed wheelbarrows, walked blindfolded, and wore baskets instead of shoes.

Incredibly, in the history of the Niagara wire-walkers, there was only ever one fatality and it was an after-hours fatality at that: crossing in the dark, drunk, wearing street shoes, with no known spectators made Stephen Peer’s demise almost anti-climactic. By the time Niagara officials banned unauthorized stunting in 1884 and began refusing authorization in 1896, the crowds coming to view the wire-walkers were dwindling. The wire-walkers with their daring and drive had perhaps done their job too well: the crowds pretty well assumed a successful crossing and no longer watched with bated breath (or aggressively bet on the outcome).

Two years ago, after a 116 year hiatus, the Falls were once again graced by the presence of a wire-walker. Nik Wallenda, heir of a five-generation wire walking legacy, received approval—after several years of petitions and negotiations—to string his wire across the Niagara. It was a momentous comeback, especially because, for the first time ever, a wire-walker would be walking over the Horseshoe Falls rather than “merely” across the gorge just downstream from the falls. It would also be one of the longest walks in the region: 1,800 feet, topping previous records by 300 feet.

 

The dark of night made for a stunning contrast with the illuminated mist and falling water of his crossing. I'm certain the crowds lining the gorge were every bit as breathless as those that had come to see Blondin.


When I first read the children’s storybook Mirette on the High Wire and fell in love with wire walking, I didn't have any actual experience with wire walking and frankly believed that the reputed accomplishments of the fictional mentor wire-walker Bellini were just that—fictional tall-tale feats attributed to a purely fictional character. Well, doesn't crossing Niagara AND stopping in the middle to cook an omelet sound a bit far fetched?

Illustration from Mirette on the Highwire

You can imagine how delighted I was when I discovered that the exploits of the fictional Bellini were based on the actual accomplishments of Jean Francois Gravalet, known as "Blondin," one of the greats in wire-walking history and the first to cross the Niagara gorge.  Then just recently as I prepared for my trip (by researching lesser-known Niagara wire walkers specifically), I was elated to discover that there actually had been a Niagara wire-walker who went by the name of Bellini. My childhood fantasy was actually history—or at least solidly based in history.

With its storybook associations and rich non-fictional heritage of wire walking, Niagara was a wonderful place to visit. I passed a plaque marking the site of the old suspension bridge next to which many of the old-time wire walkers stretched their cables. I stood on Terrapin Point on Goat Island where Nik Wallenda began his walk. While viewing the grand spectacle of the falls, my eyes would often wander to scan the gorge, imagining a wire stretched taut across. Looking at the dizzying drops and rushing water and imagining what it might be like walking in the midst of the nothingness above made my stomach churn in miniature imitation of the water below.

An important stop for me on the trip was the monument to Nik Wallenda’s crossing, complete with a section of the actual wire he used. After only a glimpse of the monument's unveiling in an online news article, I immediately wondered if the boulder was climbable, if the wire mounting was appropriately weight bearing, and if I’d get arrested for desecrating a monument—because of course I wanted to walk where Nik Wallenda walked.

A picture of Wallenda balancing on top of his monument found a bit later in my internet surfing was the clincher, resolving at least two of my three concerns, and so on a sunny Monday morning I tried it out myself with the sunlit mists of the falls behind me as I stood on a wire that had crossed through those very mists supporting a lone man across the chasm.

To stand where great men have stood and remember their accomplishments is a rewarding experience for the ambitious. Having seen the falls, I better understood why wire-walkers were drawn to this location; I also understood the desire to stand out on this beautiful natural stage. I wanted my turn balancing with grand curtains of falling water as my backdrop, and I'm always craving a balance challenge. Highwires may be banned, but handrails are plentiful, so this second ambition was also fairly easy to fulfill…I just had to choose a rail not on the edge of the gorge.

A gorgeous sunset, a beautiful backdrop, and a balance challenge, it was a perfect moment.

The Next Generation

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In Greece…the art of rope-walking was held in the highest regard as part of the education of the young.
~ Hermine Demoraine

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The benefits of equilibristics (balance) training are almost too numerous to list: improved spatial perception, proprioception, and vestibular function; added brain mass and neuropathways; better muscle isolation, joint stabilization, and neuromuscular coordination to name a few. Given the beneficiality of equilbristic training, of course as a conscientious member of society and an amateur funambulist, I’m trying follow the example of the Greeks and do my part to provide a well-rounded education to the young.

Ok, really the biomechanics and neuroscience jargon—while valid—was a chance to see how many big scientific-y words I could fit into a single run-on sentence. Balancing really is beneficial, and I am pretty passionate about giving kids opportunities to learn and experience rope walking. I’m doing my level best to help develop the next generation of funambulists and equilibrists. Mostly though I wanted an excuse to share some of the adorable photos I’ve taken of kids balancing.

The joy and excitement on their faces is infections. Some have a look of ageless concentration on their faces and take their first ventures very seriously, others giggle uncontrollably as they (or the line under their feet) wobbles uncontrollably, others need a more secure helping hand, but, given a little security, soon enough are grinning ear to ear.

One little girl, after she’d tried out my waterline, shyly confided to me that she had dreams of wirewalking. I heartily approved and shared that I had just the same dream—and was pursuing it. I hope that somewhere along the way I convey to these children who aren’t afraid of dreaming big that those dreams are worth pursuing—that they can pursue them. And if I help them dream of rope walking specifically…I certainly won’t complain.

So here’s to the next generation, the next generation of equilibrists, the next generation of dreamers.

Go Down to the Wire

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If there’s ever an issue when I’m walking across the Grand Canyon or anywhere, I would go down to the wire immediately, and that wire’s a safe haven.
~Nik Wallenda

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A friend of mine brought her younger sibling waterlining this past Saturday. Even though it was her first time, our newest inductee to slacklining had an incredibly good instinct for catching the line to break her fall. It got me thinking about highwire & highline artists and athletes’ strategies for staying safe (and alive).

In an interview before walking the Grand Canyon, highwire artist Nik Wallenda talked about how he has trained since childhood to “go down to the wire” in case of emergency. Sure enough when the winds got rough and the wire began a building oscillation, Nik Wallenda did just that:

During that skywalk, things never got so rough that he had to go all the way down and wrap his arms and legs around the wire—but he has also trained for that.

Slackliners also train safety responses, though from what I’ve seen, often instead of a crouch, quite a few of them will drop down to sitting position—a butt bounce with the line between the legs known as “The Korean” because Korean tightropers—“Jultagi” artists—do a similar move. Whether in a crouch or in a drop, being closer to the wire makes the balancers more stable by lowering their center of gravity so they aren't tottering so high above their narrow balance point. Being closer to the wire or line also makes it more likely that the balancer will be able to grab hold of it if they fall.

The ideal response is to go down to the wire proactively/preemptively, to be in control to crouch or drop, to go down before too much off balance. But control is something to strive for, not to count on; we can’t always anticipate what might go wrong, what sudden gust or inexplicable stumble might come. And so a second safety response is needed as well. Highwire artists and highliners train to fall toward the line (rather than away from it into thin air) and to catch the line as they fall—to grab hold, and hold on until help can arrive. In extreme cases, they’ll even try to hit the wire with as much of their body as possible--to fall across it to have the best possible chance of hanging on. I believe that Tino Wallenda, Nik Wallenda’s uncle, has several times broken and bruised ribs falling onto the wire—but better that than falling to the ground.

I'm really only just beginning to develop these skills and responses. The first safety response, of preemtively going down to the rope, whether in the wirewalker’s crouch or with the slackliner’s drop, isn't something that is instinctual for me at this point; it’s something I still need to work on. I think I do better with that second safety response though—catching the line. Waterlining this summer has given me ample opportunity to practice.

Waterlining for me is training ground for high balancing. While waterlining lacks the quick and dry recovery of a regular low-to-the-ground slackline, the water provides a safe, if wet, landing while adding the challenge of moving water underneath as an unstable focal point and the motivation to try to stay safely dry. Just as importantly, while falling or jumping clear of the line and taking a plunge is perfectly acceptable, waterlining can also be an opportunity to train the safety responses that can't be practiced low to the ground but without the cumbersome safety equipment needed for high balancing.

I have to admit, keeping at least my head and shoulders out of the frigid water and towing myself quickly back to shore were probably the primary motivators for learning to catch while waterlining. One of my friends said that that I often somehow managed to tip and grab for the line before my feet actually left it. What I don't know is if I catch hold strongly enough to support the full weight of a fall high up. More training and practice is definitely something in my future, but at least I've made a start.

I find an analogy in everything; I can’t resist. So this is what I’ve been thinking about this week: just as the highwire walker has a base of support—his wire—holding him up, we all have bases of support—support systems—in our lives.  These are our family and friends, the people we turn to when we need help and comfort.  These threads of genuine human connection are what our lives and human society are woven from. And when life gets rough, an effective survival strategy is sticking close to those support systems just as a wirewalker crouches closer to his wire.

Sometimes life’s upsets come upon us unexpectedly and bowl us over, just like an unexpected gust of wind or stumble. Then it isn’t enough just to move closer to our supports, instead perhaps we need to reach for the love and support we’ll need to hold onto till we regain our balance.

The day after waterlining, as I was drafting this post, I had the chance for a good long talk with a friend, a good friend who was willing to listen to some of my deepest worries, fears, and frustrations with compassion and without judgment; a friend who was also willing to share some of the tilts and tips in her own life. I have been very blessed to have friends like that, friends who are willing to lend a hand helping me keep my balance—metaphorically and also literally.

Life seems to be giving me opportunities to set aside my invincible independence and focus instead on the people close to me.  While I’m learning to reach out proactively before my world rocks me too off balance, it seems like often enough lately I’ve stumbled and, metaphorically, fallen hard onto the support of family and friends. It has, admittedly, bruised my ego a bit, but it's kept me from ever being broken on rock bottom.  I’m so grateful to the friends and family that have been there to prop me up.

So that is my lesson for the week: learning to make my instinctual response to the upsets of life the same as Nik Wallenda’s: go down to the wire.

Walking on Water

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I don’t know what I was looking for, but I found it on the other side.
~Julia Hagen

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Summer is, unfortunately, winding down now, so I’m savoring what is left. I’ve had a fairly low key summer all in all; aside from work and some sporadic job hunting, balance has been a big focus. This summer I was determined to conquer a waterline. Waterlines are just cool: it’s just a slackline over water—which means if you fall you get wet, which is pretty much perfect to a summer slacker like me.

There’s a great pre-bolted place on a river near where I live. The sides of the river are cemented where a bridge used to be, the banks are grassy, there are trees for shade, and a bridge just downstream makes for easy setup and a convenient alternative to the slackline for travel from side to side. The water is frigid, but the bolting for anchors, deep enough water, and a short enough span for my current gear make it the most ideal location I’ve found yet.

When the weather is hot, I’ve sent out blanket invitations to friends to join me for a waterlining session. Quite a few friends have joined me who had never slacklined over solid earth before, let alone over water. We alternated between falling into the river and sitting out on the grassy bank to get warm again. When walking on top didn’t work out, hanging underneath and pulling across was a popular alternative.

The waterline is located at a popular park and swimming hole, so spectators are many and new “friends” too—anyone who wants to try is welcome. Given the people lining the bridge and lining up for a turn, you’d never guess from the pictures that I generally only have 2 – 4 of my own friends in tow. I like sharing my passion, so I don’t mind the crowds. And hey, really, am I going to object to hearing random strangers say how cool I am?

I’ve loved the waterlining sessions. It’s the best of summer: outdoor fun in the sun, balance playtime, good friends, and lots of laughter—and the flailing, bailing, and splashing gives us plenty to laugh about.

In terms of just having fun, the waterline is always a success, but I’ve been motivated to have some balance success too. Last year I was unable to conquer this waterline. I had two years of slacklining under my belt…and all of that skill seemed to go out the window once there was water involved. Even the motivation of staying out of the cold water couldn’t keep me on the line. I generally took a dunking after just a step or maybe two. Once, just once, I made it almost half way.

When I went back for the first time this year, I thought for sure I was ready. I had practiced balance pipe all through the winter, had practiced on longer lines at lesser tension through the summer, even setting up my slackline across the same span as the river…but once again I fell as quickly as I stood. During that first session this year, after many falls I became a little bit steadier and, eventually, made it almost half way again. I was relieved that at least I wasn't doing worse than the previous year, but it was hardly the degree of progress I'd expected.

Some things just take time, then happen all in an instant. I set up my waterline twice more in the past week. And the great news: I conquered!

Last Friday I’d arranged to waterline with a friend…but she was unable to at the last minute. I’d been looking forward to it all week so I decided to go anyway even though waterlining alone is a bit sketchy. There were enough people around, and I was careful to stay where the water was a safe depth. I fell in a lot, but after an hour, I started to make more progress down the line. And then out of the blue it happened: I made it all the way across!

As I stepped off the slackline back onto solid ground, my victory was met by the spontaneous cheering of twenty Boys and Girls Club members who were on a field trip. Those cheers broke the controlled calm and focus I’d submerged myself into, brought elation bubbling to the surface as I threw my arms up, acknowledging the applause. I crossed the bridge back to the other side…and crossed the waterline again without falling. One of the little girls kept track of my crossings for me: one then two, three then four, and still more. As soon as I’d done it once, I could do it again.

I went back again the next day with a few friends and walked pretty steadily right from the start—steadily enough that I challenged myself by adding simple tricks like kneeling, sitting, laying, remounting, and turning. Sometimes I still fell after just a few steps, but really not all that often. Something just clicked, and what I could do over solid ground, I could do over water. Libby Sauter, a professional slackliner I’d met at the All Girls Slackline Festival in May, described having that same sort of moment highlining—the moment when it seemed no different than walking near the ground. I’m looking forward to that "click" moment like you wouldn't believe.

The victory of crossing the river was a big one for me. It was a very real and concrete victory during a time when mostly I have made slow and steady learning progress—the kind of progress that is often hard to measure. That moment of victory reminded me of something I heard Julia Hagen say just after she’d successfully crossed ("sended" in climber's lingo) her first highline: 'I don’t know what I was looking for, but I found it on the other side.'

That’s how I feel: I’m seeking balance, I’m not even always sure why, but in moments like this one—when I stepped onto solid ground having crossed over a river on a stretchy, shaky 1-inch wide piece of webbing—I just know that I've found a piece of what I've been looking for. I’ve been riding a high for days—a delicious sense of confidence and accomplishment.

As wonderful as stepping back onto solid ground is, one of my favorite times on this waterline is in the middle. As I walk out away from the bank along the downward curve, the line dips low, then touches the water. The cold water just covers the tops of my feet as my slackline swishes and splashes as it sways. And for a little while I’m walking on water. It’s magical there in the middle—in many ways as magical as arriving at the far shore.

Here’s to all the summer slackers who have joined me in the middle and cheered my arrival on the other side.