|
By Ken Graham
Many years ago, when I lived in Seattle, I took a mountaineering course. Among the important things we learned in that class was the proper way to travel on glaciers. On a glacier, you must be roped up to one or more of your fellow sloggers, so that if you should suddenly tumble into a hidden crevasse you will have a chance of being pulled out. (One of the things that makes mountaineering such a fun adventure is that sometimes enough snow will fall to completely cover the opening of one of these giant cracks in the ice. The snow will instantly dissolve when stepped on, of course, dropping the "stepper" into the abyss.)
One weekend, part of our class took an outing to the slopes of Mount Rainier to practice crevasse rescue. We got onto a glacier and walked, roped up, until we found a yawning crevasse hundreds of feet deep. Then we took turns dropping over the side of the gaping crack so that a rope partner could practice pulling us back up. (Backup anchors were in place in case the "puller" screwed up, but still . . .) Only about half of the people in our group were willing to play the part of the rescuee – I recall one woman literally in tears at the prospect. But I did it without pause. It was an eerie feeling hanging five feet below the ice surface, looking down at sure death with only a rope attached to my waist keeping me from falling into oblivion. I was pulled up safely (obviously) and returned home and went to work on Monday.
I tell this story only to demonstrate that I'm not a person who succumbs easily to fear. I'm happy to climb tall ladders and walk up to the edges of sheer cliffs. When I was single I even occasionally asked girls out on dates (to me, there was nothing much more terrifying than that).
But a couple of years ago I had an experience in which fear finally overcame me: I walked into the Tri-Cities Costco on a Saturday in late November. I was no more than 20 feet inside the entrance when my vision began to blur and all my limbs began to tremble. I was able to turn around and make a quick exit. The fresh air of a parking lot never felt so good.
I don't care how much money I can save. No dollar value can be put on the level of sheer terror that came over me when I looked around and saw the mass of humanity trapped inside that concrete box, all clutching their clothes and toys and giant appliances, with wicked smiles on their faces. I felt like I had dropped over the side of the crevasse with no rope.
Of course I sometimes have to shop, and I've developed coping skills over the years. Before entering a supermarket or a small box store like Staples (which is about as big a store as I can handle), I take a couple of deep breaths and it's OK. As long as I know exactly what I need, I can go there and grab it and move quickly to the checkout counter. If the line is long, I close my eyes and imagine myself on a beach somewhere, far away from any glaciers.
While I was researching the story about Waitsburg's downtown for this month's issue, I walked into a couple of the shops there, and it gave me a strange calming feeling. Most of the shoppers were smiling, but there was nothing evil or wicked in their faces. They were calm and relaxed and enjoying the moment, not just the prospect of getting more stuff. Shopping in downtown Dayton has always given me the same feeling.
As the holidays approach, think about the merchants in Dayton and Waitsburg. They will be open for business, and even at the height of the Christmas rush, the stores will be relaxed and fun. Walking into one of these wonderful downtown retailers is like climbing into a warm cozy tent on the cold, hard glacier of life.
Back to Top
|
