I look up. sun’s warming glow illuminates still nature surrounding me. All is quiet—apart from muffled murmur of sound. Bzzz. I spy gathering of bees further upward. They’re harmless. I close my eyes and inhale deeply while I let soothing breeze wash over me. For brief moment, everything is calm and pleasant. And then something shatters silence—“Mitch!”

I look down. My friend Connor is eagerly looking back up—from over fifty feet below me. We are at Devil’s lake rock-climbing and, I, at moment, am clinging to a sheer rock face over mess of mean looking rocks. type of rocks that would dash my brains out and leave me mangled. That sobering thought brought me back to reality. I should not be doing this—climbing up route that had chalk in hand-holds from where real rock-climbers put their hands. This kind of legitimate climber uses harnesses and belays to ensure his or her safety. I had nothing but my hands and feet to keep me from falling and becoming paraplegic at any given moment. I am so stupid.

I look up again as Connor points out what looks like reliable hand-hold. It’s fairly thin, triangular piece of rock jutting out of wall and looks as though it could possibly break. It would hold my weight, right? rock doesn't budge as I shift my right hand to it and ascend the bluff. I joke to myself, “that was pretty stupid, wasn't it Mitch?” My heart agrees by pounding like piston.