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I came to Clearwater Chrysalis, a summer retreat for women at a camp in Deerwood, Minnesota, to facilitate a workshop on inclusiveness. But what I most wanted to do was face the high ropes—a longtime dream of mine. As a person who is blind, I have always believed that my feet had to be on firm ground and that physical guidance, when requested, makes a difference. Moving confidently and gracefully and maintaining balance matter to me. The high-ropes course offered a chance to test myself, to see if I could maneuver without a guide, to let go of always having to know where I am in time and space. Besides, I always relish the opportunity to prove that I can do something that others say I couldn’t—or shouldn’t.

The high-ropes structure is set in an open field, with five metal poles spaced 24 feet apart and stabilized by steel cables anchored into the ground. A series of horizontal and vertical challenges created with ropes, wood planks, and cables are strung between the poles and platforms. Participants maneuver through these while clipped to a safety system. I imagined what it would be like for me to walk in space, unguided, along unpredictable ropes and webbing.

But suddenly anxiety replaced my eagerness. Empty-handed, I felt bereft of Gala’s partnership and wanted her harness back in my grip. Would it work for me to be the one who is harnessed? Would I be able to interact as safely, freely, and expertly upon the ropes as Gala in harness allows me to do on earth?

I took some heart from the matter-of-fact confidence of Dana, one of the instructors, as she described the safety rope and how it attached to a carabiner that linked to the cable above my head. She explained that by pulling the safety rope forward, I would control the carabiner’s slide from the end of one element, around the pole, and to the beginning of the next element. I would never be unclipped. Unhurried, Dana let me take my time. My hands, mind, and emotions explored the shape, fit, straps, and buckles of this apparatus and compared them to Gala’s harness. So different from each other! Gala’s harness perfectly suited guide work and our guide-to-guidee relationship. Could this new contraption stabilize, hold, and support me while I went solo? The construction and material of my harness conveyed a “trust me” message. “So trust ’em, Jane,” I told myself and stepped to the foot of the ladder.

I can hardly remember the next few minutes. So many sounds, too many people hovering. Everybody willing to help yet unsure how. Me quivering inside, not knowing what information I wanted or needed, wondering if I’d figure out what was essential to know before it was too late. Wondering what the ropes would teach me. And Gala—unhappy and worried not to be with me. She whimpered and I sensed her looking up, as if asking, “How do I guide you once you’re up there?”

Hand over hand, rung by rung, I climbed the metal ladder. I considered stopping at the first level, but opted to go all the way to the top. “Jane, do you know how high you are?” D.J., the camp director, called up to me.

Judging by the sounds, I estimated it to be about the same distance as from the Washington Avenue footbridge down to the traffic below. “Thirty feet?” I guessed. Everyone cheered—and wondered, “How did she know?”

I tipped my head and felt the sun’s warmth on my face. Up here I knew I could count on this familiar, reliable point of reference. I tuned out voices on the ground; they were way too loud. Some of the onlookers were already effusively saying, “Good job, Jane.” But I hadn’t done anything yet. I dismissed them and paid strict attention to whichever staffer’s voice gave me information about my immediate choices and tasks.

“Dana,” I said before I stepped off the ladder onto the tower’s wooden platform, “Let’s agree that you won’t say ‘good job’ every time I do something, OK? That’s distracting.” Establishing that understanding between us freed me from having to be grateful all the time.

I stood on the platform and met my first big, hollow metal pole. I felt the hooks for the harness clips and the tracks that the safety rope would follow. Dana unhooked me from the ladder safety line and hooked me to the cable above my head. She showed me how I had to maneuver my safety rope around each pole. Initially, I couldn’t situate my carabiner correctly and, already, had to ask for Dana’s help. But I succeeded in guiding my clip around the next pole myself.

Once I stepped off the boards and onto the tightrope element, I immediately felt tipsy. There I was, teetering, holding tight to the safety line, wondering, “Now what? I can’t just stand here. Do something!”

My self-image of grace and perfection didn’t translate well to the ropes. I feared becoming a flailing, grabbing Jane. Groping—that blindism to avoid at all cost. “I’ve got to figure out what to do next,” I thought determinedly. I took a breath, relaxed, released my grip, and reached for the hand rings that I’d been told were there. Caught one! I swung one foot forward, placing it heel to toe. I picked up my back foot and gingerly set it down in front. Momentum created balance. I would have to trust this new relationship of ropes, harness, and me if I wanted to finish. Inch by inch, I quivered my way to the end of the first element.

“The platform is one more giant step ahead,” Dana called. I lifted my foot high and far and threw my body forward. The ringing slap of my hand on the pole was the best high five I ever gave—and I hugged that pole hard. Belly laughter replaced my fears.

At each of the remaining seven elements, a staff member and I talked about what was next. I imagined what was ahead of me as a different kind of street whose surface was much more unpredictable than I was used to. As I grew more comfortable, I observed what others were doing. “Charlie, how do you dart across like that?” I asked. “You do it so I can hear the confidence in you. I want to do it just like you!”

Then I fell. I lost my footing and my stomach lurched. I flung my hands out in a futile attempt to regain balance. But I was OK. It was no big deal; the safety rope kept me from dropping more than a couple feet and I easily got back up on the ropes and continued on.

When I had completed all of the elements, I didn’t want to climb back down that ladder. I wanted to try another option: the zip line. This would allow me to fly from a height of three stories down to the ground in one swift rush. Facing forward, I pushed off, hanging tightly to the safety rope above my head. When I reached the ground, someone asked if I was done. I responded, “Let’s do it all again!” And we did.

Then the staff encouraged me to give freefalling a try—to not use my hands and to fall backwards off of the zip line platform into space. “Me freefall? Even with these ropes and harness in place—I don’t think so!” I fretted silently. I’ve spent my entire life paying attention to where I am in relationship to what’s around me. Being aware of how I move through time and space keeps me safe. If I’m paying attention and a fall still comes, my body is better prepared to handle it. So I sat on that freefall choice a long time.

Finally, I stood on the platform and fought the urge to grab the safety rope over my head. I held my arms out away from my sides—trusting the harness—and fell backwards.

After I’d dropped through space without dying (there are photos), I celebrated. I had truly let go of constraints I usually put on my body and discovered flexibility matters. I didn’t always need firm ground to get where I wanted to go, and guidance doesn’t always come from predictable sources. I could do things, blindness notwithstanding, whether or not others said I could or should. The high ropes harness had let me be self-reliant and self-guided.

Once back on the ground for good, I remember clearly feeling three things: weary, renewed, and proud. And I wanted Gala. I gave her a hug and patted her all over. I let her sniff me until she was sure I was OK. Then I took my harness off and put hers on and with delight said, “Gala, forward.”         

Jane L. Toleno (B.A. ’97) is the author of BlindSight: come and see (Singing River Publications, 2006), conversational essays about one woman’s unconventional journeys through blindness and life. She is thankful for the high-ropes experience at the Presbyterian Clearwater Forest camp that challenged her to dream of other adventures, perhaps even to skydive on her 60th birthday. Toleno lives in Big Lake, Minnesota.

First Person features personal essays written by alumni, faculty, students, or anyone with a University connection. To request writers’ guidelines, visit www.alumni.umn.edu/minnesota.