It was during my first summer in Colorado, on one of my first camping trips, that I found myself standing on the edge of a fifty-foot cliff that hovered over the Colorado River prepared to jump. When we first arrived at the spot I feigned excitement when my male companions realized this was the ideal spot for cliff jumping, encouraged them to go for it, and settled into a nearby hot spring.
As I watched them leap off the edge, splash, and sink into the water once, twice, three times I began to get inspired. They emerged each time laughing and looking alive and refreshed. I wondered how it feels to be floating in air for that split second, to meet the cold quick-moving water with such speed and force. It seemed like one of those once-in-a-lifetime deals, jumping from a cliff in the sparkling Colorado sunshine, landing in the renowned Colorado River. I thought about it to the point where I knew if I didn’t do it I’d regret it. I suggested to the other female camping with us that weekend that we make like the boys and jump. She thought it was a fabulous idea and we decided we’d at least make our way to the top of the cliff and look down.
I became even more inspired when we got to the top. We were at a cliff-lined bend in the river, a Union Pacific train whistled past on a cliff on the other side of the river then disappeared into a tunnel, traveling a path paved long ago. I wondered how long it had taken the river to shape this cliff to make it a good jumping spot. I wondered if this had been the perfect jumping spot back when the Union Pacific railroad tracks were first constructed and if ancient versions of ourselves, donned in dusty bathing costumes, had found this place long before we had.
Looking down, down, down at the water I cleared my mind of cluttered thoughts and concentrated only on summoning the courage to jump. Just thinking about it now, recalling the height, the feel of the warm rocky ground my feet were clinging to, makes my stomach tumble. My companion and I counted to four (because three is just not enough time), took a deep breath, and leapt.
I remember floating in air for a brief moment, my stomach fluttering somewhere in my head. I remember hitting the water. I remember the pain. I jumped with what the guys were quick to point out was “the wrong form” and hit the water hard. The water was cold and swirling and the force with which I hit ripped my eyes open and twisted my bathing suit in an unflattering way. I kicked my way to the surface and grabbed onto the closest, sturdiest rock. I was shaking, laughing uncontrollably, and praying the pain would leave me quickly. The guys told me when I first surfaced the look on my face was that of pure panic. I assured them that the feeling in my gut at that moment was that of pure panic.
Under the stars that night I reflected on the day. I had spent the year after college, before moving to Vail, on the edge of a cliff, waiting and wishing for the courage to jump. I had felt unable to move in any direction, with no motivation to observe or create. It wasn’t a horrible place to be, on the edge of a cliff looking over the beauty and possibility in front of me, knowing it was only a quick leap away. The ground under my feet was sturdy and familiar, comforting. But, I have found, I can only stand on the edge of a cliff for so long before I start to fear falling or being pushed against my will, or worse, before I lose my courage. So because I didn’t want an opportunity to pass, because it was either jump or step away from the cliff, I counted to four and I leapt.
