Heights. One of the most frightening memories I have is of 20 years or so ago when I pulled a stunt that I would never have done had I known it would haunt me.

I had gone with my sis and brother in law to central Oregon to the Crooked River Ranch. While they went to the chapel for a Sunday service I went walking.

On the way back, not wanting to come back the same way I had gone, I looked around to see what my options were. In front of me was a horse pasture ringed with electric/barbed wire fence. It had rained lightly and I didn't want to slide on my belly under the bottom rung so I eyed the only other option: Stepping across a 500-foot chasm (WAY below was the Crooked River which over the last thousand years had cut its way).

Now this was Central Oregon- high desert country- so there were no fence-post holes- Fences are attached to a creche made of boards and filled with large rocks. This creche was situated absolutely, positively on the edge of the chasm to keep horses from attempting to cross.

I reached out and checked the board on this side. Firm. I reached across and checked the board on the far side. Firm.

If I put one foot here with one hand there and then the other foot there and the other hand there, then with one final step I'd be across the fence and inside the horse pasture...

I did that. And to this day I shudder at the thought that for some seconds I was hanging above the chasm. Makes the hair rise on my neck.