Anecdotes : Machu Picchu and A Fear of Heights
The Sacred Valley of the Incas includes some of the most breathtaking landscapes I've ever seen. It also brought me face-to-face with a lifelong fear of heights and provided some visceral exposure therapy.
I recently took a trip to Machu Picchu in Peru, and spent four days hiking the Inca Trail through the Andes Mountains. The hike included exposed, narrow trails up steep mountain sides and cliffs, and the experience put me face-to-face with a long standing but waning fear of heights. It got me thinking about my personal history with this phobia, and how far I’ve come through exposure therapy. It culminated with a hike up Huayna Picchu the day after completing the Inca Trail, and whet my appetite to keep confronting the fear until it’s completely gone. I also learned the distinction between a fear of heights and a fear of falling, and realized that I actually experience much more of the latter and not much of the former.
Many people conflate a fear of heights with a fear of falling, but they’re two distinct phobias. A fear of heights (acrophobia) deals with the height itself, while a fear of falling (basophobia) deals with the dangers of falling while in a high place. I haven’t been diagnosed, but based on my experiences I must have more of a fear of falling, because the anxiety is almost non-existent when barriers are in place. When no barriers exist, my thoughts are hyper-focused on not falling rather than the heights themselves. I can be inside a skyscraper on the top floor, or on a roof with proper barricades in place, and I’ll feel no anxiety or fear. While on top of a cliff or open platform, however, I’m hyper-focused on my movements and making sure I don’t fall. This was not always the case, and through past experiences I’ve eliminated much of my anxiety regarding heights.
When I was a kid, I had a paralyzing fear of heights/falling. My main memory of this is from a family trip to Washington DC when I was eight years old. We stopped on the way to visit Gettysburg in Pennsylvania. While there, we ascended the now-demolished Gettysburg Tower to get a panoramic view of the surroundings. The structure had two interior levels with exhibits, and one outdoor level at the summit. I walked around the interior levels without issue, but on the outdoor platform I was nearly paralyzed with fear. I wouldn’t even approach the edge, even though proper barricades were in place to prevent a fall. It was too long ago to remember specific feelings or thoughts, but I do remember having a hard time walking around whilst I was at the top of the structure.
Fast-forward to my college years in Milwaukee, while I was studying architecture. For one of my classes, I took a tour of City Hall while it was undergoing facade restoration. The building was encased in scaffolding, and after a short harness training my classmates and I ascended the exterior of the structure in a construction elevator. Once I was fourteen stories above the city, I was reluctant to move around freely and needed to hold onto the structure with one or both hands constantly. I remember having to force myself to concentrate on the act of walking, always making sure I was well supported by each limb. Looking back, my reliance on having three or four points of contact to steady myself relates much more to a fear of falling rather than a fear of heights. It wasn’t the height itself that I was worried about, but rather the possibility of losing my balance and falling.
A later example is from my post-college years when I lived in Chicago. Several times I visited the Sears Tower Skydeck, 103 stories above the street. One feature of the experience is four glass boxes that cantilever out from the building facade. Standing in these glass boxes and looking down produced an interesting tension within my brain. I wasn’t struck with anxiety or fear, but I still had to concentrate on my movements in order for them to be fluid. It’s almost as if my eyes were telling my brain to be anxious, but my brain knew there wasn’t any danger of falling. I didn’t have an issue moving around like I did on the scaffolding of Milwaukee City Hall, but my movements were still constantly being second-guessed by my brain.
Huayna Picchu, behind the ruins of Machu Picchu. The hike went up the left side of the mountain, where the densest foliage is concentrated. The summit of the mountain is where the Huayna Picchu ruins are.
My most visceral experience with heights came this past year on a trip to Machu Picchu in Peru. Near the ruins is a steep mountain called Huayna Picchu, which requires a separate permit to hike and affords some of the best and most unique views of the site. It’s quite steep, however, and I was warned of it's difficulty by my trail guide José before hiking it. I chose to ascend Huayna Picchu the day after reaching Machu Picchu to give myself a bit of a rest, but my legs were still quite tired from the four day trek. I began first thing in the morning, and decided to ascend slowly and methodically in order to conserve energy. The path was quite steep at parts, and very exposed, leaving me with an uneasy feeling as I climbed. There was also a growing dread about the descent back down, like I would get stuck at the top and wouldn't be able to make it back down.
View from the trail. It felt quite exposed at parts, and the path was only a couple feet wide, which really intensified the experience. For most of the hike there was nothing to grab onto except for the rock-face, but pictured here is a rope on the outer side to grab onto.
As I made my way up the mountainside, My legs began to tire out from the previous four days, and my brain began to lose trust in my body. I needed to focus more and more on my movements, and I would double- and triple-check the grip on my hands every couple steps. I also grew aware of a growing conflict within my brain. As I ascended, I gained confidence in the climb but also grew more anxious over the perceived dangers. The intensity of the experience grew as a result, and I became completely immersed in the moment. Everything else in my life ceased to exist. My entire consciousness was dedicated to the climb, and it was simultaneously exhilarating and exhausting.
I made it up to the base of the Huayna Picchu ruins, and I was completely spent, both mentally and physically. I wanted nothing more than to make it to the top, but my brain no longer trusted my body to have the energy to make it. I sat down and contemplated the experience, and took in the view. There was a great sense of accomplishment, but also a feeling of failure that I couldn’t complete the hike. After a good half an hour enjoying the view and resting my legs, I headed back down the mountain. The descent was much easier than I thought it would be, and the intensity of the experience fell as I came down the mountain. For the rest of the day, I felt super alert and energized, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how exhilarating it was to be so hyper-focused in the moment.
The view from the ruins of Huayna Picchu, with Machu Picchu center-left, down below. I really felt as if I was on top of the world up there, and the landscape was beyond anything I'd ever seen before.
Looking back on it now, there's still regret that I didn’t push through my exhaustion to experience the ruins. There’s also satisfaction when I compare that hike to my boyhood experience atop the Gettysburg Tower, and it’s difficult to be disappointed when I consider how much my fear of falling has waned because of the experiences I’ve had.
Lastly, a special thanks to my trail guide José for the trail advice before my climb and throughout the Inca Trail. Also, many thanks to the porters of Waiki Trek. Couldn't have done it without you all!