“Three, two, one, bungeeeeeeeeeeee.” Eighteen flights below a slender metal platform, the crowd in the asphalt lot chanted encouragement. From this height, a body in free fall would reach 70 miles per hour before hitting the blacktop. Swallowing hard, I hurtled backward. The ground accelerated like a bad cartoon. Here it was: the edge of exhilaration and fear, honed to a few short seconds in a Las Vegas parking lot. And then, at the last moment, the cords went taut. Tragedy gave way to painless comic bouncing.
Preparation for fire walking, billed as a way of “turning fear into action,” was less iron man than iron John. The group talked about goals, about the symbolic powers of fire. We made lists of things that bothered us and tossed them into the flames. This was supposed to enable us to walk barefoot across 1,200-degree embers. Chants of “Yes, yes, yes!” arose (you chant a lot at these encounters) as I walked the coals-five steps, with purpose. It felt like walking across sand on a moderately hot day. No blisters, no singed toes. Even having walked the walk, I cannot explain it.
In Red Rock Canyon, guide Todd Rentchler dismissed the bungee jump as ,‘vertical lobotomy," then led me 300 feet up a sandstone wall. Secured by ropes, I clung to tiny crevices in the rock and fought back vertigo. The struggle was worth it. The view from an eight-inch ledge overlooking the canyon was more invigorating even than that from the bungee free fall.
“The dream of flying was never about sitting in a cushy seat and ordering a gin and tonic,” said Patrick Sugrue, the instructor for paragliding, a cross between hang gliding and parachuting. After a short lesson, I was out on a dry lake bed, harnessed to the nylon wing, set to be towed into space by a Jeep. In 40 hyperventilating seconds I rose 1,000 feet directly above the desert floor. I unhooked myself from the tow rope, and yes, I was flying free on the wing! Sadly, it took most of the five-minute flight before I could breathe normally and enjoy it. Baby birds aren’t this petrified when they first fall out of the nest, are they?
At 12,000 feet, former Elvis impersonator Rick Moffett said that he could never rock-climb “because I’m scared to death of heights.” Then he strapped himself to my back and the pilot poured us out of the plane. The first mile and a half was free fall, all exhilarating whoosh. Then the chute opened and the world fell silent, the mountains spread still around the city. When we finally landed, I screamed in relief. The week was over.
The five events, Hopkins had assured, were each safer than driving a car. In the end, perhaps the question surrounding Thrillseekers Unlimited isn’t why anyone would choose to endure such danger. It’s why anyone can still dare to drive.
