On a clear, brisk morning in September, a small group of teens made the short but tiring trek through the woods of western Virginia to the beginning point of what appeared to be an exciting ropes course. Our instructors thoroughly explained the procedures of the course, and in no time we were ready to begin.

Going one at a time, I watched my friends climb the ladder resting against one tree, and shakily traverse across a couple of steel wires to another tree, which is where the zipwire began. I chatted nonchalantly with others who were also waiting their turn, and laughed inwardly at the obvious timidity of those who were making their way to the second tree.

“Look at Katie,” one friend pointed out.

I laughed. “She looks like she’s going to fall with every step.”

However, I was the last one to go, and it was not long before I found out for myself just what a frightening experience it was.

Donning the safety harness, I made my way up the ladder to the first rope, which is where the real fear set in. The trees swayed lightly, causing the ropes to rise and fall with the gentle breeze. I inched my way forward, knowing that only a single steel clasp, a piece of rope and a stitched loop were all that kept me from a rather perilous fall.

Yet it felt as though even these did not protect me, and it seemed one wrong step on the wire - which now seemed startlingly thin - would send me to my doom. But I made it to the other side sooner than I expected, and the ride down was a rush of excitement and a cool sigh of relaxation all at once.

But one thing I continue to think about is how secretly arrogant I had been that day. I laughed at those who seemed afraid, and yet my own nervousness showed me just what they had been afraid of.