My knees buckled when I first saw the path on the inside edge of Oman’s Grand Canyon that I had to walk and get a story out of. I was fresh in the country and fresh on the job and too ashamed to tell anyone I’d never really hiked any mountain in my life. Or written about one.
I had two instinctive reactions: to run away and hide, and to leap off into the abyss in a glorious post-vertigo gesture. I guess they sort of evened each other out. So I sat down and tried desperately to focus on what I thought were my cool hiking boots but were really cheap oilrig gear.
I wrote a bit of a mindless story here, perhaps a bit too melodramatic. But it had created an impression and the path was a hell of a lot scarier in those days before it was repaired by a sun-scorched Austrian and his group of Pakistani day labourers, who hammered it into submission. If I’d known I would’ve waited.
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3 Comments
Scary stuff…kudos to the mr.brave-heart for standing on the edge so cooly..
So… when are we going? Yalla, get the Babushka experience in your pocket and get back here. Stop fastpoking around.
The landscape is so breath-taking…and your write-up pretty heartfelt, I almost feel like I accompanied you on this trip.