You might be able to move mountains, but no one said anything about cliffs.

One of my favorite, and scariest things I have ever done in my life is cliff jumping. On a high school class camping trip to Arkansas, we canoed down the Buffalo River. We reached a spot that had three cliffs, affectionately nicknamed "baby bear", "mama bear", and "papa bear" by those who had been there before. It was enthusiastically agreed upon that we would jump from the cliffs, into the river below. It was supposedly safe, even though none of our teenage selves knew how high the water was, or if this was allowable.

The climb up was difficult, and most girls opted to stay at "baby bear", the shortest of the three cliffs, being only thirty feet high. I chose to push onward with the guys, adventure and the thought of adrenaline compelling me. "Papa bear" was roughly seventy feet high - a fact that I had convienently ignored until reaching the top, and clinging to a tree branch that was growing out of the cliff. I instantly decided that I could never jump from such a height. It wasn't just the height that I was scared of, it was the fact that one would have to back up, and get a running start to clear the four feet of shrubbery that was growing out of the side of the cliff to get a safe shot at hitting the water right. I knew that I had to climb back down, and jump from a safer, less intimidating height.

Upon examining the trail we had taken up, it was discovered that it would not only be impossible, but dangerous to try to go backwards down it. I was stuck, with my only options to fabricate enough courage to jump, or continue sitting there, with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Now, four years ago, I feel faced with that impossible decision again. I have unknowling climbed to a cliff far higher than anything I would want to face, and there's only one way down. The longer I sit, waiting without actually jumping, thinking that maybe the rock face will shrink or a magical helicopter will come save me from my own stupidity, the worse I feel. The fear twists and turns in my stomach, making it impossible to think about anything except the dreaded jump, and the unknown that comes with such a leap of faith.

What if the water isn't really as deep as it looks? What if there are rocks hidden under the surface? What if I don't even manage to clear the shrubbery, and enter the water wrong?

I jump to all the worst case scenarios, thinking each one to be a probability, not just a possibility. But none of this thinking really matters, nor does what I'm going to lose on the way down. The truth is, that I have to leap - and let whatever happen, happen.

You might be able to move mountains, but no one ever said anything about cliffs...