A two-hour drive from Caspar, Wyoming, Willow Creek ranch sits in the  Big Horn basin, enclosed by the majestic sandstone Red Wall. It is home to the  “Hole in the Wall” made famous by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The  remnants of their cabins are still there, sitting under Cottonwood trees, and  Buffalo Creek rolls by only a few feet away. 

Willow Creek is a working cattle and horse ranch, and other than  breathtaking scenery, hardworking cowboys and three squares a day, there are  few distractions.  

I’m part of a group of nine women and one man who came here from all  corners of the country for a weeklong writing workshop hosted by authors Janet  Hubbard and Tina Welling. We sleep in the bunkhouse and in log cabins. There’s  no cell phone reception, no Internet, and no T.V. We workshop and we write. 

We also have a schedule, and tonight it reads “Spirit Walk.” 

In her book “Writing Wild”, Tina Welling describes a Spirit Walk as  employing the three parts of the brain – reptile, midbrain and neocortex – for a  three-step process of consciously experiencing nature by naming, describing and  interacting.  

Notebooks and pencils in hand, we set out to do just that. Kristen, the  owner of the ranch, her mother, and one of the cowboys take us to a mountaintop in three four-wheel drive vehicles with battered windshields, which all trucks on the ranch seem to have in common. The trip through rugged terrain  and up a steep hill is not for the fainthearted. 

But the bumpy ride is worth it: At the top of the mountain, the fading sun  colors the sky in a multitude of blood orange hues, and the view of the vast wide  open spaces enclosed by the gigantic Red Wall seems endless.  

“I want you to go off on your own and consciously experience your Spirit  Walk”, Tina instructs us. “Take lots of notes. Take your time. We’ll meet here  again after the sun has set.” 

As we head off in different directions, Kristen cautions, almost incidentally,

“Be careful, though. There are rattlesnakes up here.” 

As soon as she says it, I’m stopped in my tracks. I’m terrified of snakes. I  can squash a bug with my hand, step on a spider, or kick a rat out of the way, but  snakes conjure up a primordial fear in me unlike any other. 

Kristen senses my fear.  

“It’s okay. You just have to react the right way.” 

“What do I do if I see a rattlesnake?” I ask. 

“You keep quiet and back away very slowly.” 

Most likely, that’s exactly the opposite of what I will do if I see a  rattlesnake. I’m likely to let out a bloodcurdling scream and run as fast as my legs  will carry me. 

Timmy and Suzi, two fellow writers, are already heading up the hill. Janet  and a few others are off in search of the magical meditation space she found on  her last visit here, and the rest is also spreading out. 

I’m still standing there, frozen and immobilized by fear. 

Suddenly I feel woefully unprepared for this adventure. Most of my  companions are wearing cowboy boots or hiking boots. I’m wearing open-heeled gym shoes and no socks. That’s as good an excuse as any not to venture into  rattlesnake territory. 

The way uphill to the rim is dotted with sagebrush, rock splinters, and  patches of bright blue lupine and other sturdy mountain flowers. In open spots barren of vegetation a rattlesnake would be clearly visible, but getting to the rim means wading through dense, knee-high shrubbery and ground cover.  

As I look up the mountain, the struggle inside me takes root. I don’t have  to do this. I have an excuse; I’m not wearing the proper footwear. Deep down, I  know that’s an excuse. Being honest with myself, I know that what holds me back  is fear. Fear of rattlesnakes, or all snakes in general. I know it’s a fifty-fifty  proposition: Maybe I’ll encounter a snake, and maybe I won’t. It all boils down to  whether or not I’m willing to take a risk. 

My rational brain tells me that I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to  do. It’s completely my choice. I can simply say no and leave it at that, opting to 

explore the grassland instead of the crest of the mountain. But my emotional  brain tells me that I’m going to regret not going all the way to the top. 

Other times come to mind, when I was also crippled by fear and took a  risk. Afterwards, I was always glad I did. In Costa Rica, I didn’t want to go  snorkeling, afraid of triggering a medical condition. But then my curiosity  triumphed over the fear. I went for it, first slowly venturing forward clinging to the  hand of a local diving guide, and later going out into the coral reef on my own.  Floating through schools of fish, I sustained some scratches on the sharp coral,  but then I saw Dory. Yes, Dory. There is indeed a deep blue fish and I would not  have seen it if I hadn’t been willing to take a risk. The hour I spent under water  became the absolute highlight of my two-week Costa Rican adventure. 

These thoughts cross my mind as my eyes scan the obstacle in front of  me. A steep hill dotted with clumps of sagebrush, wild rosemary ground cover  and possibly harboring rattlesnakes. 

My reptile brain and my neocortex are still battling it out. One makes my  heart beat faster and my body stiffen up in fear, while the other beckons: This moment in time is unique. It will never come again. Not in the same way. And  time is of the essence. We have to head back down the mountain before it gets  dark. I need to make up my mind now. When everyone else comes back and  talks about their Spirit Walk experience, it will be too late. 

It is that sentiment that prompts me to slowly, almost mechanically, put  one foot in front of the other and start up the hill. 

My eyes are fixed firmly on the ground. I notice the shapes and colors and  surfaces of the rocks that cover the ground, I smell the wild sage that finds  purchase on this barren soil. I see whitewashed bones of animal carcasses,  gnawed clean by vultures and other predators and bleached by the sun – but no  rattlesnakes. 

The shrubbery gets denser as I get closer to the rim. I can no longer see  much of the ground I’m walking on. Should I stop right here? I’ve already filled  my notebook with plenty of Spirit Walk notes. I saw endless wide-open spaces,  sloping hills and the magnificent rock formations, the deer and antelope dashing  across grasslands, the sinking sun. I felt the crunch of gravel under my feet. I  heard the howling of the wind, the mooing of the cows and the chirping of birds. I  smelled the freshness of the air and the fragrance of the wild sage. I even tasted  the wild sage. It’s bitter taste still lingers on my tongue. So why not stop here?

But the magic of the moment, the holiness of this vista, the overwhelming  view, draw me forward. I want to go up further, I want to experience this fully. I want to make it to the top. And I do. When I get there, I first stand motionless,  letting my eyes take it all in. I carefully avoid looking downward. The drop is  several hundred feet. One wrong step here, and I’m done.  

Then my inner voice tells me that there’s more. I can’t just come here,  stand there, look around, and leave. This begs to be my place to mediate and let  my spirit soar.  

I turn around, my back to the edge, and crouch down. I slowly get on my  knees and carefully slide backwards, until I’m almost at the edge. Then I turn  over, sit down, slide my butt forward a bit more, and finally let my legs dangle  over the rim, knowing full well that the slightest wrong move could send me  several hundred feet down into the rocky abyss. 

I sit like this, motionless, quiet, arms outstretched, palms up, face raised to  the sky. I inhale deeply, close my eyes and listen to the sounds of the dusk. I feel  the cool wind on my face, and the absence of noise. The only sounds come from  the wind and the animals, and the stillness of the night. As I listen more intently, it  feels like even the quietness has its own sound. 

When I open my eyes again, the sun has set behind me. The Red Wall  casts a large shadow over the vista and the wind is cooler than before. A delicate  band of silver mist rises from the grasslands, signaling that the night is  approaching rapidly.  

I don’t want this moment and this utterly peaceful feeling to end. 

But ending it must. We have to make it down the mountain before it gets  dark. Supporting myself with both hands, I carefully slide backward, eventually  turning over on all fours again and getting up. For a split second, I think of what  would happen if a make one misstep this very minute. I’d tumble off the steep  cliff.  

But nothing of the kind happens. I don’t misstep. I make it away from the  brink without slipping. My cell phone does not fall out of my shirt pocket and  tumble down the mountain as I roll over to get up. And I’ve not thought about  rattlesnakes for at least twenty minutes or so. 

The way down wrought with much less fear and apprehension than the  way up. Going up the mountain was I choice. Going down it isn’t. 

Every step I take feeds into the feeling that I’ve just accomplished  something big for myself. I slayed an inner dragon, overcame a roadblock, tore  down a barrier. Unburdened by the fear I left up at the brink, my spirit soars as I  

almost skip down the mountain. I’m eager to share my experience with my fellow  writers and hear theirs. I’m overjoyed because I’ve wrestled with one of my fears,  and I won. 

Yes, I can.