As I walked out my bedroom door, my computer made the sound of splashing water and jungle bird calls that signals incoming e-mail, so I threw my shirt toward the hamper and sat down at my desk to read.

It was a reply from Ben. I e’d him earlier this afternoon suggesting that we climb a big wall in Zion National Park. Big Wall means at least two days on the wall, sleeping well over a thousand feet off the deck dangling in space, using aid techniques that I was only marginally familiar with.

Zion big walls—Space Shot, Moonlight Butress or Prodigal Son, perhaps—meant two thousand feet of pure, vertical exposure. Hard red sandstone. Baking in the sun in the morning or afternoon, depending on which rim of the canyon we climbed.

I’ve dreamed of topping a big wall for a long, long time. Ben and I discussed the possibility since we first started climbing together. It would be thrilling and beautiful. It would be an unforgetable experience. I would never view the world the same way afterward.

Ben’s message was short and to the point:

I wrote a quick reply:

alright!!!!!!!!!!!!!! we're on!!!!!!!!!!

I pulled out my "Big Walls" stories and technical instructions book and read the first two chapters before bed. I probably couldn’t have slept anyway.

And as I read, as the immensity of this project sank slowly into my mind and heart, the nervous excitement set in. I thought about the exposure. Dangling thousands of feet in the air, you can’t just decide to quit and go home. I thought about the work. We’d be climbing with maybe thirty pound racks of gear hanging around our necks, then take turns hauling the heavy gear back up behind us. My arms were sure to ache by the end of even just the first day.

But I reminded myself that I’m a good climber, better than many other climbers who have summitted big walls and lived to brag about it. I’m plenty familiar with all the gear. And this edge of fear only means that I have a realistic idea of what we’re getting ourselves into. The ascent would tax our bodies and minds, but we would succeed. We would never regret the decision to climb.

That’s my personal formula for making decisions. Back in high school I used to stand on my skis, leaning forward to rest against my ski poles atop the 50 foot cliff out of bounds at the local resort.

Before I got thinking too much about the drop, I’d ask myself one simple question: will I get hurt? If the snow was soft and deep, the answer would be no. I knew the landing was steep enough to disperse the force of impact, spreading it out over enough time and distance that I’d hardly feel it.

And if the answer was no, I knew I would not regret dropping through fifty feet of empty air, hanging in space just long for the wind to scream in my face and past my ears. And with that decision and not a single thought more, I would push myself forward with my poles, skating once or twice toward the edge. The world below looked so far away.

My first few jumps, that was the last thing I remembered until I pulled my head from the soft snow at the base to scream "That was awesome!!!", then climb back up to do it again.

So here I sit, the climbing book closed in my hands, wondering how much sleep I’ll get tonight, knowing I won’t get hurt and I won’t regret having gone. I’m all the way in. I’m committed. But I’m still afraid.

This evening I rode down a steep, loose section of trail in the foothills where I’ve already crashed three times. I crashed because I was trying to go too slowly. I couldn’t resist the urge to grip the brakes tightly and my front tire locked up, sending me rolling to the ground.

This evening I eased off on the brakes as I sailed over the loose dirt and rocks. At the bend, I took the banked turn high and continued bouncing and rocketing down the hill.