Sooper Dawging

An Essay by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com
Art by Dizzy

Always one of the adventurous types, I’ve generally classified my cohorts as either Sooper Dawgs or Fraidy Cats—not that either trait is more virtuous than the other—but there are many grades between the two, and in myself I always preferred to cultivate a healthy streak of both.

I can cite examples of Sooper Dawg friends, the kind who are first in or up or under or over the edge, but I’ve also witnessed two examples from the pet world who appeared to fit the moniker, in both cases literally real dogs.  The first appeared with his young-man companion while I was hiking and climbing a series of red-rock ridges in Arizona, not the kind of route that required equipment, but one that presented off-trail options for some precarious thrills and spectacular views accessible even to an impressively deft-footed pooch.  The other led a young couple past me while I hiked a cliff-face ledge to a sitting spot overhanging the ocean, a promontory extending from the Pacific Coast Highway south of Big Sur.

In both cases, the quasi-path ended at a protruding dome rock, a billiard-ball-smooth jut thrusting its way outward and upward.  These locations shared two common characteristics.  First, the shape meant that standing on top would seem fairly easy, but getting up the steep side—and this is the important part—then back down safely would be difficult.  Second, a deal-breaker, the consequences of a slip would inevitably prove fatal.  Below the coastal dome a two-hundred-foot drop would dash me on jagged boulders so crashing waves could move in to lift my body gleefully for a game of “toss the idiot rag-doll.”  Below the Arizona dome a steep, gravelly slope afforded no way to stop catapulting for at least a thousand feet before an unceremonious bounce against the wall of a deep dry gulch.  I found no appeal in the notion of trying either.

In both situations, humans let common sense prevail, but the dogs failed to understand that a trail can and sometimes should, well, end before it ends.  Against their owners’ futile entreaties, both bounded upwards, slipping and sliding until they achieved the pinnacle, there to stand gazing raptly across the horizon, a moment of exuberance before slipping and sliding back down to be caught in the arms of relieved masters.

Here’s the trick: In neither case did the dogs ever look down.  They didn’t realize the danger, never considered the hazards, hadn’t weighed the risks against such a minor reward.

Me, I always look down.  Then I make a calculated assessment and consider multiple contingency plans.  Without at least one good escape hatch, my untested rocket’s not likely to leave the pad.  I’ve always played Sooper Dawg like a Fraidy Cat.

I can tell you stories, and maybe someday I will, but suffice it to say that when trapped floating in total darkness, pulled by an overpowering current miles off the coast of Venezuela, I swear my scuba buddy and I had already confirmed where the flow would take us if we couldn’t return to the entry point, leaving us shining dim flashlights at waves battering hundred-foot Bonaire cliffs until hours later we’d eventually sweep into the leeward bay, a simple swim to the resort beaches and Commercial Pier.  And you can bet that prior to that we’d devoted countless hours to extensive training for handling all manner of scuba emergencies, every dive requiring Plans B and C and then some.  No, homey don’t parachute without a reserve.

It’s also critical to know what to expect.  The savvy rafter who’s run the same stretch a hundred times knows that first trip down after floodwaters have rearranged the river’s rocks requires stopping before every rapids to scout the route on foot.

Still, in all the wild situations I’ve found myself, I always felt confident I could keep my wits and find the best option for preserving my safety, but I’ve long understood that I do have one internal impediment that might rise momentarily in one specific kind of situation: hints of vertigo at extreme heights.

I discovered this as a wee lad when I climbed atop the house and got too scared to climb back down, having to rely on my father to bring a ladder.  The opinion he expressed about getting myself into such a predicament surprised me: Instead of saying I simply shouldn’t climb up on the house, he warned that I shouldn’t be climbing anyplace from which I’m not completely sure I can get myself back down.  I hadn’t thought about that before my glorious ascent, and neither had those canines bounding up onto the slippery domes.

Getting out of bed is a calculated risk.  Leaving the house, driving a car, using an ATM . . .  these can be just as dangerous as any smartly planned wilderness adventure, but nowhere near as exhilarating.

Some people find thrills in danger, but I posit that keeping it safe allows us to experience even greater thrills.  If I ever fly off the trapeze, I’ll enjoy it more knowing there’s a net, and likely fly higher and stretch farther if I’m confident I can afford the flash.

What I won’t do is fly blind on a route no one I trust has scouted.  The people to avoid are those who act like dome-climbing dogs, the ones who don’t have sense enough to look down.

Life can be an adventure if you approach it right.

I say, approach it like a Fraidy Cat, and you too can live the exciting life of a Sooper Dawg.

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