I don't do sheer drop off heights. I don't. I can't. The fear is paralyzing. It is real. Y'all know the spot. After making it up the fire trail and up beyond the ski hut I faced the utter terror. I dropped to my knees and started to cry. “I can't do this.” It was then that I felt a large strong hand grab mine. He said, “Hold my hand. We will do this together.” A distinct hispanic accent. Thick hands. (My dad died a few years ago. I was his girl. He was a short, chubby, Mexican, with thick, strong, callused hands. He, too, had a paralyzing fear of heights.) I had no idea who this man holding my hand was. All I knew is that I got up and hiked all the way to the top without another fear. He never let my hand go. When I thought I was fine and could carry on by myself he said, “No, I will stay with you to the top.” And he did. Ernesto, you will forever be my Baldy Angel sent from heaven. The interesting part of my fear is that it does not exist on the descent. Only the ascent. Anyway, I did it. I have no desire to do it again. Unless Ernesto is there.