I looked down. That was a mistake.

On a recent backcountry trip in the mountains, I had a full-on panic attack brought on by vertigo.

Only once before have I felt such an overwhelming sensation, one that crippled my ability to think or act with reason. Where my ancient self, my animal self, took over and put my body into survival mode.

The first was the moment I realized that I don’t like cramped spaces — not so much claustrophobia, just a powerful unease about not being able to escape. This realization came as I was 20 feet underground, wedged between people in front and behind, crawling through the old Viet Cong tunnels near Saigon.

This time it happened out in the open. In many ways, the scenario was the exact opposite. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I didn’t want to move. I was paralyzed.

I’ve never been good with heights. But walking along a mountain ledge with a 50 lb pack on my back intensified the experience. Looking around to take in the view was a bad idea.

Everything spun around me. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe.

I sat and waited to regain my composure.

The ledge wasn’t a sheer drop. Going over wouldn’t be a free fall through the air to a squishy thud on the rocks below. But it was steep enough that falling wouldn’t end well.

One would bounce from jagged rock to jagged rock until finally stopping as little more than a tattered bag of skin filled with ruptured organs and shattered bones.

I’m not scared of death itself. But I’d rather avoid going out like that.

Would it really end so badly? It’s hard to say. Though at that moment, my lizard brain told me that anything but stillness would be my demise.

Thankfully, my friends were able to bring me back, calm me down, and help me along.

The vertigo soon passed

My breath returned to normal.

And I carried on.