ALONG THE WAY

renewed sense of adventure.

But that afternoon, I felt like a condemned woman, even as I headed to the ropes challenge course on a beautiful nature trail shaded by soaring ponderosa pines and strewn with the rich texture of Gambel oaks, Emory oaks, lichen-covered granite and basalt boulders and a dusting of yellow primroses and red penstemons. A pair of pygmy nuthatches perched on a water spigot, a western bluebird fluttered between pine branches. And a tassel-eared Abert's squirrel barreled straight up a ponderosa's trunk and then leaped from branch to branch in the canopy like an acrobat.

If only that furry trapeze artist could teach me a lesson or two for the ropes challenge course, I thought. The course began with a stunt called "Tarzan's Traverse." It was simple, really-if you happened to be Tarzan. First you had to scramble 20 feet up a utility pole using heavy metal staples as handholds and footholds. Next, the tricky part: walking 45 feet across a wire like a circus high-wire performer as you struggle to reach overhead for dangling ropes to stabilize you, while your legs shake like Jell-O. Granted, you're securely fastened to a harness and belay rope held by instructor Cherie Geyer and another classmate so you won't actually fall. But when was the last time you entrusted your life to total strangers? My entire class of brave souls made it. For me, it took two tries. On that second try, pride overcame fear-I wasn't about to be the only one who didn't get across that wire.

Having my feet once again planted on terra firma was a celebration, albeit a brief one as my class quickly headed off to our next adventure: riding a 300-foot zip line (called "zipping") suspended high above a grassy meadow.

One by one, we clambered up a pine tree pierced with metal footholds and handholds that zigzagged up to a wooden platform. There, Geyer sat ready to attach the nylon seat harness I was wearing to the zip line. As I sat beside her, she checked my straps, adjusted my helmet and assured me in a motherly kind of way, "You've been very brave today." As I eyed the height of the zip line and expansiveness of the meadow, it nearly took my breath-and courage-away. "I don't want to wait," I urged her. "Just give me a push off the platform on the count of three."

"Okay," Geyer said, then called out: "One . . . two . . . three!"

First came the shock of suddenly being airborne-then the exhilaration of adrenaline surging through my body as I soared free and unencumbered through the air. I was flying!

In this moment of gliding high above the ground, I viewed life itself from a higher perspective. I realized how my fears and cautiousness were like pedaling through life with a clunky set of training wheels that needlessly slowed me down.

From now on, I vowed silently, I would no longer rob myself of the exhilaration of taking risks, going fast or, best of all, zipping.

when you go

Location: Friendly Pines Camp, 105 miles northwest of Phoenix.

Getting There: From Phoenix, drive north 50 miles on Interstate 17 to State Route 69 at Exit 262. Turn left (northwest) onto State 69 and drive 40 miles to Prescott. Turn left onto Mt. Vernon Street and follow the road for 5 miles to Marapai Road. Turn right onto Marapai and drive one-half mile to Peter Macklin Drive, which turns into Friendly Pines Road, and turn left. Follow posted signs from there.

Dates: August 17-19, 2007.

Fees: $235 to $270 per person.

Travel Advisory: Pack an air mattress for sleeping comfort.

Additional Information: (480) 644-0077.

Coyote Wise Life lessons at the edge of a yip

MY HEART LIFTED WHEN I SPOTTED the female coyote trot around the far edge of the buttes that surrounded our houseboat moored at Castle Cove on Lake Mohave in westcentral Arizona. She moved toward me along an invisible ledge halfway up the buttes in a loose-limbed, confident manner that proclaimed this was her domain, these paths winding in and out and around gray sandstone-layered buttes. Her long black shadow from the evening sun pulsed large-small-large against the rock face, not unlike my own pulsing, now large, now small, insecure thoughts. I reflected, Should I give up my job or continue to suffer abuse? I worried, no job, or abasement?

I paused near a tamarisk tree to study the coyote, her flashing legs, her darting eyes, her sense of serenity in the middle of the desert. I admired the simplicity of her life. Tonight, I knew, she would sit in the hills and howl, her muzzle raised, and others far away would answer, and once again I would feel chills race up and down my back. My spine. Or what was left of it. I sighed.

Just then she stopped and lifted her muzzle to the air, her whiskers quivering. I thought she was going to howl, but she sniffed the air. I thought maybe she'd gotten a whiff of me, as I'd just returned from a strenuous 2-mile walk into the sandbottom coulee and up into the hills among geckos, birds, rocks and creosote bushes, trying to sort out my thoughts. Should I quit my monthly gig with my best-paying magazine market, or continue to endure my editor's slings and arrows? I sighed. Regular gigs for a freelancer were not easy to come by. Then the coyote surprised me: She stepped off the path. In the years we've shared our little inlet, she had never stepped off the path. Half-crouching, the coyote made her way down a great angled slab of rock toward the calm water. Thirsty, I thought.

Then I saw the seagull on the shore of the inlet-a giant bird with a great hooked beak and webbed toes spread possessively across the side of a fish, a prize find. The coyote sauntered toward the gull, tossing her muzzle as she sniffed the air. The gull raised its white head, fixed the coyote with a glare and lifted its wings, ready to fly, I figured, intimidated by the bared teeth of the advancing coyote.

Instead, it rushed at the coyote, but stopped 10 feet short and jabbed its beak repeatedly, while croaking a warning. The gull was not going to give up its treasured find without a fight. It would not be bullied. The coyote sniffed the air nonchalantly, then moved closer. The gull rushed again, squawking angrily.

The coyote leaped back, crinkled her eyes and lay on her stomach, eyes fixed on the carp. The gull stared with cold eyes, then lowered its wings and sidled down the slant to its booty. It pecked and tore and swallowed, one eye on the coyote, which acted unconcerned. At one point the coyote stood, but the bird quickly got its dander up again. With a sigh, the coyote settled down to enjoy her meager slice of victory-the odor on the breeze.

After salving her ego for the required time, the coyote turned back up toward the path, and continued her journey. The battle was over.

Somewhere, unseen, she passed above me, and moments later appeared on the far side of the inlet, silhouetted against the dark sky. Beyond her, white pinpoints of stars began to appear. Then she slipped away into the darkness.

I released my pent-up breath, and stared where the coyote had disappeared. I felt different. My mental skies had cracked open, thanks to the gift of the coyote, gull and carp.

The drama seemed specifically performed for me. The little encounter made it clear: I must step off my old path and seek new adventures. I must not be bullied. I must stick up for myself, if I hoped to keep my self-respect, loss of job or not.

I sat on the ground as the air cooled and the bright moon rose, my arms wrapped about my knees. I felt like singing.

Just then, I heard faint yips that rose into full-throated howls, and then the distant answers. I shivered as chills ran up and down my back. Up and down my spine.