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The first time I ever ventured to Australia, my family and I managed to stay in Sydney and mimic the stereotypical tourist right down to the camera hanging from around our necks. We hit up all the shopping districts, ran around the zoo before it closed on evening, and of course sat outside and gazed upwards at the majestic Sydney Opera House while letting escape a barely audible “whoa.” And it was there, outside the Opera House, that Clay and Waynus noticed tiny blips on the horizon that seemed to be moving across the bridge nearby. Or should I say, moved across the arches of the bridge. We asked a few people what they were doing and they pointed us to some brochures for the Sydney Harbor Bridge Climb. Unfortunately, we were leaving the next day and didn’t have any time to conquer the bridge, but we all agreed that it looked incredibly fun and exciting.

A few weeks back, I was talking to my mom on MSN, trying to set my hectic schedule for when I return stateside, when she asked if I remember seeing the people climb the bridge. “Of course I do,” I told her, “How could I have forgotten that? I actually thought about doing it while I was over here now, but there’s no way I can afford it.” When she replied that she had bought me a ticket for my graduation present, my jaw literally dropped.

I caught a train down to Sydney this past Tuesday with Karen since she was heading down to meet up with a friend of hers. We passed the time chatting and enjoying the scenery and before I knew it, I had made two train transfers and was standing in the middle of Sydney Harbor. I had arrived at noon and my climb wasn’t until quarter after 3, so I found a little Thai restaurant, picked up some lunch, and went to sit by the water and eat. It was quite relaxing, almost tranquil, despite the hundreds of people continually walking and talking around me. Before I knew it, I had pulled out my notebook and written for two hours straight. A Shyzer post or two, countless postcards, and a few pages for my private journal were soon completed from start to finish. You can never ignore those rare and sudden inspirations to write and it was something about being in Sydney, completely alone and content, that brought it on.

The time to head over to the bridge eventually rolled around, however, and so I made my way there and checked in. I was pointed to a waiting room where I met the rest of the members in my group. There was the mom and two daughters, the youngest of which was celebrating her twelfth birthday and quite hilarious. When we were going around the room and introducing myself, she giggled when I said my name was Goob and then made one of those quite gasps of excitement when I said I was from the states. She was even more thrilled when she learned I grew up in the state next to Georgia, which she reminded me was Martin Luther King’s home state. There was also the couple from London, the trio from Munich who struck up a conversation with me over my Oktoberfest T-shirt, and finally the bloke from Scotland with what might have been the thickest Scottish accent I have ever heard. I made sure I was next to him on the climb, simply so I could listen to him talk as much as possible.

After gearing up, going over the safety procedures, and practicing using the equipment, we were off to march to the top of the bridge. As we began to mount the bridge, you couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by the sights. Straight ahead was nothing but gray steel which looked insurmountable. To your right was the harbor and Opera House while to your left was more of the harbor and a gorgeous view of the sun setting. And straight behind you was the city, skyscrapers and all. My mom had bought me a ticket for the Twilight Climb, which meant that on the way up we would get to watch the sun set while on the way down we could watch as the moon rose into the night sky. Every 30 meters or so, we’d stop to gaze around and take in the views for 10 minutes or so before climbing just a little higher. As we rose up, one of the noticeable differences was the sound. Right when we started, the cars and trains were almost directly beneath us, roars across the bridge and flooding your ears with their sounds. But as we went up, the noise slowly faded to a soft hum; the type of peaceful hum that a parent makes deep in their chest as they rock their child to sleep.

As it grew darker, you could also see the sparks of camera flashes going off across the harbor. Every few seconds you would see the glitter of one and I couldn’t help but think every time that somewhere, in more than a few photo albums across the globe, there would be a picture of the bridge with twelve little dots on it and if any of them were taken with a high resolution or high zoomed camera, they might even pick up the huge grin that was spread across my face. Another event we could watch unfold before us was the awakening off all the lights within the city. Slowly, each and every one of them grumbled to life, casting forth a dull glow before finally growing into bright, little dots. Slowly, but surely, the horizon began to dip lower and lower before shrinking to the point were we could see over it, out into the Pacific Blue. Huge tankers, no bigger than a quarter of my finger nail, sparsely covered the sea, but for the most part it was nothing but water. And I know this might sound cliche, but I truly have never seen water quite as deep blue as that from the harbor and ocean. It looked as if it would swallow anybody who ventured into it; as if it would wrap around you and somehow make you warm. I had almost convinced myself that it would somehow protect me from hypothermia if I so decided to take a little swim afterwards.

When we finally reached the apex, we must have stopped and looked around for at least half an hour. Our guide reminded us that we were 134 meters above sea level, which translates into 439 feet or a 5.2 second fall. The thousands of people on the ground below looked like miniature fleas they were so small. The boats directly beneath us looked like the toys I used to play with in the bathtub as a child. Ok, who am I kidding, the toys I still play with from time to time in the bathtub. The skyscrapers looked like matchsticks, each tipped with a different colorful logo on the top, ready to be plucked one by one from some hand out of the sky. But probably one of the most impressive views was the Opera House itself. The ground around it is brown and of course the House itself is made in such a unique shape that every time I looked at it, I was reminded of sea shells jutting from the beach back home. Every time we would go to the beach for our yearly vacation, my mom would pay me 5 cents for each shell I found and collected so that she could make some sort of design or ornament with them back home.

As we made our way down, the night grew darker, the cars grew louder, and the buildings grew larger. We continued to stop and take in the sights and by the time I made it back to the bottom, all I wanted to do was turn around and venture back to the top again. It wasn’t until I was on the train home, napping to pass the time that I realized how tired my legs were and how physically exhausting it was. But if somebody asked me to do it again, the next words out of my mouth would be “what time?!”

Thanks Mom and Jeff. That’s an experience I will truly never forget.