climbing and rocking and getting bruises

Well, for the second weekend in a row, I have returned to school with lots of bruises on my knees. First it was because I'm incapable of doing an adequate stage death; for this past weekend, it was because I was climbing a Via Ferrata. A Via Ferrata is an "Iron Mountain," and this past weekend, I also got a nasty cut on my knee that bled for five minutes because I had no time to clean it because I was climbing up a sheer rock face and fearing for my life.
There are a lot of Via Ferratas in Europe - during World War Two, people really wanted to stealthily kill each other, so they put iron rungs into nearly-vertical rock faces and climbed over the mountains. They must really have wanted to do some serious killing, because Via Ferratas are HARD (both physically and mentally).
Any altophobes would either be dead by the time the group reached the other side, or be cured of their altophobia by the time they reached the other side. Or be so affected by their altophobia that they went insane and were shot in the head for their own good.
Although the Via Ferrata in West Virginia that we went to wasn't used during World War Two (and is allegedly more intense than the ones in Europe), it's a similar sort of shindig: the iron rungs, sheer cliff faces, and the only things stopping you from a 200 + foot fall to your death being airplane wire and a pair of carabeaners (though that might be an added bonus for us crazy people who find some entertainment in climbing mountains). Although I'm AWARE that each length of airplane wire can hold up to seven tons and I KNOW that it was EXTREMELY unlikely that the beaners would fail, I was still scared gutless for at least half my climb. I chickened out - yes, I'm willing to admit that I'm a chicken - at the halfway point and took the last escape route - there was no WAY I was going on an airplane wire bridge 150 feet long and 200 feet from anything that could break a fall.
I really shouldn't have, because apparently it got easier, but I was still recovering from the shock of going around Scheize Notch.
And yes, that's German. I'm not going to tell you the translation, because if I do, my mom will succeed in killing me, even though the Notch didn't.
Why's it called Scheize Notch?
Well...
The German-speaking climbers who were psyched about the climb would go around the Notch and say, "Oh, Scheize, that's a really nice view!"
The more timid German speakers would look down and say, "oooooh Scheize, that's a really long drop!"
The absolutely terrified German speakers (and the non-German speakers who also happened to be completely terrified) would look down, let out a long and loud and terrified wail, and go Scheize in their pants.
I was in the second category.

Despite the fact that I completely chickened out, I really kind of enjoyed the climb. And despite the whole heights thing. I really shouldn't have dropped out, though - I'm probably never going to get another chance to go back and get over the Scheize, and I really kind of want to. I know I sound crazy when I say that, but it's totally true.
Maybe the climb is easier the second time around.