The Art of Holding On and Letting Go Read Online Free PDF Page A

with unexpected terrain.” Mr. S. spread his fingers over the map, pointing out my parents’ planned route. “If, for example, they ended up over here instead, they would encounter crevasses that they may have been unaware of.”
    I stared at the map; I knew how to read maps, but the scribble of foreign words, lines, and shadows bled into an incomprehensible blur. I didn’t need a map to picture a crevasse and what it would mean to unexpectedly tumble into one during a blinding storm.
    Mr. S. leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard. “But there’s a good chance their descent is simply taking longer than expected. Most likely they are hunkered down somewhere on the mountain slopes waiting for Chimborazo to go back to sleep.”
    â€œSo waiting for sun down?” Coach Mel asked.
    â€œRight. For the temperature to drop back to freezing. Then there’s less chance of falling rock,” Mr. S. said.
    â€œYou think they might be waiting out the storm,” I said. “Maybe tonight they’ll be able to safely descend now that the ash has cleared. Or they might wait for sunrise.”
    â€œLike I said before, they know how to keep themselves safe.” Mr. S. shrugged and held his hands open in front of him as if he was offering a gift, a gift of hope.
    I rubbed my temples in circles.
    I wanted to believe Mr. S. Expeditions became extended all the time when climbers needed to wait out the weather. My parents were gone an extra two weeks when they climbed Everest. But I was only ten years old then. I hadn’t understood the degree of danger. All I knew then was that I would be staying with my grandparents for half the summer.
    â€œWhat about avalanches?” I asked.
    Mr. S. chewed the inside of his lip and drummed his fingertips on the table. “There have been reports of recent avalanches on the mountain. But this is common. Your parents knew this and were wearing avalanche transceivers.”
    I nodded. A transceiver could send or receive a radio signal if someone was buried in an avalanche, alerting others to their location. I searched Mr. S.’s face for more clues, but he was as difficult to read as the map spread before me. My legs wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go.
    I shoved my chair back from the table and stood up. “I want to go to Mount Chimborazo. How can I get there?”
    Coach Mel exchanged a look with Mr. S. “Cara, it’s safer for you to stay here with us.”
    â€œThe skies are clear now,” Mr. S. said. “Your parents will find their way down the mountain.”
    â€œYou said there’s a search and rescue group. We could join them.”
    â€œWe aren’t prepared for that type of mountaineering,” Coach Mel said. Her tone was slow and firm. “We’d only be in the way. We need to sit tight and hope for the best.”
    â€œShe’s right.” Mr. S. nodded.
    I just wanted to be home in California. I wanted to be back in the safety of our mountain cabin, curled up by the fire, engrossed in a book, Mom and Dad beside me. Uncle Max stomping through the front door, sniffing out dinner.
    I walked out to the deck and searched the bruised sky, seeking the highest peak, the glacier-domed summit of Mount Chimborazo.
Please, please let them be all right
. My muscles felt twisted, wrung out like a sponge. I squinted into the evaporating daylight, through the layers of setting sun, but the distance was too great.

6
    The next morning, Becky packed her suitcase for the return home. I folded my clothes and layered them in my bag, but no way was I leaving Ecuador. My teammates would drive to the Quito airport then scatter for flights to different states, Colorado, Oregon, Kentucky, Georgia. They didn’t know what to say to me. I wouldn’t have known either.
    Becky fingered the tiny cross she wore on a delicate gold chain around her neck. The cross pointed down like an arrow toward her cleavage,