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

which was pushed up out of her hot-pink tank top. Her patriotic fingernail polish had been changed to match.
    â€œI’ll pray for you,” she said.
    I clutched my copy of
Walden
to my chest, Dad’s postcard tucked inside. I had been praying in my mind, over and over.
Please, please let them be safe.
It wasn’t the type of prayer that Becky had in mind. I prayed to the earth, the sky, the wind, the trees, the mountains. My parents and Uncle Max were in the mountain’s hands.
    Coach Mel walked in. “The airport shuttle will be here in an hour.”
    I crossed my arms at my chest and stared at her. I wasn’t going anywhere.
    â€œI postponed our flights for one more day.”
    Despite her words, she looked like she wanted nothing more than to hop on her flight home that morning. She ran a hand through her short, spiky hair.
    â€œAnd I called your grandparents in Michigan.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThey’re who your parents listed in case of emergency.”
    Oh great. My parents would definitely
not
want my grandparents involved. Grandma had always been against our climbing life. Now there was going to be another fight for sure. My grandparents had thought Everest would be my parents’ last expedition. What more was there to accomplish? But then Mom and Dad sent me back to Michigan a couple summers later while they climbed Denali, and the visit ended with a storm of angry words and Mom in tears. We hadn’t been back in nearly four years.
    I refused to believe this was the kind of emergency that would warrant a call to my grandparents. My grandparents were the last resort. I repeated my mantra,
please, please, let Mom and Dad be safe.
    I sat on the front steps of the hostel after my teammates left. My head jerked toward the sound of every passing car and truck, waiting for one to roll into the driveway. I saw my parents throwing open the doors, running toward me. Or maybe they’d been injured; they could be on their way to a hospital right now. It could be something as simple as a broken ankle, walking would be slow and difficult. Or altitude sickness, high altitude pulmonary edema; it could be deadly. My lungs constricted at the thought.
    There was no cell reception high on Mount Chimborazo, maybe not even in the foothills. It’d be a while before they reached an area where they could call.
    I wandered around the yard peering at flowers. Everything was different here. Plants that looked like artichokes but thick and spiky like cacti. Red bumblebees. Huge hummingbirds with pointy, long beaks and a plume of a tail. Foot-long yellow and orange flowers hanging upside down like tubular bells. The landscape was vibrant, full of life. This strange world where everything seemed possible in a magical yet frightening way. The pressure in my chest was unbearable; I wanted to jump right out of my skin. I couldn’t sit around and wait any longer. I needed to go to Mount Chimborazo.
    Mr. S. couldn’t leave his work at the hostel, but he arranged a car for Coach Mel and me. He spread out the maps again and gave directions.
    â€œBe careful. Mount Chimborazo is not like our national parks back home,” he said. “There isn’t a visitor center or park rangers to help you. It’s true wilderness. Wildness.”
    He handed me a wool blanket like the ones I had seen in the market. “Keep this in the car just in case. It’ll get colder and colder as you head up into the mountains. Don’t underestimate the cold. You’re not prepared to stay up there.”
    I nodded and hugged the soft blanket to my chest. “Thank you.” “Buena suerte,” he said.
    When I had first arrived in Ecuador and seen the Andes Mountains, I was awestruck, ready for adventure. Now I felt chilled. A tingle crept down the back of my neck, and I shuddered. The road wound through shades of green, pastures and fields carved into the slopes of the Andean highlands.