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

Volcanic peaks rose up and disappeared into the clouds. Along the lower slopes of Mount Chimborazo, llamas scratched at the volcanic ash coating the ground. Or maybe they were alpacas; I couldn’t remember how to tell the difference.
    â€œDoes this sound familiar?” I asked Coach Mel. “Something like ‘I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over and see things you can’t see from the center’?”
    â€œI don’t think I’ve heard that before, but it could be about climbing. Why?”
    â€œIt was written on a postcard from my dad. He always sends me something from his trips. If I was at home with Mom, we’d make it part of my schoolwork.”
    â€œHow come you’ve never gotten into ice climbing like your parents?” Coach Mel asked.
    â€œThey said I complained about the cold too much, it was just easier to go without me.”
    â€œThat’s why you focused on sport climbing and not on mountaineering?”
    I shrugged. “I like hiking way up high, just not when it turns to snow and ice. There’s something freeing about just slipping on your shoes and heading out, not being weighed down by all that other gear. They have their thing, and I have mine.”
    â€œWell, your focus has paid off.”
    â€œI should have placed higher than third.”
    â€œYep, you should have. You’ll have other chances.” She tapped my knee. “And your parents should be there to see it.”
    â€œWhat about you?” I asked. “You’ve had some great summits in your past. Why did you stop?”
    She didn’t answer right away. “The same reason you never started.”
    I was about to ask her what she meant, but she leaned forward, squinting out the windshield. “I think that’s it.” She pointed to a dirt and gravel road on our left.
    We turned and headed up the steep, rutted road. Coach Mel braked around the switchbacks, and the car bumped and dipped in and out of the ruts. My ears popped. The temperature dropped as we drove higher and higher. I rubbed my arms.
    â€œIt’s freezing.” She fumbled with the dials for heat. Cold air blasted from the vents.
    I pulled my knees into my chest and hugged myself against the cold.
    She waved her hands in front of the vents and turned another dial. “Seriously? I think the heat is broken.”
    I reached into the backseat for the blanket from Mr. S. “Here, we can share.” I spread the blanket across my lap and over to Coach Mel.
    â€œIt’s okay. You can have it.” She switched off the malfunctioning heat and veered around a giant pothole, only to dip into another. The car shuddered.
    I pulled the blanket up to my chin.
    Finally, we spied the Carrel Hut as Mr. S. had described, the first of two refuges where climbers could rest before their Chimborazo treks began. My parents had been here just a few days ago. Sorting their equipment—crampons, ice axes, ropes—before heading up the steep slopes beyond.
    â€œI think that’s their car.” I leaned forward in my seat. My parents’ rental car sat by itself at the edge of the dirt lot. A little Chevrolet something that I had never heard of before. We parked next to it, and I untangled myself from the blanket, leaving it in a heap on the floor. I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.
    I peered into the Chevrolet’s windows as if there’d be a message waiting for me. I lifted the driver’s door handle. Locked. They were still on the mountain. Somewhere.
    The cold wind blasted my face. I pulled my fleece jacket out of my backpack and slipped it on as I headed toward the hut. The fleece was all I had. I had only packed for the competition in the city where it was warmer, maybe some hiking in the foothills. I hadn’t expected to go this high into the mountains. My parents had layers of fleece, down parkas, gloves, gaiters, helmets.
    I stopped beside a