The Art of Holding On and Letting Go Read Online Free
Author: Kristin Lenz
had gone terribly wrong with the world; I felt it deep in my core.
âKeep drinking,â Coach Mel said with a nod toward my water bottle. âDo you feel faint? Do you need to eat?â
I needed to sip my warm herbal tea, breathe the scent deep into my lungs, deep into my muscles. I had checked the lost and found and searched all around the competition area for my thermos, but it was still lost.
âYouâre worried about your parents.â
I met her eyes, trying to read her expression. What did she know?
âTheyâre not due back until later this evening, right? And they said not to worry if they were late.â Her gaze was steady, confident. âIâm sure theyâre fine.â
But deep down in some hidden, dark corner of my body, a raw fear was growing like nothing I had ever felt before, a physical sensation clawing through my veins.
The French climber waved and blew kisses to the crowd. I dropped my head onto my knees.
We were silent, watching the next competitors climb the route. A Japanese girl reached the overhang, looked up, and paused. My stomach quivered for her.
She crouched and tried to dyno over the crux. She soared off the wall.
Coach Mel whipped around to look at me. âThatâs the exact same hold you slipped off.â
Incredibly, the next two climbers stopped and crouched beneath the overhang, then fell, swinging on the rope. My eyes were wide. That spot on the wall was cursed.
Coach Mel grinned. âI guess youâre not out of the running after all.â
I nodded, but I was climbing on Mount Chimborazo with my parents and Uncle Max, guiding them safely down the mountain. I was scanning the crowd, waiting for Mom and Dad to rush toward me with sweeping hugs. I wouldnât even feel embarrassed if Dad picked me up and swung me around. I wanted him to lead me back to that cursed spot on the wall, to help me understand what had happened.
My brain wouldnât let me sleep that night. It perked up at every creak and murmur, waiting for my parents to arrive. I crept out of bed and shuffled down the quiet halls of the hostel. The moon shone through the windows, and I slipped out the front door.
The breeze whispered over the silvery landscape, the mountains a hulking shadow in the distance. I sat on the porch steps and hugged my knees. The night felt wild, eerie and magical at the same time, like anything could happen, good or bad. The hair rose on my arms, and I shivered.
5
I joined my teammates at breakfast, but my churning stomach wouldnât allow any more than a few sips of tea. I couldnât even look at the bowls of ceviche, the fish soup that appeared at almost every meal. My head throbbed.
Zach picked up his bowl and drank the liquid with a loud slurp and smack, trying to be funny. Becky giggled. My other teammates gave me smiles, pats on the back; they thought I was nervous about my final climb. Tungurahua was silent again, leaving little more than a layer of ash on the neighboring hillsides.
I caught Mr. S. watching me. His eyebrows were drawn, his forehead creased, but he didnât approach me to say anything. He looked like heâd come to the same realization, that something might have gone wrong for my parents way up high on the mountain. I looked away.
Summit attempts need to take place near dawn. Mountaineers trek to a camp high on the mountain, then sleep until just before midnight. Rising in the deep darkness of night, they begin their final ascent. They need to reach the summit and descend before the mountain wakes up.
Chimborazo wakes up around nine a.m. The sun warms the snow to a sugar-like consistency, ice melts, and rocks tumble. Several years ago, an avalanche killed ten climbers on the upper slopes of the mountain.
My parents and Uncle Max were expert mountaineers; they respected the mountainâs power. They had turned away from summit attempts in the past. But an expedition can go terribly wrong even when the
âKeep drinking,â Coach Mel said with a nod toward my water bottle. âDo you feel faint? Do you need to eat?â
I needed to sip my warm herbal tea, breathe the scent deep into my lungs, deep into my muscles. I had checked the lost and found and searched all around the competition area for my thermos, but it was still lost.
âYouâre worried about your parents.â
I met her eyes, trying to read her expression. What did she know?
âTheyâre not due back until later this evening, right? And they said not to worry if they were late.â Her gaze was steady, confident. âIâm sure theyâre fine.â
But deep down in some hidden, dark corner of my body, a raw fear was growing like nothing I had ever felt before, a physical sensation clawing through my veins.
The French climber waved and blew kisses to the crowd. I dropped my head onto my knees.
We were silent, watching the next competitors climb the route. A Japanese girl reached the overhang, looked up, and paused. My stomach quivered for her.
She crouched and tried to dyno over the crux. She soared off the wall.
Coach Mel whipped around to look at me. âThatâs the exact same hold you slipped off.â
Incredibly, the next two climbers stopped and crouched beneath the overhang, then fell, swinging on the rope. My eyes were wide. That spot on the wall was cursed.
Coach Mel grinned. âI guess youâre not out of the running after all.â
I nodded, but I was climbing on Mount Chimborazo with my parents and Uncle Max, guiding them safely down the mountain. I was scanning the crowd, waiting for Mom and Dad to rush toward me with sweeping hugs. I wouldnât even feel embarrassed if Dad picked me up and swung me around. I wanted him to lead me back to that cursed spot on the wall, to help me understand what had happened.
My brain wouldnât let me sleep that night. It perked up at every creak and murmur, waiting for my parents to arrive. I crept out of bed and shuffled down the quiet halls of the hostel. The moon shone through the windows, and I slipped out the front door.
The breeze whispered over the silvery landscape, the mountains a hulking shadow in the distance. I sat on the porch steps and hugged my knees. The night felt wild, eerie and magical at the same time, like anything could happen, good or bad. The hair rose on my arms, and I shivered.
5
I joined my teammates at breakfast, but my churning stomach wouldnât allow any more than a few sips of tea. I couldnât even look at the bowls of ceviche, the fish soup that appeared at almost every meal. My head throbbed.
Zach picked up his bowl and drank the liquid with a loud slurp and smack, trying to be funny. Becky giggled. My other teammates gave me smiles, pats on the back; they thought I was nervous about my final climb. Tungurahua was silent again, leaving little more than a layer of ash on the neighboring hillsides.
I caught Mr. S. watching me. His eyebrows were drawn, his forehead creased, but he didnât approach me to say anything. He looked like heâd come to the same realization, that something might have gone wrong for my parents way up high on the mountain. I looked away.
Summit attempts need to take place near dawn. Mountaineers trek to a camp high on the mountain, then sleep until just before midnight. Rising in the deep darkness of night, they begin their final ascent. They need to reach the summit and descend before the mountain wakes up.
Chimborazo wakes up around nine a.m. The sun warms the snow to a sugar-like consistency, ice melts, and rocks tumble. Several years ago, an avalanche killed ten climbers on the upper slopes of the mountain.
My parents and Uncle Max were expert mountaineers; they respected the mountainâs power. They had turned away from summit attempts in the past. But an expedition can go terribly wrong even when the
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