The Art of Holding On and Letting Go (5 page)

Mr. S. had told us the Whymper Hut could only be reached on foot. I tightened the laces of my hiking boots. This trail was too rough for my Converses; I'd roll an ankle for sure. And again I prayed for something simple like a sprained ankle to explain my parents' delay.

I zipped my jacket up to my chin against the biting wind and tugged the sleeves down over my hands, wishing I had gloves. We hiked for an hour up the steep path, picking our way over and around rocks and boulders. I didn't pause to take in the view. I was on a mission, one foot after the other.

John Muir wrote about the mountains. Dad had scrawled quite a few Muir quotes on postcards over the years.

But this mountain felt jagged, dark, and threatening, not like my California mountains. My California mountains were bright and safe; they were home.

The Whymper Hut was the refuge where most climbers stayed to eat and sleep before their midnight ascent. I heard voices as we approached, but I couldn't make out the words. The sound was muffled—it was coming from inside the hut, and the words weren't English. Spanish, Portuguese?

Beyond the hut, the trail disappeared into snow and ice. Fields of white with spires of gray granite, rising up, up, up. A moonscape lost in the clouds.

I rapped on the door, then opened it with a shaky hand. Were my parents here?

“Hola,” Coach Mel called out.

Inside, three climbers were unloading their backpacks and rolled out sleeping bags on the bunks that lined the room. They nodded hello but continued their work. With our small packs and lack of gear, Coach Mel and I must have looked like tourists.

I knew it wasn't likely that we would simply find my parents sipping tea, but still my stomach dropped in disappointment. My ears stung as they warmed up from the cold wind outside. I slid my hands into my jacket pockets and fingered the smooth stone. I looked to Coach Mel, unsure what to do. She introduced us in halting Spanish, but the climbers answered in accented English.

“I am Marcus, a guide with Ecuador Treks. I am leading the others up the mountain tonight.”

“Have you heard about the missing group of climbers?” Coach Mel asked.

“The American group?” Marcus said. “I heard a search and rescue effort was organized the other day.”

I strained to understand his accented words.

“Mark and Lori Jenkins. Max O'Connor,” he said.

At the sound of their names, my heartbeat quickened. The other climbers nodded their heads. They'd heard these names before.

Marcus continued. “They're big-time pros. They were on the other side of the mountain. Arista del Sol, the Sun Ridge route. We're heading up the Whymper route. This is a novice group, we're taking a much safer path to the summit.” He nodded at the other climbers as if to reassure them.

“But people are still searching, right?” I asked. My voice sounded squeaky, like the words didn't want to come out. Coach Mel was gripping my upper arm; she squeezed tighter. I turned the stone over and over in my pocket.

“Other expedition parties will, of course, be on the lookout for their—”

Marcus stopped his sentence abruptly, eyeing me. He looked at the other climbers and said softly, “La hija.” Daughter.

Coach Mel's nails dug into my arm. A quiver began in my stomach and moved to my lips. I knew what he had been about to say. Bodies. They'll be on the lookout for their bodies.

Mr. S. had arranged for Coach Mel and me to spend the night at an inn in the foothills of Mount Chimborazo. I didn't remember the drive there. I didn't even remember getting off the mountain.

I followed Coach Mel into the room and curled up on the bed. She rubbed my back in slow circles but didn't say anything.

I thought I would somehow know if my parents had been seriously hurt. I would feel it, some sort of intuition, a sharp fracturing of my heart. But instead I felt a heaviness surrounding me, smothering. I couldn't catch my breath. I thought about the day I fell off the climbing wall, the air sucked out of my lungs. The world was suddenly all wrong. Could that have been my parents reaching out to me?

Coach Mel made phone calls, and I heard random words,
police, missing,
that jumped,
presumed dead,
and faded,
lawyer, grandparents,
in and out of my thoughts.

I remembered a story Dad told me during the flight to Ecuador.

“In October 2002, climbers found the remains of an aircraft and its passengers on the mountain. Guess how long the plane had been missing?” he asked.

“No idea,” I said.

“Come on, guess, how long could a huge airplane stay missing?”

“A week, a month?”

“The plane disappeared in 1976. It took twenty-six years to find it!”

I awoke at dawn. My legs were like jelly, as if I'd been walking all night. Indeed, I'd been hiking and scrambling, combing the craggy hills and valleys of the mountains, peering over rugged cliffs and down into snowy crevasses all night long in my dreams.

I tugged my arms through the sleeves of my jacket, but even wrapped in cozy fleece, I felt chilled. The wood floor creaked as I crossed the room. Coach Mel was still asleep. I stepped outside into the damp air. The thick fog was like a wall, blocking off the rest of the world. It seeped inside the collar of my jacket. But it was the brightest fog I'd ever seen, like it was lit from within.

Falling rocks tumbled in the distance, breaking the eerie calm. I stood perfectly still. I listened. Ice melted and cracked. The quiver returned to my lips, tears puddled in my eyes and spilled, warm against my chilled skin. I folded my arms, hugging myself. My parents could be anywhere.

Coach Mel drove slowly around the twisting mountain curves, peering through the white mist. I rested my head against the side window, feeling the moist coolness against my forehead. I scanned the milky hillsides in search of movement, a spot of color. Up, up, up to the glacier bowls and peaks, the heavy clouds. The scenery blurred, my eyelids drooped.

I woke up with a start and cracked my head against the window.

“You okay over there?” Coach Mel asked.

“Ow.” I rubbed my head.

“You must be hungry. Me too. Look in the glove box, I stashed some energy bars.”

I grabbed two bars and unwrapped Coach Mel's for her. She took it from me without looking away from the road. I tried a bite, my favorite kind, oatmeal chocolate chip, but it might as well have been cardboard. I chewed and chewed, unable to swallow.

“You heard me talking on the phone last night, right?” Coach Mel asked.

I nodded.

“I wanted to talk to you about everything last night, but by the time I made all the calls you had fallen asleep. That's good, you needed to rest.”

I swallowed the cardboard in my mouth, slivers stuck in my throat.

“I talked to the Ecuadorian officials, and there doesn't appear to be anything else we can do. They have helicopters for emergency evacuations if your parents are found injured. Like that climbing guide said, other groups will continue looking, but your parents were on a rarely traveled route. Few people are skilled enough to even go there.”

The road straightened out, and Coach Mel pressed on the gas.

“Now is the time for you to be with family. I've spoken to your grandparents. More guests have arrived at Mr. S.'s hostel, but he has one small room still available. We can stay there tonight and wait for more news, but then we need to fly home. I can fly with you from Quito to Miami,” Coach Mel continued, “but we need to take separate flights from there.”

I nodded, an automatic response. I was only half-listening. The world was muted around me. Urgency had been replaced with numbness. The fog had dissipated, and we traveled through valleys and villages, but I was color-blind. Even the brilliant hues of the flowers and markets looked dull.

“Your grandpa will meet us in Miami, and you'll fly with him back to Detroit.”

I nodded again. Then, wait. Detroit. For a second, the word held no meaning, then it clicked. “What?”

Coach Mel continued with a forced brightness in her voice. “I understand your grandma doesn't travel well, but your grandpa was ready to fly all the way to Quito to come get you.”

“Detroit?” I blurted. “I'm not going to Detroit. I'm going home to California.”

“I'm sorry, Cara,” Coach Mel said. Her voice became soft, gentle. “You can't just go home by yourself, back to an empty house.”

I stared at her face. What was she talking about?

“They had a will that designates guardians for you in case something ever happened to them. Your Uncle Max is listed as the first guardian, and your grandparents are next.”

Coach Mel's eyes finally left the road for a second. They were intense, urging me to understand.

I knew about the will. My parents had had it done before they climbed Denali. But it had never seemed real. It was just a formality, part of the planning for a trip that could be dangerous. Accidents could happen anytime to anyone, a car crash, a freak heart attack. I never imagined I'd have to go live with my grandparents for real.

“But …” I sputtered. “I have to go home first. I want to wait there for Mom and Dad and Uncle Max. No, I want to wait here. What if there's more news? I need to be here for them.”

My brain tumbled, trying to latch on to something solid.

“I'm so sorry, Cara. We'll contact friends in California to pack up some of your things and send them to Michigan for you. You need to be with family now. They'll take care of you.”

Coach Mel returned her gaze to the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel. I continued to stare at her, dumbfounded. This could not be happening. How could she just give up? We still had time. My parents were going to show up, stumbling down off the mountain tonight, tomorrow, the next day. It was gonna happen.

A raw helpless rage erupted from a dark, hidden corner of my body. I squeezed my eyes shut, opened my throat, and screamed like I'd never screamed before.

Coach Mel slammed on the brakes and veered off the road. The car bumped and slid, spitting gravel. I opened the passenger door.

“Cara!” she barked.

I stepped out onto moving dirt and stumbled to my knees. Rough, sharp, tearing my skin. I fell forward onto my hands and heaved.

I tumbled out of bed face first, opening my mouth to scream, but my lungs had no air. A strangled cry escaped from the back of my throat. I landed with a thump. Where was I? Crinkly fabric, a knobby lump. I struggled to open my puffy eyes. Sunlight flooded the room, and I recognized the plank walls of Mr. S.'s hostel.

I'd landed on a sleeping bag, cool and slick against my hands and feet. A body squirmed inside, and a head of mussed up hair emerged.

“Mom!” I squeaked, my voice hoarse.

She opened her arms, and I scampered into her embrace. “Cara.” She kissed the top of my head, her arms squeezing me tight.

I tried to speak, but it came out as a whimper.

“It's okay. I'm here. You've been asleep for twelve hours.” She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “How do you feel?”

I felt like the world was moving in slow motion, like there was a time delay after every sentence, every thought. “My knees hurt.” I picked at the bandage covering one of my knees, remembering the gravel biting into my skin.

“It'll probably sting for a while. Pretty bad scrapes,” Mom said. “But your hands don't look too bad.”

I examined my hands, tough and calloused. I lifted my eyes to my mom's face, her arms, her hands, tough and calloused like my own.

“You're okay?” I said. “You aren't hurt?”

She nodded. “I'm fine.” And sensing my next question, she added, “So is your dad.”

“He's here?”

Mom shook her head. “No. I have a lot to explain to you, but you should eat first. Okay? And I want you to tell me all about the competition. Let's get some breakfast.”

“No,” I said, louder than I expected, then softer, “tell me. Where's Dad? What happened?”

Mom sighed. “You must have been so scared, not knowing what happened and why we didn't show up. I'm so sorry.”

She took my hands in hers. “I really didn't anticipate we'd get delayed that long. I thought we had built in enough extra time to still get back by your finals. We knew that Tungurahua was active, but the weather was clear when we set off for the summit.

“The glaciers had receded even more than we had heard. There was a lot of mixed rock and ice, very technical stuff. But we were doing fine; it just took us longer. Then the ashes blew in, just like a sudden storm.”

“Before you reached the summit?” I asked.

She nodded. “We all agreed. We needed to descend.”

Mom's eyes misted.

“The storm worsened, and we needed to find shelter. The ash was blinding, and we got lost. We were afraid to keep moving, not knowing if we'd come upon a crevasse. So we hunkered down and waited. It felt like ages.”