by Kristin Lenz
“Congratulations,” Mr. S. said. “Ah, tagua nuts.” He pointed to the bracelet on my wrist.
“Nuts?”
“Tagua nuts come from a palm tree that grows here. It’s also called vegetable ivory. Much better than killing elephants for their tusks. It can be carved into all kinds of shapes for jewelry or buttons or figurines. Sometimes they’re left natural, and sometimes they’re dyed and polished.”
Each of the small, round beads on my bracelet was slightly different in coloring. “Are they supposed to bring good luck?”
“Sure. Buena suerte.” He laughed. “Why not?”
Becky leaned closer, and I held up my wrist for her to examine the bracelet. She snapped a picture with her phone.
“I have something special to show you,” Mr. S. said. “A volcano began erupting today. Tungurahua has been belching since early morning. Don’t worry, we’re not in any danger—it’s pretty far away. But come up to the deck and see.”
We followed him to the deck and draped our arms over the railing, searching the distant horizon.
He pointed to the south. “The sky is filled with ash.”
“I don’t see any lava,” Coach Mel said.
“No lava this time,” Mr. S. explained, “just plumes of ash spewing everywhere.”
“It looks like LA smog,” I said. From the mountaintops near my home in the Angeles Forest, the city often appeared as a smudge in the distance.
“Tungurahua means Throat of Fire. We used to think these volcanoes were dormant, but Tungurahua came to life in 1999. Some days are quiet, but other days it puts on a show.” Mr. S. turned to me. “Depending on the winds, climbers may need to turn away from their summit attempts on Mount Chimborazo and the other nearby peaks. The ash is blinding, like a snowstorm.”
I froze, then leaned in closer to catch Mr. S.’s words.
“Too bad your parents might not be able to summit, but they’ll be back early now, huh, to watch their championess climb.”
I stared at Mr. S., but before I could fully process his words, my teammates whooped and hollered, jabbing my shoulder, slapping me on the back. I had been holding my breath, and now it came out as a gasp.
“Time for dinner,” Coach Mel said, clapping her hands. “Fuel for tomorrow.”
As my team filed back into the lodge, Mr. S. nodded at me. “I didn’t mean to worry you. Your parents are experienced mountaineers; they know how to stay safe. Tungurahua’s eruptions interfere with many climbs on the surrounding mountains. It’s the chance you take here.”
I looked back at the smoky sky. Climbers caught in any kind of storm was bad news, whether it was snow or volcanic ash, whether they were experienced or not.
“Your parents should be here watching you anyway,” Mr. S. said. “Come on, let’s eat. Our cook has prepared a special meal. Sea bass, fried plantains.”
Later that night, I lay awake, listening to Coach Mel snore from her bed across the room. A lantern sat on the bedside table; she hadn’t let me light the candle inside. Toxic fumes from Becky’s manicure session hung in the air, stinging my nose. They were probably flammable.
Becky hadn’t been happy with our rustic rooms. She lived in a big house near Atlanta, two hours away from rock-climbing mountains. Becky did most of her climbing in the gym. The wood-planked walls and floors of the hostel were comforting to me though, like my cabin in the mountains.
It wasn’t like we were poor, but we really had to save and rely on sponsors for our gear and travel. Becky posted pictures from her first-class airplane seats, and her bedroom closet looked like a Lululemon store.
Becky sighed from the top bunk and rolled over, shaking the flimsy bed frame. “Zach likes you,” she whispered.
“Me? You’ve got the boobs and fancy nails.”
“You are blind.”
Her accent made me smile. “I’m just one of the guys.”
I wasn’t here to find a boyfriend. Or become an Internet star.
“Sorry I lost your good-luck thermos,” she said.
We had searched but hadn’t found it. Someone must have picked it up; it wasn’t like the isolation tent was that big.
“It’s okay. I’ll check the lost and found tomorrow.” I spoke like it wasn’t a big deal, but my stomach fluttered at the thought of climbing without my calming peppermint tea. “What really happened on the wall today?” I asked. “You weren’t climbing like yourself.”
“I knew I wasn’t in the right position to make it over the crux. I was going to have to back down a few feet and start over, and then I would run out of time.”
“So you just gave up?”
“I turned it into a better opportunity,” she said. “I could feel my dad’s camera zooming in.”
“You might have been surprised at what you could do.”
“I wasn’t going to flail on the wall and get caught in all kinds of awful pictures. I had to let go before someone got footage of my sewing machine leg. If I was going to fall, I was going to look good doing it.”
So she had let go and flew like Peter Pan. I clasped my hands behind my head. There had to be more to it. The springs of the bunk above me glimmered faintly in the dim light.
A deep snuffling snore erupted from Coach Mel, and Becky and I stifled our laughter.
“Who’s that Max guy that’s out with your parents?” she asked. “He’s hot.”
“Eww. Uncle Max is almost the same age as my dad.”
Becky giggled. “He’s still cute. Even my mom called him hunky.”
I snorted. “He’s not really my uncle. He and my dad have been best friends and climbing partners since they were teenagers.” Plus he’s gay. But I wasn’t going to share that with Becky. Max was well known in the climbing world, but his private life was private.
Becky sighed again and was quiet.
At least I still had my worry stone from Uncle Max. He had lived with us on and off for as long as I could remember, especially in the winters when it was cold outside. It was like I had three parents. He’d followed us all around the country. Each time we moved, he’d be right behind us in his little VW van, sometimes the same day, sometimes a year later. But he always showed up eventually. I knew he’d had boyfriends over the years, but they never seemed to last long.
I twirled my new bracelet around my wrist. My mind was finally quiet enough to sort out the reality of the Tungurahua eruption and what Mr. S hadn’t said. My parents and Uncle Max should have reached the summit of Mount Chimborazo early this morning. The volcanic ash storm may have prevented climbers from beginning their expeditions today, but what about the climbers who were already on the summit?
Six months before our Ecuador trip, a rock had crumbled in Dad’s hand, and he’d taken a forty-foot whipper off the cliff, the rope stopping his fall barely ten feet from a giant boulder on the ground. I could picture my dad perched on the cliff like a great bird. Big and powerful, yet full of grace, like an eagle. Until he wasn’t.
They’d be fine. Just like Mr. S. had said, they were experienced mountaineers. They knew how to stay safe.
3
A veil of dust obscured the mountains in the distance, but the sun burned bright for the rock climbing semifinals. I clung to the climbing wall twenty feet above the ground. Not a desperate cling, it was more like static electricity. I actually felt a magnetic power. My foot balanced on a dime-sized nub of faux rock. I pivoted, reached for the next hold, and pinched the thin flake. I inched my feet up the wall beneath me, rubber-soled climbing shoes gripping the vertical surface. My chest rose and fell with each slow, steady breath.
I coiled my body, forearms pulled, legs extended. I was weightless. Gravity had no power in this instant, this one second of free-momentum hovering in the air. I grasped the edge of a shallow bucket and swung my leg to the side, heel-hooking a curved edge. I clipped the bolt and breathed.
A droplet of sweat rolled down the back of my neck. The massive overhang loomed above my head. I reached up and curled two finger
s over the lip of a tiny pocket carved into the wall.
A flash of heat washed over me like a wave. Blood pulsed in my temples. The ceiling of the overhang undulated in the glaring sunlight. A roar of darkness flooded my peripheral vision.
Down was up; sky was ground. Breath sucked out of my lungs. Throat parched. Core clenched. Biceps flexed. Knuckles whitening.
My fingers no longer belonged to my body. They slipped, skin scraping.
One millisecond of weightless freedom.
Gravity wrapped its hand around my ankle and yanked. My stomach plummeted. The rope pulled taut, arresting my free-fall with a jerk. The crowd gasped below me. I swung and slammed into the climbing wall.
4
I sat on the ground, head lowered, knees pulled in to my chest. The sun beat down on the back of my neck.
Coach Mel plunked down beside me. “What happened?”
I didn’t answer.
“After you pulled off that dyno, I thought you had it made.”
I shook my head. My sweat-soaked top stuck to my back.
“How’s your wrist? Did it give out on you?”
My left wrist was wrapped with white tape. I extended my arm and rotated my hand. “It feels fine.” I flexed my fingers; the first two were bloody at the tips.
She winced. “Ouch.”
My right wrist was bare. I had debated wearing the tagua bracelet that morning, but was afraid it would scrape on the climbing wall and break. I wasn’t one to be superstitious, but now I wondered.
Coach Mel lifted her eyes to the top of the climbing wall as the crowd hooted and clapped, and I followed her gaze. A French climber had finished the route. She’d advance to the finals tomorrow.
“I’m afraid you’re out of the running now, unless someone else falls,” Coach Mel said. She turned to look at me. “It’s like something spooked you up there. You sure you’re feeling all right?”
I nodded, then shook my head.
Becky passed by and patted me on the head. “Sorry, I guess it happens to all of us.”
I flinched. It hadn’t been an ordinary fall. I hadn’t miscalculated a move, my muscles weren’t pushed to exhaustion. I had been balanced on the wall with a firm grip. And then it was like the earth tilted, and I wasn’t even sure where I was. As if something had gone terribly wrong with the world; I felt it deep in my core.
“Keep drinking,” Coach Mel said with a nod toward my water bottle. “Do you feel faint? Do you need to eat?”
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.
“You’re worried about your parents.”
I met her eyes, trying to read her expression. What did she know?
“They’re not due back until later this evening, right? And they said not to worry if they were late.” Her gaze was steady, confident. “I’m sure they’re fine.”
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. “That’s the exact same hold you slipped off.”
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. “I guess you’re not out of the running after all.”
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 wouldn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 wouldn’t allow any more than a few sips of tea. I couldn’t 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 didn’t approach me to say anything. He looked like he’d 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 mountain’s power. They had turned away from summit attempts in the past. But an expedition can go terribly wrong even when the climbers do everything right. Conditions on mountains are out of their control, and nature runs its course no matter what.
My tagua bracelet was back on my wrist again, along with the one I had bought for Mom. The bracelets tangled and entwined, the beads rubbing together. All I could do was wait.
And worry. In my room, I unzipped my backpack pocket and reached for my worry stone. I fished around, pulling out a Starburst, a quarter, lint. No golden nugget. I dug through the rest of the stuff in my pack, pulling everything out one by one. Fleece jacket, water bottle, phone, wallet. My trusty, beat-up copy of Thoreau’s Walden.
I felt all around the inside of my pack. More lint and a penny. Buena suerte.
I dropped to my knees and looked under the bed and all around the floor. The chunk of pyrite was too big to have slipped through the cracks in the planks.
I sat on the edge of my bed and dropped my head into my hands. Think, Cara, when did you last have it? I had turned the stone around in my hands before my climb yesterday, just like I always did. But everything after that was a muddle.
I shook out my fleece jacket and fanned out the books, knowing it was useless. A postcard slipped out from the pages of Walden. “Greetings from Ecuador” was scrawled across a photo of a llama standing in front of a mountain range. It made it look like the llama was speaking.
Dad. I smiled and flipped it over, squinting to read his messy handwriting.
Dad always sent me postcards from his expeditions with lines of poetry or quotes from books. I had an entire bulletin board full in my bedroom at home. As usual, I didn’t know exactly what this quote meant or where it came from, but it made me feel better. I reread the lines out loud, tucked the postcard back into my book, and returned everything to my backpack. Mom and Dad and Uncle Max were climbing to their edges. Now it was time for me to climb to mine.
I wa
ited by myself in the isolation area, the last of my teammates to climb. I didn’t have my worry stone, I didn’t have my thermos of peppermint tea. I closed my eyes and imagined the golden stone in my hands, the warm peppermint tea, relaxing my throat, calming my insides.
A woman entered the tent and gestured, and I followed her outside. I stood at the base of the competition wall and scanned the final route. I pantomimed the first few moves to focus my mind. There was a looming overhang to conquer on this route as well, and it was even higher up on the wall, at least fifty feet. I would need to conserve my energy.
“Buena suerte,” I whispered.
I breathed deeply and climbed on. Slow and steady, just like my parents on their trek, step after step, one foot after the other, one hand after the other, until it became a meditation. I reached the overhang and focused my energy at my heart.
A loud grunt erupted from deep in my chest, and I launched over the ledge. My meditative pace continued and before I knew it, I was clipping the final bolt. I felt like I could keep going, just climbing and climbing. I peered over the top of the wall to the mountains in the distance and released a long sigh, sending my energy to Mount Chimborazo.
I was back on the ground before I noticed that my bracelets were gone. I touched my bare wrist. They must have scraped against a hold and snapped. I crouched at the base of the climb and searched, digging through the thick layer of shredded black rubber. Chalk dust scratched my throat, making me cough, but I couldn’t find a single tagua bead. They had fallen through the cracks and empty spaces between the chips of rubber, buried below.
I sat on the grass and watched the last competitor in my age bracket, my back resting against the bleachers, legs splayed out in front of me. My knees and shins were dotted with fading bruises and new greenish purple ones from my slamming fall the day before. Was it simply dehydration? An attack of nerves? It didn’t feel that way. It was like the universe had spoken to me. Was I being given a message? What was I missing?
