then chewing, trying to get to the edible
part of the pod, the pulp, the pith.
As woody as a stick,
sweet like syrup gone bad, sucking
every calorie I can before spitting
out the hard seeds and sawdust,
which coats all of my sore tongue
and sticks between every tooth.
Spitting so much out that I wonder
whether any is sinking into my stomach.
One calorie.
Maybe two.
But one is better than none.
I shove the few remaining
pods in my pockets
to save for later.
DIMMING
The sky continues to dim.
Soon it will be dark again,
and I still haven’t found shelter.
I still haven’t found Dad.
Then I hear the booms
and freeze in fear.
More storms. More water.
I can’t sleep on the canyon floor.
I pick up as much speed as I can,
jogging and stumbling,
panting and dizzy,
trying to beat
the fading light.
It might happen again.
Dad’s face filled with terror.
There won’t be any moonlight.
My body frozen in fear.
I won’t see the ground to run away.
Tremors beneath our feet.
I won’t see the walls to climb them.
Shuddering all around us.
I will hear it.
Roaring like a train.
I will feel it.
Trembling like an earthquake.
But I won’t see it coming.
Enormous wall of water.
ANXIETY
Flash. Boom!
My breathing speeds
out of control
as my anxiety
rises as high
as the towering walls
of the canyon,
growing grayer
with
every
passing
minute.
Flash. Boom!
And then I stop,
trying to catch my breath,
throwing my head back,
gasping for air.
There.
I see it.
A place
large enough for me
in the canyon wall.
Could something be living in there?
I squint, focus my eyes, don’t see anything
but those white drips Dad pointed out.
Bats.
If any have tucked themselves in the corners,
I’ll scare them away.
Flash. Boom!
But the fluttering in my stomach and heart
doesn’t stop.
Flash. Boom!
Because this refuge
is about twenty feet up.
FREE SOLO
Eleanor, do you ever feel reckless?
As the canyon walls cool, and the distant booms become louder, the wind picks up
and brushes my chilled arms.
No, I’m very careful.
I know now how easily I can die.
I study the cave, spot a rock jutting out
near the opening I can tie the rope around
to lower myself back down later.
You don’t ever feel like you’re invincible?
I remove my boots and socks,
tying the boot laces together
and slinging them over my shoulder,
the socks stuffed inside.
Not really. Sometimes it just feels
like I don’t care. So yeah, maybe that’s reckless.
I tie the rope in a loop and wear it across
my chest like a cross-shoulder bag.
You don’t care? About what?
I’ve never climbed
without rope,
without rock shoes,
without chalk,
without a harness,
without a belayer
standing at the bottom,
taking up my slack
and keeping me safe
so I don’t plummet to the earth.
About… me. About my life.
This will be the first wall I’ve ever climbed
with nothing but myself,
with my hair in my face the whole way to the top.
Sometimes I feel like I don’t care at all.
Like none of it matters.
Like my life doesn’t matter.
I know I could die if I fall.
But usually I’m very cautious.
Break a leg, and I’ll be left to drown.
I never really feel…
But I don’t think I’ll live anyway
if I stay down here one more night.
In-between.
TERRIFIED
I braid my tangled hair
and hope it will stay back.
I bend down and rub
dirt between my hands
since I have no chalk.
Running my bare feet over the dirt,
I scan the wall under the cave,
looking for any cracks
I can slip my fingers into.
Just a small crack will do.
My hair is already
breaking free of its braid.
I work out the ascent in my mind,
squinting in the deepening twilight,
following a path
from the ground to the cave.
Slipping my fingers into a crack
and finding a small foothold,
I pull myself up.
Good.
One step at a time, Eleanor.
I find another foothold and move
one hand above the other in the crack.
My parents lived for this
when they were both living.
Right now, more than ever,
I wish I had Dad’s skill,
Mom’s passion.
They met on the face
of a thousand-foot-tall cliff.
They spent their honeymoon
zip-lining over rainforests.
They rafted the whitewater
of the Colorado.
They paraglided off mountains
and into canyons.
They strapped me to their backs
when I was an infant and hiked
the Grand Canyon.
They taught me everything they knew
about the desert, hoping I would one day
love it as much as they did.
My parents
rappelled, climbed, hiked
in this desert.
And so I never wanted
to disappoint them by telling them
I’m terrified of heights.
FALLING
Looking down for another foothold,
my hair falls forward
over my eyes.
I blow at it,
but it flops right back.
I can’t see.
I can’t see another foothold.
I release one of my hands
and push my hair back,
but as soon as I look down
for another foothold,
it falls in my face.
I tuck it behind my ears
as securely as I can.
I move my foot to a small
foothold and settle it firmly.
But when I lift my other leg,
I slip.
The rough wall
tears my skin,
peels fresh layers
off my arms and knees and shins.
The ground knocks
the wind out of my lungs,
and I claw at my chest,