The Edge by Roland Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

stuffed with everything anyone would ever need to climb any mountain in the world, including a portaledge, which I had only seen in photographs. A portaledge is essentially a tent that hangs on a cliff wall. If you get stuck by bad weather, or the dark, you attach the ledge to the wall and sleep, or rest, hanging there. I pulled it out of the carrying bag and asked Mom if she had ever used one.
    â€œIn my youth, but it wasn’t nearly as fancy as this. Your dad and I got stuck on walls several times when we first started climbing, before we learned how to speed climb. We invented our own portaledge, but it was more like a sling than a tent. We once spent forty hours in one of our contraptions, after which we were barely able to move. I think one of the reasons we shattered all of those climbing records was our fear of hanging on walls.”
    Some of those shattered records still stand.
    â€œDo you miss it?” I asked.
    â€œI just told you I didn’t like hanging on—”
    â€œYou know what I mean. Do you miss climbing?”
    Mom looked at me a moment. “Sometimes. But what I have now, what I do now, raising the twins and you, is so much more important.”
    â€œSo why did you come?”
    â€œI’ve been thinking about that. At first I told myself it was because of you. That I wasn’t about to let you go off to Afghanistan by yourself. But that didn’t ring true. By the time I was your age, I was completely on my own, climbing every day all over the country. My parents had no idea where I was or what I was doing. They knew that if they objected, I would have climbed anyway. So they essentially kicked me out of the nest, which is what I did to you when you went to Everest. I think my motivation in tagging along here was spontaneity. That’s something I haven’t had in years. Responsibility trumps spontaneity. This was a good time to go, and it might be my last chance for a while. As the twins get older, they are going to need more of my time. And I am getting older. Climbing is a young person’s sport. Younger than me, anyway.”
    I was a little shocked to hear this. Mom rarely talked about how she actually felt, except when I was doing something wrong. “You’re going to climb?”
    She smiled. “I have all this cool gear. Why wouldn’t I climb? I mean, I won’t be climbing officially with you for the documentary, but I’m sure there are some pitches an old lady like me might be able to struggle up. And I know what you’re thinking. Mom hasn’t climbed in years. She isn’t in climbing shape. Blah, blah, blah . . .”
    That was exactly what I was thinking.
    â€œBut for your information, I’ve been hitting the climbing gym almost every day for the past six months, while you were at school, or while you were sleeping in. I’m in pretty good shape. I don’t think you’ll be embarrassed.”
    â€œMore like inhibited,” I said.
    â€œLiar. But thanks.”
    Before I came along, Mom was considered one of the best climbers in the world. There were many who said she was a better climber than my dad, although I doubted Josh would have agreed, or if he did agree, ever admit it to anyone. Climbers are competitive. We can’t help ourselves. Now that she mentioned it, I saw that she did look leaner and more cut than she was a few months earlier, which went to show that I didn’t pay much attention to how she looked. I wondered if all kids did this. If she were a friend of mine, and not my mom, I would have noticed and said something.
    â€œWanna go for a hike?” I asked. “See if we can find the others and the climb master?”
    â€œMaybe we should take some gear just in case we see something we want to climb.”
    â€œI like how you think.”
    We stuffed small packs with rope, carabiners, quick draws, harnesses, chalk, belay gloves, flashlights, knives, helmets, tricams, camming